Jeep Wrangler

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

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_{The Siege of Amone, September 27th - The Shot at Dawn}

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In the midst of the Autumn rain, Jean reached into his breast pocket and slowly unwound the chain of his pocket watch. Its brass encasing was tightly knitted between the small links of metallic beads that usually clipped itself to his pockets. Instead, Jean had simply wound it up and placed it within his pocket, hoping to make the least possible noise as he could manage. Mustering the faint effort to read the listed time, he noticed that they were due to conclude their patrol shortly; at least, they were supposed to be heading back shortly. The journey itself would take maybe another twenty minutes if they stuck to the cautious route they'd taken, but it could've easily been scrambled in ten if they were more reckless about it. Jean sighed heavily, wiping a single thumb across the glass screen of the watch, clearing it of the cold foggy vapour that had trickled atop of it. The weather was extremely aggravating, ruining their focuses. Looking around, he took a small peak at Thomas again, he was fumbling around with his revolver for the hundredth time. Who could plame him? There was no way he could fire a rifle with the state his arms and shoulders were in. Whatever had happened during the bombastic engagement with the armoured car and its sturmtruppen, the soldier who'd engaged Thomas had left a nasty infliction upon Thomas' well-being. No matter how much he smiled, Jean could see his teeth grit with discomfort whenever he moved his arms too much. Even two weeks after the wound, he felt the pain, almost as if it were a phantom occurrence still haunting his body.

Jean lifted his head upwards, searching further down the street. The remainder of old barricades, machine gun nests and sentry posts were left abandoned and derelict. They didn't seem unfit for service, but perhaps their placement was less in tune with the potential defensive strategy that the Imperial Army had planned. Whatever it was, their concentration had clearly been pushed back elsewhere. Spreading their numbers thin was harmful, and funnelling the Federation into some sort of a street could be more effective than their previous occupational movement. Countless amounts of wreckage littered the city streets where pedestrians would've previously been. Bodies of prisoners of war were also scattered amongst them. It had seemed like the Empire had gotten what they desired out of their prisoners, and disposed of their burdening presence to psychologically break the will of the Federation. Every body Jean passed he held his breath, hoping it wasn't going to be a face he'd recognise or met before. Even now, where he was crouched, a face-down corpse resided in its olive uniform. Similar to the old uniforms previously worn by the squad at Garnia, Jean enveloped a strange distaste for the lack of smell the corpse let off. It felt almost new, natural perhaps. Nothing seemed to eat away at it, or decompose the body. Along its sleeves and shoulders laid a few insignia and identification discs. Jean scrutinised closer, peeping down and reading what regiment or force they'd belonged to.

"One hundred and seventh Royal Grenadiers?" Whilst rambling to himself, Jean slowly flipped over the corpse, unsurprisingly being met with a pale and white-faced individual who was devoid of all colour and emotion. It felt weird to inquire on a corpse, and the fact that he was seemingly capable of going through a dead body again, but the amount he'd seen had began to numb his experiences with the deceased. Especially after the previous corpses he'd seen... "The fuck...This is a Gallian regiment?"

Looking back towards the rest of the Squad, he silently ordered Victoria to go investigate what could be the last building they needed to search and beckoned for Thomas to make his way over to them, Inés following behind. Knowing Victoria was busy handling whatever she could, and with Luke potentially watching further down the street, he put his investigative mind to ease as he lifted a small metal disc from beneath his collar. It read out Private J. Thompson, 107th Royal Grenadiers. Thus, the confusion was confirmed either way. From what Jean knew, the Federation were supposed to be rushing to the aid of Gallia, hence the Northern Wessel campaign's purpose, but this seemed rather different. If it were a Gallian Volunteer that may have made more sense, but this was without a doubt a regiment of their stature. Royalty was not really embraced elsewhere in the Federation as much as the Gallian community loved to. Jean pointed at the corpse and whispered to Thomas, hoping he could shed some light on the situation.

"The hell is a Gallian doing here? This make any sense to you?"

"No clue, mate. Might be something to do with that whole Federation-Gallian relationship thingy? More like a dysfunctional marriage, but that's my best guess." Before he could inquire further, Thomas seemed to speak in a darker tone, knowing very well that the others who were reliant on his morale-boosting were nowhere near him. "Unfortunately it doesn't really matter, Corporal. It's another dead man, and we're seeing loads of them around every street corner. Let's refocus on the task at hand and get back pronto!"

Jean sighed heavily, before standing up and looking further down the street. A large set of rubble was seen not too far away, and Jean wanted to ensure that they kept their eyes out for anything worth notifying the command chain about. Thomas too spied ahead, looking out and staring into the abyss before them. Both of them sighed to each other. Instinctively, Thomas slowly got back onto his feet and clutched his revolver tightly. Halfway down the road, he passed an assortment of small tin cans and a seemingly empty fuel canister, all silently taking in the excess rainfall into their containers. Muttering to himself at Jean's small hesitation. It was more of a playful mutter, at least it seemed like it, but perhaps Jean's recent reluctance to head into the fray first and foremost was starting to dampen his actual involvement in their journey. Times like those were the worst, where Jean felt himself fall behind in the journey through life. Everyone began to solidify their futures and their places in the squad, whilst Jean simply fell under the title of a failed leader. How typical...

Suddenly, out of the damned morning bleak, a thump shook the world. Several hundred metres further into the Imperial territory, a enormous explosion of sound and noise blasted into the silent rain, spitting agonising tension throughout the sky. Jean leapt in his place and Thomas ducked where he stood, their heads quickly fluttering into the sky. Whenever they looked upwards, the specific sight could not be located and the trickle of rain kept landing in their eyes before they could triangulate it. The eruption of sound shook the very foundations of Amone, and following its explosive prelude came the whistle of a...was that a shell? The familiar sound of an artillery gun firing, yet with the firepower of an entire regiment, burst into the sky. The whistling stream of a singular ordinance soared highly through the misty sky, carrying onward. Jean's head turned back when he saw the direction it must've been heading.

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_{The Siege of Amone, September 27th - The Big Shell}

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All of her uncomfortable nightly dreams were shaken from their tender slumber when an excruciating burst of noise banished all silence from the early morning air. Sitting up in bed, her breath drawn to short intervals of panic, she heard the uproar of shouts coming from outside. The early morning walkers were heard shouting sightings of an object, hurling towards them. Freya struggled out of her bed, clutching onto Naomi's jacket and walking to the window in a half-tired limp, letting her free hand rest against the window frame whilst she poked her head outside. A whistle sounded in the sky, acting as a crescendo interlude following the opening act of bombastic cannonade. By the time she'd scanned the sky, it was too late. Her eyes began frozen in place, and the plummeting metal drill slammed onto a street or two away from where she spectated.

Almost immediately, she was flung back, the force of the shock and explosion cracked the windows, shattered the mirrors, broke the bedframes, blistered the bodies of those lucky enough to escape its blast radius and scorched the streets in an eruption of smoke and plume. Ash spewed around every corner as Freya screamed, panicked by the intrusion of the now unexplained infestation of death that had brought itself upon them. As she was flung back, a shard of glass scraped by her finger, narrowly missing her burning eyeballs. The heat could be felt, even from the other street, and the blast rendered all of the slumbering Federation soldiers in shock. What...what hell had just been unleashed upon them?

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_{The Siege of Amone, September 27th - The Limb}

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The explosion's intensity was felt even from their further scouting positions. Jean's eyes lit up like firecrackers, sparked with an unrelenting fear for the destruction they'd just witnessed. What had fired? What had suddenly brought chaos to the resting soldiers of the Federation army? Turning behind him quickly, the noise still echoing throughout the morning dew, he turned to Thomas and opened his mouth to speak. And before he could even get a word out, something worse struck the squad's vision. From the small tins next to Thomas, a single bullet slammed into their metallic body and burst a furious flame into the sky, sending Thomas flying to the side and across into the middle of the street. The far smaller explosion personally forced Jean and his Francian companion into cover, holding their helmets down as the marksman's shot skewered the very peace and safety of their distant spectator-ship. With the burst of what seemed to be ragnite fuel, Jean reemerged his head slowly to see where Thomas had landed, his mind constantly praying that the Oceanic had made it out alive. A few seconds passed and he scoped out the body, struggling and wriggling around on the floor. Life! Life was still in his soul. And before he could smile, Jean noticed something different.

As Thomas crawled back, trying to drag himself across the street, part of him remained in place. A trail of blood soaked into the cobbled paving as his shouts of pain sprang into view. Where he crawled, part of his leg remained. Jean's eyes widened tremendously and he screamed out Thomas' name, finally realising the separation of his limb from his lower half. The sight of a familiar face snapped from their left leg tore his mind into pieces and he began to think irrationally, hiding behind the cover and poking his head outside as he called for his name, over and over again. All that he got in return was the screams of Thomas' agony, a striking fear of perhaps his time slowly coming to an end. Time was ticking away, and yet what they had to do was so unclear. A sniper had been introduced into the fray, and now they were pinned into a stalemate like nothing before. A personal battle of wits and choice had begun. Jean turned to Victoria and Luke, his voice trembled with confusion, fear and anger.

"W-Where did that shot come from!? W-Was it a marksman? Answer me, someone!" His senses began to return slowly as he put his back against the pile of rubble he hid behind, breathing heavily before shouting one last time. "T-Thomas, keep yourself still! They're going to see you!"

Little did they all know, now a Fox had began to sniff them out. With their sights trailed onto specific points, and the very best attempts and reducing his exposure, Wilhelm had found the perfect bait to relinquish his anger upon: those who'd gassed his friends. Now came the decision. Does the man live, or die? And it could come down to one fateful decision...

_{@Smike@Yam I Am@Jacky}

~ Phantom Thieves of London: The Calling ~

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An emerald glare sprawled across the world. Nothing was near, and nothing was apparent. Domes of strange spires split into the sky and twisted amongst themselves whilst familiar buildings remained vacant and empty. An strange delusional whisper scraped by in the night sky. Wasn't it only the afternoon, though? Laurence had barely set foot outside of the school ground's having turned a corner to go for a long and blissful walk. And now? Well, the world seemed far too unfamiliar. Not another individual was in sight. Cars were either laid to rest or invisible entirely, as the empty streets suggested. A grim greyness overshadowed every corner of the road. London did not look like London anymore. Was he having some sort of hallucination? Parted by the separation of reality and the illusory departure now presented before his very eyes, Laurence trembled in his boots. The quake of his nightmarish experience caused his mind to ache. Surely this was but a trick of the eye? He wandered forward, slowly dragging his fingers across the walls of the alleyway he'd turned into to begin with. Retracing his steps got him nowhere. At first, he attempted to see if the same could be said for the way he'd came, but instead he saw only the now familiar greenness of the world, resembling the school and homely grounds previously recognised before. Feeling short of breath, the panic began to settle in. Laurence wandered, back and forth, his mind racing faster than his legs or eyes could keep up with.

Seconds, however, felt like hours. A painful twitch squandered his mental comfort from before and left him vulnerable, open to the elements of this strange experience. Perhaps...perhaps he was drugged, or something? But...who would drug him? Ashcroft? There wasn't any way he could, it wasn't like Laurence had recently taken in any liquids or substances that could contain such remedies. Without a doubt, that had to be ruled off, but he was no closer to any explanation than ever before. Having now returned through the alleyway he'd seemingly taken to enter this strange realm, he pressed his back against the wall and because to breathe heavily, unsure of what this was around him. Moments like these were draped in mystery. Laurence loved a mystery, but when the fate of his very existence was on the line, how could he keep calm and collected about such an investigation. Everything here was...other worldly? Was that the phrase? Nothing around him made any sense. Laurence tried to wrap the basic components of the emerald sunlight around his head but couldn't quite grasp the laws of such peculiar natures. With his back against the wall, he slowly brought his eyes to the sky, scouting out the clouds from the open top of the alleyway. He saw nothing different. The grassy sky was patched with rain clouds that began to gently dribble down onto him. It was October, yes, but the weather was supposed to be nice? Unless...nothing here was ultimately correspondent with the real world? These theories were all nonsense, especially when his mind dwelt upon them more and more. Instead, he took his back off of the alleyway wall and began to breathe heavily once more.

"Keep calm, Laurence. Keep...your head level. Panic only makes things worse. Let's...see if I can get something out of this." A dart suddenly swooped by his head, or what he thought was a dart. Now he was shaken, turned and flabbergasted by the shriek of a minute beast's squawk. Laurence ducked, instinctively taking it for an object being thrown at him, but instead he saw it positioning itself onto a flagless pole nearby.

Laurence's eyes met the bird at first, feeling a strange reaction jerk his mind. He'd completely blanked the cawing of the raven the second he traversed into this other world, and now he came almost face-to-face with the first living being to be seen since his arrival. If it weren't the three metres distance between the raven and Laurence, still stood on the ground in awe, then it'd have been a direct encounter, centimetres away from each other's face. Laurence stood extremely still, instinctively finding the passion to not scare it away. Whilst animals had never been under his care, they were a fantastic premise to the world. And now, the raven had become the first and only sign of life in this brutish emerald rendition of London. Laurence couldn't help but stare, eyeing up its ruffled feathers and smoother patches, as if someone had been taking care of the bird. It was a fantastical sight, definitely. But perhaps it signified hope? What did he mean by that? Laurence's hand fell onto his head, clutching it as if to humiliate himself for thinking some sort of interactive story-based enigma that would come out of the bird. It was a raven, an avian species! But...then again, this world around him didn't exactly feel natural. Were the properties of avian creatures the same, or was this single raven the only sign of life to be seen for miles, endless miles? It was a gamble, both physically and mentally, to suggest that a creature of such stature was his only companion in the desolate, foggy plains of this Emerald London. But...Laurence felt so lonely all of a sudden. He'd spent most of his days in the solitude of his own paternal dictatorship, whilst edging his way to freedom as the years went by. Yet despite all of that, he felt ever the more lonely here than he'd ever done before. The raven was the only thing keeping him from yelling out for help randomly, and without his knowledge that was probably for the better.

The bird took off from its pole and daintily fluttered down, circumnavigating the sky and alleyway until it landed onto Laurence's shoulder. It's beady eyes gazed into his as Laurence froze still, unsure of what to do. Clearly he'd never handled a bird before, as evident by his instant reaction to freeze in place. Laurence smiled in a whimpering fashion, as if to beg the bird to drop off. However, once his eyes met the birds, he felt a surge of calmness and familiarity burst into his heart. It was a strange feeling, as if he was meant to know the bird in the first place. Except, it was a bird. Laurence had never owned any pets, had he? The sleekness of its jet-black feathery attire drew him in to scrutinise it. The sleek shape of the avian body made for the perfect scouting animal. Perhaps, this was more inspiration for a future novel...If he could figure out how to rid himself of his horrid place.

Seeking the same comfort that the bird gave off in its aura, Laurence smiled elegantly and ruffled his own blonde hair lightly, as if mimicking the feathers on the spine of the raven. It was a rather sweet little creature, despite the connotations of death, deceit and plague that were sometimes imagined on first glance. Perhaps that deathly elegance was what drew Laurence in?

"Gosh, well...you're a pretty little bird, aren't you? Beautiful feathers. If only I had the pen and paper with me now, I could write down this memory, providing it's a dream of course." Hesitation fleeted his confidence for a second, but soon Laurence found the courage to gently curl a single finger down the head, neck and spine of the raven. In response, the bird twitched its head and shook it, like a dog ridding itself of its watery coating. At the curling of the neck, Laurence chuckled lightly, almost forgetting that he was seemingly locked in the strange world that he'd found himself in. Spreading its wings, the raven began to take off of his shoulder and circle his head slowly, peacefully... Laurence was unsure of what it was trying to do, but the raven's call began to break the silence of the foggy, windy London world. It flew in one direction, as slowly as possible, and Laurence instantly knew that perhaps, just perhaps...he'd have to see where it goes. After all, it seemed like there was no going back. He didn't know if anyone was going to come and get him, if that was a thing, so he stuck to his cards and trudged forwards, hands in pockets and filled with the watery downpour of the Emerald weather.

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

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_{The Siege of Amone, September 27th - Scorched Earth}

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The rain started to kick up heavily. He saw his ordered troops disappear into the house, following his order quite obediently, at least in Luke's case. A pittering splutter of droplets slamming against his steel-rimmed helmet amplified the true terror of the outdoor world, beyond the supposed safety of their frontline basecamp. War was scary. Terrifying screams in the distance seemed to unruly shatter the little amount of confidence that Jean had laid out within his mind. Mountains' worth of terror continued to hammer down on the group, emphasising that they were no longer in God's country. Assen's border city, bright and holy in its righteous enigma, was now the centrifugal point of all that was to come. Places were believers and peaceful citizens would roam in matrimonial celebration were now stained with the art of war, the roughened and coarse agony of the once hopeful communities. Remnants of that past life were almost non-existent. The inn was gone, as were its people. The peaceful negotiations of Imperials and Federation soldiers within those neutral zones had crumbled the minute the gas and bombs started to fall. Even here, where the battle had ceased perhaps days ago, casings and bullet shells were still seen scattered on every pavement. Compartments to rifles, stripper clips, broken stocks, even fully drenched Imperial rifles themselves were dashed throughout the world. Many were in terrible conditions, drenched in mud, blood and all sorts of aquatic mess. The years of agony were highlighted in the one scene before them. Jean, crouched behind a pile of rubble, awaiting Luke's return from his scouting, egged his mindset into one of a soldier. He tried to ignore the battle around him. He wanted to make it seem like the world was not afraid of its true horrors. He wanted to ignore the pains of past trauma slicing into his skin, infecting it with the blood of his own victims, but he just couldn't. The war was starting to keep him on the edge. Any minute now, or later, a bullet could be fired from any window and his skull could be split into fragmented pieces. One second he could be alive, the next...emotionless. That terrifying linger of death was enough to tremble his fingers. Anyone could pass it off as the coldness of the rain, but Jean's hands shook wildly, even clattering around a small metallic noise of his webbing's clips against one another.

Before Luke came outside, a strange sound made itself clear in the distance. A presence of fire was made out, cleansing the distance well and truly. A scream of human suffering was also heard, followed by several distant shots. Thunder tried to conceal their location and presence but to no avail. The war was here to stay. Even ahead, Jean's eyes were left wide open as a burnt out coach laid ahead. Leaning over the debris pile, he scanned ahead, seeing the remains of a trailer coach. Was it that? No...above it sat the remains of a wiring cable. It was a tram, an entirely scorched remainder of a tram at least. Jean kept his eyes upon it, looking ahead as he saw two objects slumbered right up against the tram's flank. The objects themselves were hard to make out, more akin to lumps of clothing at the distance he was at. Taking out his binoculars, he tried to scan ahead to see if he could make out the mess even more, yet could barely see through the fogginess of the cold morning rain.

He narrowed his gaze, silencing all the noise around him to try and focus in on the site ahead. Initially, he was looking for signs of enemy activity, or simply traps and mines that were laid out. The Imperial forces had been here in the past few days, at least it seemed. Many were scrambling back to an unknown point, perhaps to concentrate their forces a long way. Jean whispered to himself, mouthing out the possibilities of such happenings. The Empire must've known that Amone was on the brink of its final hours. Whoever controlled the next few days' worth of territory would surely dictate who held the ground. This was a game of willpower; who would withstand the storm the longest, and who would repel the oncoming charge first? Imperial defences were greatly intensified and tended to feature extremely vast chokepoints. The only advantage to be seen in the urban environment was the lack of murder-holes, concrete machine gun forts and trenches. Everyone had a somewhat equal chance of cover...providing the buildings still stood tall.

When Luke silently returned, simply giving a quiet nod, Jean waited for everyone to set up before standing up and writing down that everything was clear. Something about Luke's face disturbed Jean. He didn't like the guy, of course, but something seen out there was clearly disturbing enough to shudder even him. Jean finally stood up and silently gestured his hands for them to prepare to move out. Luke asked him a question, taking his mind back to the horrors. What was this place before everything happened? Well...Jean had a perfectly good and reasonable idea of what happened before and why the world looked so grim now.

"Before? Peaceful...righteous. Ask Michael if we get back, he'll know. This is his City of religious importance. Shame battle disturbed its presence." Jean tried to keep a professional tone to his voice, before moving forward once more. The others couldn't have been far behind, judging the condition of their scouting mission. There was only a small amount left. Thomas moved to the another building and began to clear itself out, going in himself to ensure it was all clear. Whilst he did so, Jean moved first, approaching that same tram cart that he'd seen in the distance. "Holy...fuck..."

Pinned up against the wall of the tram's exterior, two bodies laid clustered together. Jean's eyes widened as he held back the temptation to pluck the body for identification disks. Something else caught his eye though. The bodies themselves were charred, scarred from top to bottom in a black charcoal-esc layer. The smell of rotten flesh reeked from their clothes. Jean's own gaze twitched as the reality of the war's destruction became clear. The first was a male soldier, or at least Jean thought so. There was no way to tell. How was there no way to tell? Jean never wanted to describe it, but the gaping hole in their face was not their nostrils or their mouth. Instead, the dripping stench of dried blood, decaying skin and resentful suffering created a wound that went from one end of the skull to to the other, ripping the identity and entire face out of their head. No nose, eyes or even lips could be spotted as it tunnelled through and scouted out the rear end, leaving nothing but the remains of rotting brain mesh behind. Worse still, the skin that was left intact was burnt, charred and entirely smouldered by the tip of someone's flame. The second body was a female soldier, young in whatever features she had left to spare. Her skin too was brutally cooked and burnt beyond human comprehension.

Jean stumbled backwards, halting the group and staring without anything but fear overruling his feelings. As he stumbled, something to the right caught his eye. Further down the street laid...oh lord...

"Holy...shit..." He collapsed onto his hands and knees, and a surge of vomit spewed from behind his lips onto the wet floor. For down that street laid more than just two bodies, who were horrifically mutilated and burnt, but instead at least thirty bodies...all clumped together in one large pile of ash, death and deceit. Jean continued to vomit, clearing out his stomach as Thomas reemerged from the house and found the sight to behold. He simply staggered into a halt, watching in disbelief. Was this in response to...the gas? Such bodies weren't all military too, some looked as if they could've walked a civilian life, or were refugees from the frontlines. How...how could this happen? Here? On the frontlines, where soldiers were only supposed to kill and nothing more? Why was a brutal depiction of how violence was supposed to go down shown here?

Eventually, Jean cleared his stomach and throat of the sick, standing up and groaning, before looking away. He tried to shed a tear for the pity of their lives, but struggled to even amass any emotion out on the frontline. Instead, he turned back to his soldiers, and quietly insisted that they continued on in silence.

_{@Yam I Am@Smike@Jacky}

~ Phantom Thieves of London: The Calling ~

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Friday afternoon, already? Life was going far too quickly for Laurence's enjoyment. The hours were dragging out and becoming a sickly rendition of boredom. Wasn't he supposed to be enjoying his new life, free from the rulership of dictator-like parents and money hungry family members? Well, he was infinitely more happy now than he was back then. Yet, despite this he felt almost empty that morning. He'd spoken to a few nice people, amongst a few questionable individuals as well. Such conversations were invigorating for his mental wellbeing, helping him stay on track and keeping a smile upon his face. He remembered the likes of a few new individuals, from the sweet Finnish girl caught in the middle of everything to the crazy Russian wanting to put down the Kremlin. Amongst those were some more empathetic individuals, like classmates and participants in the debate. It was an eventful evening indeed. That night, Laurence had made it home with a deep smile plastered across his joyful mug, happy to have had the chance to interact and show his attention to many colleagues that he hoped to mingle with in the future. Life was all about those small moments, those interactions that were amplified by friendships and potential love-interests. Laurence himself wasn't one hundred percent on what his exact feelings were for those within that group, bar the first impressions, so he kept those judgements relatively low down. Benefits of the doubt were ruling his opinion on Mikhail, making him imagine that perhaps it was just the case of a strange joke or a bizarre drunken rant...though the latter raised questions about the school's alcohol prohibition policy.

Friday wasn't that much exciting. He'd had mostly Business and English lessons to go through, studying mostly the works of a 'Love and Relationship' poetry anthology in larger depth. Friday's was always the day when the teacher bombed out annotations and pressed the students for answers, interpretations and all sorts of forms of analysis. They were hard to deal with, but Laurence enjoyed them. They were different, in their own special way. Thomas Hardy's 'The Inn' was the focus that day, helping shed some more light on the reciprocation of unsolicited love affairs or desires that never quite come true. Though perhaps not on the romantic scale, the concept of desires being faltered by expectations was something Laurence related to more. He wondered if there were some form of alternative world or supposed universe that changed the rules of desires, where men and women could rush after their deepest connections without worry of repercussion. Sounded silly, stupid in fact, but it was a decent idea for a novel. Perhaps...could that be his breakthrough? Laurence still focused on what he wanted to write as a final product, making his name potentially in the writing industry only to prove his family wrong about his talents, but the inspiration was meekly withering away once more.

Now, he had an appointment. Ever since he'd came to Evergreen Grammar School for Sixth Form education, he'd never really encountered much with the staff. He was on good relations with Mr Sharp, the philosophy teacher, and had some decent connections to his English department but anything beyond the small and secluded circle of his A-Level Education was minimal at best. Considering it wasn't just an institute for A-Level students, there were students of ages 12-18 throughout the entire school. Years 7-11 made up the vast majority of Evergreen's population, without a doubt. Laurence never grew up within those years, not in this school at least, so his experiences were small and unrecognisable to most teaching staff. That was due to change though, especially today. The illusive vice-principal had called for Laurence to go meet him: Mr Ashcroft...

_{Introducing...}

Awaiting outside of his office wasn't exactly easy. Laurence had no recollection of the man, other than the occasional rumours spread about him. Though, saying that...which teacher didn't have rumours about them? Students loved to joke around about their seniors, making them out to be worse than perhaps they really were. Negativity was a great fuel for getting through school. Seeing things through that bleak, narrow spyglass was a common trope, education didn't matter to some and only the embarrassment of humour against those they knew nothing about. Laurence couldn't judge the man until he'd actually spoken to him, yet even now he felt a strange anxiety overcome him. The atmosphere was seemingly...different. Every time he thought of setting foot inside the office his heart lunged and his stomach churned. Thousands of warning signs were plastering themselves within his mind and blaring out an intense siren. Each blast that shattered his ears caused disorientation. For a moment, he felt the world turn green around him, and the distorted looks of the walls started to warp in and out of themselves. A wavy texture overcame the environment and he simply began to feel sick inside. Anxiety was a bitch, no doubt, and Laurence wasn't fully prepared to deal with the nervousness that came out of waiting to be called in. Eventually, the door could be heard unclicking, its locks removing itself as a small gust of wind left it ajar, leaving a ghostly presence from within to seep out and draw Laurence inside. It took a few moments of hesitation to get Laurence ready, before the instincts of his kindness and willingness not to leave anyone waiting around drew him closer. A dark aura could be felt within, and yet Laurence heeded no attention towards such manifestations. Walking inside...he found who was waiting for him.

"Ahh, Mr Newman...please, take a seat..." Laurence tried his best to smile, walking gently and gracefully over to the humble leathery chair before his desk. For a Vice Principal, he was rather well equipped and treated in his office. A quaint aroma smitten with rich mahogany brought back melancholic memories of his old home, where his family indulged in the riches of their own self-profits with ostentatious furniture. And behind all of that richness, in this room at least, sat the man in question: Mr Ashcroft. "Don't dilly-dally, son."

As Laurence did as he was commanded, he scanned his face to see whatever he could. Indeed, old-fashioned was one way to go about it. Between both eyes and sat neatly on the bridge of his wrinkled nose were an old yet purely expensive brand of spectacles with St. George's Cross embedded into its frames. It felt more of an aesthetic choice at first, considering his walls were littered with paintings and scriptures of an old world. Red coats, brodies, conquest, formations of knights, villages and everything England was listed in the masses, setting the tone and scene of this Vice Principal. Laurence at first admired the use of textures, perhaps deducing that he was just a history fanatic from previous teaching days. Laurence didn't know that Ashcroft had never taught history. Not once.

More time passed, and Laurence silently sat down and folded his arms across his lap, locking his hands together nervously as he awaited for the beginning of their encounter. It was a rather sporadic and unprecedented call to alert. Laurence wasn't exactly a lacking student, so he knew that it couldn't be about his studies. Perhaps it were about a newfound opportunity for writers, or a chance to excel his education through a third-party course? The hopes of something so beneficial as those were endless, but the reality would sometimes be disappointing. Ashcroft held a stern face, smiling beneath the fingertips that were tightly wrapped around one another. Once again, that unfamiliar, sinister aura spread throughout the room, shimmering the once glowing brightness of Laurence's smile.

"It's finally nice to meet you, Mr Newman. I imagine you haven't heard that Principal Galbraith has taken temporary leave to sort out family related issues, have you not?" The curved conversation suddenly flanked Laurence, taking him by surprise. Obviously Principal Galbraith was the public face of the school; a shimmering beacon of hope, the press would say, from a female headteacher, she led the school through tough times and perfectly executed the oppositions of OFSTED inspections. Her temporary leave left the mantle of responsibility upon a now grinning elderly man, who seemed keen to share such news. Before Laurence could retort his response, Ashcroft continued after leaning heavily back into his leathery throne. "Obviously that's not why I called you here, boy. I was just...reminding us all of the situation, explaining why I am the one delivering such news to you. Say, have you heard of the London Writers' Guild?"

The question threw Laurence off guard once more. Why of course, the London Writers' was only the prestigious platform for newcomer authors and script-writers to influence the city with agencies, publishers and advertisement to the max. Only they were known for creating big names, many of which Laurence himself aspired to become. For a moment, Laurence smiled uncontrollably at the thought of the Guild, seeing them as the destination for all youth-writers in London to strive for.

"Uhh...yes, yes I have, Sir! It's a dream away from my grasp, but I know all about it."

"I thought you were a man of culture too, my boy!" Unlike the rumours before, he jovially smiled and chuckled to himself before twizzling away at his facial hair with the tips of his fingers. He placed a second hand down upon the table and murmured to himself, quietly thinking of his next thought process. "Personally, pure-breds like yourself are amongst the greatest students here. I noticed a science boy of the same stature as well. Always wonderful to see the legacy continue!"

The final phrase caught Laurence off guard. What ever could he have meant by that? Laurence was confused by the entire purpose of the meeting. Ashcroft made little sense. Laurence simply sat in silence, listening to his words carefully.

"Anyway, the meeting won't run itself. Newman, I've got reasons to believe that you've been mixing in with the wrong crowd." Laurence's eyes widened, unsure of what he meant or what he was getting at. Wrong crowd? Laurence was a rather confined soul anyway, rarely mingling with any sort of crowd. The conversation beforehand was going so positively, and then suddenly this bombshell had been tossed into the fray without any warning. Partially, he cleared his throat and prepared to respond, only for Ashcroft to once again take charge of the conversation. "Any student of mine should hold the honour of being in the position they are, Mr Newman. I've seen some investments you've made socially. I'm here to just give you a friendly nudge back into the right direction. You're an Englishman, dear Newman! This should be your time to take pride in your education, your writing! Y'know, the Principal always had her eye on you creatively, and thought you could do some good. Don't spoil that."

"I...don't quite follow, uhm...Sir?" His confusion was only met by the rather peculiar behaviour of Ashcroft, who stood up, shushing him with a finger to his own mouth, before walking over to a gramophone and putting on a dusty old record. To match the theme of his room, and his hidden agenda, the brightly coloured theme of 'A Long Way to Tipperary' sung out throughout the walls of his office. Laurence was confused...very confused. He started to wander around, circling Laurence strangely.

"This school is infested, young sir. Infested, I tell you! As acting principal, it is my duty...no...As a righteous man, it is my duty to uphold my expectations of the school and blend the best results for the future, as you must know. You may not see them, Newman, but there are rats everywhere, hiding amongst the students like the plague. You'll find them some day, or they'll find you. Be sure you stay on top, and I can guarantee you any place in London for writing." His speech was concluded with participation in the lyrics, singing and lulling away at the chants of his musicianship. Laurence, once again, spoke quietly in response, confused by the terms of his strange ordeal.

"S-Sir...students? I...uhm...I don't think that I could find them or...I don't know what you are implying? You want me t-"

"Enough of your questioning! This is a standard meeting I must adjourn with the students I see promise in, young boy. We're here as an institute, together! School and education helps pick out the intellectuals from the uneducated, poor masses. I'm not here to educate you on that matter, boy. I just want to remind you to keep you eyes and ears open. Now please, vacate my office. Oh...and next week...tell that 'Finnish' girl to come to my office. I have reports I need to make."

Finnish girl? Could Ashcroft be referring to Merja? Why would she need a report made against her? From the brief moment that Laurence laid his eyes and ears upon her distress, she did seem like an innocent or seemingly normal school girl. There was nothing about her that screamed of truancy, or insubordination. He didn't dare question it, once Ashcroft had raised his voice once it was a case of asserting dominance, scaring Laurence into submission as he quickly escaped the office as politely as humanly possible.

Outside, he took a breath. What was it that he meant? Everything that had just happened was a confusing mess of events. Laurence was so caught up in the veil of misunderstanding that as he exited the school, he didn't notice the transition of the scene around him. Everywhere, the world began to shift into a formation of unfinished pyramids, shapes and blocks floating around in the sky, where a darkness scattered above in the air. Laurence took a moment to dwell on the encounter before he made it outside, only for his jaw to drop and for his world to begin squirming into a twisted state of misunderstanding. Laurence's eyes fluttered, blinking uncontrollably. He stared, gaping mouth wide open. What was this? What the fuck was all of this? The series of events happened quickly. The scolding of his principal and now the sudden shift in the world outside. He continued to walk forward, his eyes blaring suddenly. No souls could be seen in the distance. All the world around him was devoid of life, life entirely. Only the faint squawking of a nearby Raven was audible. Only then...Laurence felt himself begin to shiver.

Username Context

I really just wanna do stuff.

~ Phantom Thieves of London: The Calling ~

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As soon as Laurence heard the uproar of statements, a wave of confusion overran his system like never before. Within seconds his face showed nothing but awe-struck. There were many red-flags being raised. Mikhail was the first to spout randomised stuff. Poison? Antidote? Was he asking a regular student within Evergreen Grammar School, in London nonetheless, to help with...that? This was the most bizarre set of events that humanity had yet to come across. Laurence was a prime pilgrim, expediting such strange manifestations of hilarity and mystery like his forefathers before. And yet, he still found no real understanding. His mind pondered on such rich conversations without as much of a clue where it was going, what was next or what curve ball would swing towards them. For a second, his face remained blank. How could he react to such a strange conversation? He turned, looking away for a moment as a newcomer arrived to the stage. Alex, the apparent dense-of-all-that-was-dense, so the word went around. Laurence had no personal quarrel with him nor believed that he was dense, but it wasn't exactly something he'd not keep in mind. Rumours did sometimes hold some truths, as his novels had actually shown him. Spite and sharp tongues were thrown across the table almost immediately. A coarse agenda like no other had been located from within Alex's words. Manipulation? Was there some form of bad blood that was yet to be discovered, or was Alex simply trying to face the problem head on? Every second bore a hundred more questions, ones that refused to answer themselves in due time.

Soon after, introductions were set loose. Mikhail commented on his history joke, proclaiming that he was a fan too. Well, for that to be the case Laurence himself would've had to be a fan. Even more irony. The one who's nation got its rear-end handed to against a man with white pyjamas on was rather an interesting development indeed. For a while, Laurence began to feel like a detective or investigator of the sorts, coming to his own conclusions on the wild chase of answers he so desired. Momentarily Laurence stood back, taking a seat yet again to conjure up answers of his own. Damn, Mikhail didn't have ambitions...he was insane, probably? Could it be, or was he just that confident in some larger-than-life plan he'd manifested himself? Laurence was starstruck at the possibilities, yet found no clear answer as more spite was shot from across the table. Eyes started to peel towards the group on the table. Laurence took his reading glasses out from beneath his case and propped them onto the tip of his nose, sighing heavily as he did so. Someone had to lay dowm some order, and at this point there was no solving it. Merja was the Chamberlain, appeasing either sides, whilst Tsar Nicholas on one end ranted on world reforms and the school's fellow chad kept his spirits high. How tiring, one might think. Laurence definitely thought so. Sometimes, it took a bit of logic, realism and tough love to sort something out, and now was that time. For Laurence, it was time to enter into his creative fantasy.

All around him, he could feel the lights dim, as the spotlight of a lamp shone down onto the table, showering all three confidants in its godly ray. Noir; the world had fallen into a grim black and white grey-scale, taunting the realities of what actually was going on outside of Laurence's mind. Truth be told, nothing had changed, Laurence was just a bit too caught in his playful creativity once more to not amplify the situation. If the school had no uniform policy, a long, drab trench coat and a loosely brimmed had would shroud his openness and create a more daring atmosphere. Instead though, it was simply a case of talking to three students like a normal person: oh but what fun Laurence could have with exaggerating the situation within his mind. After all, it could be the great breakthrough he needed for a novel idea.

"If I recall, a library is a place of silent studies and reading, so I'll have to interrupt your little tumble here!" A strong joy encompassed Laurence as he beamed brightly, knowing full well that kindness was his best method of catching ones attention. "To begin with, Alex, would you please refrain from insults just for the time being. I won't let anyone hold back afterwards, I just want to try and make sense of all of this strangeness."

Merja simply sat where she was, a true Finnish victim of all that was to come. She sounded puzzled, timid from the argument at least. Who wouldn't be? Two weird titans were trying to proclaim their strange ideologies over one another. In fact, Laurence himself was frightful of their strange engagement more than anyone else. Not to mention, the peeling eyes of many students gawping towards them made him feel uncomfortable and afraid of any escalation. The last thing he needed was to be brought into the troubling end of this experience, so he tried to remain a neutral peacekeeper in it all. Finally, he turned to Mikhail. There was a lot to question, and even more to debate, so he tried to keep his words brief and within the realms of understanding.

"Okay, Mikhail is it? Uhm...I just want to like...I don't know where to start, I'll be honest. It's like talking to a protagonist of some sort of weird book on my shelf, y'know the unbelievable ones. Anyway..." On paper, such phrases would've sounded harsh and uncalled for, yet Laurence meant it seemingly in a rambling sense. There was no offence trying to be taken, nor did he want to attack or worsen anything. Laurence's understanding of debates was unclear and rather fruitless, but he still wanted to make sure everyone got along where they could. Those were the things that truly made him happy: unity. "If you really are so concerned about this situation, to which professionally trained doctors, police investigators, governmental figures and even forensics could not deter, why do you think students from an London grammar school would have any worth in the case? Shouldn't you be conducting some sort of collaboration with the police, or like...I dunno...working as a witness? Also, I hate to be the realist here, but doesn't it seem a bit weird to you that one Russian transfer student, I think, is trying to take on the Kremlin? I mean...I don't think anyone here is thinking much through."

Before he could continue, a familiar voice flanked him and took him off guard. Romani, a sudden student with relaxing demeanour, approached him to quiz him on the recent lessons of Philosophy. Of course, dozing off in philosophy was a very easy thing to do. Students who were even enjoying the subject couldn't help but feel a long dread as the time slowly ticked by. It was one of those subjects that would last forever and ever. Even though his name wasn't really close to the reference, he held off the temptation to ask him to go bowling with him in some pan-slavic accent.

Laurence nodded, looking into his bag and kindly bringing out his notes and gently placing them in Romani's hands. He smiled brightly as he did so, nodding with a great succession of understanding the struggles of sleeping during the length horrors of the philosophy class. It was anyone's guess why Mr Sharp, the teacher, hadn't even picked up on the sleeplessness of his students.

"I've got a spare copy at home, but copy as much as you want! It's under the title "Gettier Problem" if you wanna catch up on what we did last lesson. Make sure to bring it back tomorrow! And as for this group..." He turned back to Merja, knowing full well she was caught within the antagonising threats of both aggressive parties. "It might be healthy for you to disperse, especially you...Merja, was it? It was good to meet you, though I think we both wish it would be under better circumstances."

With a faint chuckle, and a hopeful deliverance of his take on Mikhail's rather outlandish set of ambitions in life, he began to make his way out of the library. It was as if an aura of sunlight shone around him as he walked in strange grace and happiness, finding the conversation he just had an uplifting experience. He hoped that someday they'd come back and talk to him, making his year worth going through. Either way, all he had to do was go home, cook dinner and sleep until the Friday. After all, Friday had him booked for a meeting with the Vice Principle, Mr Ashcroft.

_{@Sync@Letter Bee@Savo@Typical}

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Delila Cooper

Name:

Delila Frento Cooper

Gender

Female

Age:

19 ; June 14 1935

Sexuality

Straight

Race

Vinlandian; Texio, United States of Vinland

Appearance

Delila stands at 6 feet even, her eyes are round and a soft shade of light brown. Her black hair which naturally turns a dark brown at the tips are usually kept short in a wavy pixie cut. When in the correct amount of sunlight her hair is easily seen as dark brown. Her face is fairly simple with there not really being anything outstanding about it besides the scars that runs across the bridge of her nose. Delila's skintone is a nice golden bronze. Underneath her uniform Delila wears tape around her chest area along with a extra muscle shirt over the taped area. When her uniform is on she'll usually keep a poncho in military stadard colors, along with her helmet which has a white armadillo painted on the side of it. Delila has well toned muscles that aren't very noticeable.

Height

6'0 ft

Personality

Delila is a shy but easygoing person, who'll act like a big sibling in a way. She'll stop people from doing dumb reckless things for their own good, but will also let some things go unchecked. Although she tries not to talk much she'll join in conversations and listen or laugh along with everyone else. But these things usually apply to her when she's off duty with peers around her. When she's on duty however and in a really crucial situation, Delila is more of a warrior than anyone around her as she puts up a huge unbreakable no nonsense attitude. She pushes herself above and beyond when in the heat of a moment. If someone is feeling down Delila will always be the first one to listen to their problems whether she agrees with them or not, she knows people need someone who'll listen to them.

Rank

Private

Role

Sapper

Equipment

Wire cutters

Tape

Entrenching tool

SM-Longfield Rifle

Potentials

Combat Bred: When being shot at Delila's nerves will sharpen and keep her focused on the task at hand without any sign of weakness showing on her person.

Protector to a Fault: When seeing a fellow soldier under extreme fire Delila will charge recklessly into the fray in order to save that fellow soldier

For Family! Delila will have random thoughts of her remaining family members randomly and will lose focus of her current task

Biography

Delila lived a relatively normal life being the oldest sibling of 5 other kids, so it goes without saying that she was always being looked up to or depended upon for event the most dumbest task. But Delila never minded in fact she always loved guarding her brothers and sisters. Sadly however the saying, nothing can ever stay the same showed it's ugly head to Delila in a subtle but drastic way. In more recent years her younger brothers who were 17 and 15 began to act out of line whenever given the chance. Of course it was to be expected as their family wasnt the most wealthiest nor did they even live in a decent part of town. It was often that Delila would have to fight and or ambush her peers in order to keep her family or friends safe. That put her in bad standing with local gangs or just general ruffians altogether, so it was a shock when she finally learned that her own siblings had gone off to join these groups. The very groups she promised to protect them from. Whenever she tried to press them on the matter and force them to leave they'd just resist her harder each time, at times their conversations would get physical but Delila came out on top every time. Then came the day of infamy, a day that Delila could never forget even if she wanted.

The radio had announced the outbreak of the First European War, her entire family, from her mother and father to all of her siblings except her, now 16 and 17 year old brothers, were all gathered around the radio listening intently to what was going on. But as if lightning had struck with the force of Zeus the family looked towards the sound and realized it was only the door. And outside were tons of police cars outside. At the door was the local sheriff with a somber look on his face. His news would put the same look on the faces of everyone in the room. Delila's 16 year old brother Benny was found dead with 3 other bodies around him. The only person to survive the encounter was Jason her 17 year old brother who was now most likely looking at life in prison for his involvement.

After that day, Delila swore she would protect the remaining of her family this time including her mother and father. So to do this she took on more chores around her house and even would do the occasional odd job in her town. Whenever given free time Delila would work her body by working out and practicing her hand to hand combat skills. She did all of this while hearing about the war on the other side of the world. All of this in preparation for a moment she knew would come, recruitment officers would finally arrive to her town for fresh soldiers as Vinland was soon to enter the war. There was only one problem, her mother and father, she had told them her plans to join the war if need be, but both of them protested as they'd already lost two children and couldnt bear losing another. Even with all of this hanging over her head Delila still chose to take on the task for her country. But not just her country she was doing this for family that was all Delila cared about. Stopping this damn war and keeping the front from coming to her home land.

Affiliations

Mother (38): Isabelle Cooper

Father (40): Dawson Cooper

Brother (15): Austin Cooper

Sister (13): Sandy Cooper

Relationships

TBD upon RP based decisions

Character Theme

TBD

@BigOlLewbowski

Accepted boyo!

~ Phantom Thieves of London: The Calling ~

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Thursday, right? Nothing really happened on a Thursday. Lessons were low in numbers, and Laurence's official numbers of trustworthy friends were limited entirely. What good was it to stumble through the day without much of a plan? Unfortunately, like was never so easy nor enjoyable. He'd escaped, physically at least, from the torments of his family only to be weighed down by the pressure of their agonising aftertaste. It was a bitter one too, one that corroded his taste buds and scorched his throat like acid in a cup. When he lunged awake that night, he wandered over to the cupboard of his dormitory's shower room and doused his sorrows with three separate pills, small and colourless ones to be specific. He never liked taking them. Sometimes they made him forget, whilst other times he felt just as bad for their purpose. But he couldn't let anyone know, because there was no one to let into his private life. All it included was reading, reading, working, talking to a few people and on the worst occasions slipping into a fit of tears in the privacy of his own abode. And that morning, that Thursday morning, had been yet another few hours of turmoil, where he questioned the legitimacy of his own future, his own purpose, his inevitable return to those who claimed ownership over him. To them, he was a tool to success, to further riches and beyond. Sometimes, on mornings like those, Laurence would begin to believe them.

And yet, to everyone else, nothing had changed or nothing was wrong. He smiled, said his morning graces and chirped around with his books, attentively paying homage to his tutoring and learning as well as studying as hard as he could. Hours trickled by like they were fluids trapped inside the circular glass casings of the clocks. A flow of time edged on, pressuring his mind into a numbed state of confusion, almost entirely forgetting of his mini-escapade that very morning. Laurence wanted to remain happy. It was a feeling that didn't come by often, nor did it stay for long sometimes. And so, he continued to smile. No one would bat an eye, and he'd remain happy for such reasons. That day, he wandered around school, despite only having two morning lessons to deal with. After double-periods of Philosophy, once again covering the same topics of epistemology and gettier-style problems, he was left to his own devices. A quick lunch, a fancy wander around and a gander into the local city that was a walk's away. Before the school day was even over, he'd made it back to school without too much interference with his studies, progression through education and day entirely.

The aroma of the autumn afternoon soothed his mind as he crossed the near-empty corridors of Evergreen. When things remained quiet, he'd find the temptation to creatively talk aloud to himself, reciting poetry from memory, remembering quotes from stories he'd written or notate the same analogies previously discovered in the works of his literary idols. Truth be told, his solitary personality was entirely built out of novelisation, literacy and poetry together. He'd dabbled his mind into screenplay, theatrical production writing and even journalism on the internet and still found the same excitement as before.

Quietly, his feet shuffled throughout the hallways, twisting and turning around different corners. Suddenly he stopped, and his body automatically turned towards one of the nearby windows with ease.

Laurence wasn't much of a dreamer nor was he an optimist when his thoughts took the better part of him. Notes of familiar melancholy took to his brain and started to gnaw gently on its strands of memory. He winced. Quietly, the world around him fell silent. All he heard were the faint echoed voices of his past screaming at him, the sounds of beatings and physical strikes against his rebelliousness being enacted as punishment. Laurence wasn't...he didn't know how to react. These memories barely came about during the day and were mostly morning scares, but now he felt a tremendous change lunge from within him. It wasn't a positive change...It was one that set him back. He felt the sudden shift rearwards catch him off guard. Was he devolving, spacing and flickering out into a nervous disaster? Times were changing, and yet the past haunted his deepest thoughts regrettably. Was he able to escape? Those who scared and punished him...were they truly out of his life? Their legacy seemed to deny such a possibility.

Shaking his head further, he wiped his eyes, feeling the soothing softness of a tear that had formed onto his cheek. Quickly, he hid it without second thought, drying his face and trying his best to liven up his glistening eyes. For a while, Laurence was breathing heavily, motioning his head to go back to the go-lucky transition he wished he could retain all the time. A fake smile plastered itself onto his face. With a shyness in his confidence, he turned and walked into the nearest door he could find, suddenly sending him into the Library. It was like heaven for him, with all those books, but for now he just needed something more loud than a book to take his mind off of his troubles.

Almost instantly, he saw two individuals talking amongst themselves. For a while, he stood, staring behind a small shelf of books precariously. They had a discussion. Two foreigners, it seemed. One with a slight Russian wisp to his voice and another with that of a near-Scandinavian/Finnish tone. For a moment, the situation brought a small smile to his face.

"History repeats itself, dear Simo Häyhä." Chuckling at his own lame joke that'd only probably get him a few hundred upvotes on online forums, he quietly made his way over and pulled out a book, sitting as close to them as he could before engaging in light-conversation. "Good afternoon, you two! Always nice to see faces I've never seen here before. Hope you don't mind my intrusion, but I'm intrigued by the discussion." Such a weird thing to ask, even though in reality he just needed someone to talk to, to take away the pains of his memories.

_{@Typical@Letter Bee}

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Hello I was wondering if you were still taking memebers? I'd love to join.

@BigOlLewbowski

We're still taking on members yeah! Here's the discord link!

discord.gg/VtJAGCk

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

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_{The Siege of Amone, September 27th - The Scouting Mission}

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Within his proximity, Thomas and their fellow Darcsen talked away, chuckling lightly to one another whilst assorting their preparations for the task ahead. Preparations... That was all anyone could do? But could one soldier really prepare himself for what was out there? Out there was more than just war. There was horror, death, destruction and an inhumane embodiment of mental instability. Thousands died. Millions could have, dare Jean predict. Bleeding wounds gaping open, spraying ichor without rest, these were plaguing not only the streets of Amone but also the entire lands of Francia. Europa was a mess. No war before had been fought on such a scale. Families were torn apart by the day and yet here he was, as well as his squad, standing and preparing to go out once more into the fray. They all knew that one day their luck would run out, or that a stray marksman would strike at their skull without a second warning, and yet they still went out. Time and time again. Jean was just pretending to be a good soldier, one who followed orders. What were those orders? Jean revised them in his head again and again, time and time over. He wanted to memorise every single bit of knowledge he had in order to stay alive. Scout ahead. Find pathways. Check defences. Leave. Scout ahead. Find pathways. Check defences. Leave. Map it all out. Mentally, it sounded just as easy as any other dull operation. But this was Amone. Amone was a festival of gnashing violence. There was no way it would be that simple.

His mind had raced off to another cosmos. Making such an impression on his soldiers would be imprudent, disloyal and damaging to them to, or simply damaging to his reputation. Jean didn't want them to lose hope. In a way, hope was the main benefactor to driving them forward. Life was meaningless without hope. It fuelled their motives and gave them purpose. But when there was no hope, what happened then? Did they hollow out and become empty? All these darkened questioned flushed his mind, draining his concentrated thoughts back down into an imaginary gutter. Dash! Dash it all! Jean didn't want or need these thoughts to cloud his judgement. A task needed to be done. Potentially, this could save many more lives, or prepare those to avoid confrontation the following morning.

Peppering showers continued to dribble onto their helmets and only a thin slice of cloth above their heads sheltered them from the majority of the downpour. Trickling patters soaked the metallic frames of their helmets and cleansed their rifles of any grime, dirt or dust. A perfect day for the imperfect weather; pathetic fallacy was a strong omen to the world. Finally, Jean clicked the bolt of his Longfield into place and dipped the tips of his fingers in a small tin of chalk laid about. Staff Sergeant Baker had introduced the sort of small strategy to help increase grip on rifles, though most soldiers claimed it was irritating. Jean didn't mind. The feel of chalk reminded him that he still had fingers. And if he still had fingers, he could still shoot. And if he could still shoot...he could still kill.

Marauders of the war could still be made out in the distance, screeching in the forms of artillery shells, blasting gunshots or mechanical movement. Even as early in the morning as then, there was still some form of battle, near and far, that raged on. War had never been seen on such a vast scale. Jean found it...almost poetic. As technology grew and the ragnite stocks rose, promising riches and technological enhancement for all of humanity, it all came crashing down in a tragic twist of events. Hunters sought hunters, and prey found its own prey. Europa was never the most peaceful continent in the world, but neither was it the most volatile. But now, could the same be said? Such a romanticised idea of the nations battling it out, one last time to see who would claim the final victory for humanity, troubled Jean's view on it. It was definitely truthful that this was to perceived as the last war. The 'Great' War, so to speak, had the potential to be so damaging that no one would pledge violence again. But humans weren't like that. Jean wasn't a romanticist, not anymore. His writing had changed and his methods followed. Realistic writing, accounting his life and his days numbering away made for his pass time. With his mind set on writing, he opened his pocketbook and scribbled down more notes, notifying the events of the morning and sharing his thoughts to the vast audiences he never had. These private thoughts were never to be read, unless he made it through the war in one or two functioning pieces.

"Dash it all." He repeated the phrase within his mind, then spouting it upon his moistened lips, over several times. "It's a Scouting Mission, Jean. Someone...has to do it. And they will, and it will be us who does it. Protecting lives is what we have to do."

Even if it meant ending a few? Perhaps. Jean didn't intend on getting into conflict during their scout and scavenge of the enemy defences, but sometimes it was unavoidable and inevitable, just like war itself. Diplomacy was likely not an option. The only neutral zone of the entire city had been wiped out, scrapped and torn to shreds. Gas had once plastered the streets and hundreds of men, women and non-combatants were choked for the sake of a dirty experiment. Soldiers the previous night spoke of gas being used on a wider scale elsewhere on the frontline, as well as a large import heading off to the Principality of Gallia, their unlikely ally in all of this chaos. Of course, the constitutional monarchy over there would dare shower such hatred on their foes. After all, their backs were far closer to the wall than anyone else's.

To his right, he saw Victoria and Luke finally join the scene and brace themselves. Jean took a peak at his stopwatch, tied to a bronze chain that hung from within his pocket. 0457 hours. Zero hour was nearly there. They had little time to prepare and get set, and now the daunting task was to come. Jean walked around, clipping and tightening the straps on his helmet and fixing his webbing once more. He wasn't scared, just anxious. There was plenty to be anxious about. He may lose his life, or he'd have to watch someone else fall in battle. Best case scenario, no lives would be lost in this mission, including the Imperial enemy. But the world was never fair, and Jean prepared himself mentally for the possibility of a conventional engagement, even if it meant getting his fists up close and personal. Once his gear was completely in check, he walked to the quad-who'd be accompanying him. Corporal Thomas Carter, Private Victoria White, Private Luke Godfrey and Private Inès Levesque. An unlikely assembly, but a rugged one indeed. All followed characteristics. It was better for Luke to volunteer himself for the group, as it made choosing the rest of the accomplices less stressful and more straight-forward.

"Gather up, last minute briefing." He at least tried to keep things professional, no matter how badly he made it sound. Either way, he was a compassionate soldier. Even seeing the ones he hated die was something of a nightmare. "We'll be out there for about an hour or two. No confirmation on when or what's going to be out there, but that's our job to figure it out. We'll avoid confrontation, mark down anything worth noting and head back once we've gotten the eight sectors written down. Keep pens and pencils, all of us are gonna make a note of what we see. Can't afford to lose the booklet with all the writing down in a firefight."

As Jean walked by them all, slinging his rifle over his right shoulder, he felt Thomas' hand gently tap his back. When turning to meet his eyes, the two shared a sort of compassionate nod, as if to say let's do this. Thomas seemed to have that look in his face all the time. One of confidence, one of morale-boosting charisma. If only Jean had that sort of charm, he'd be trusted by his own soldiers.

Moving to the barricade of wooden stacks, sandbags and other scavenged layers, Jean lined everyone up behind him and stood by the nearest exit point. As the sentries on duty moved and began to clear the way for them to walk through, Staff Sergeant Baker moved to Jean and nodded kindly, trying his best to ease the mood. If it were another Captain, Jean would've disregarded his intentions and sold their kindness for aggression, but Baker wasn't so much of a bad guy. He'd done this himself, time and time again. He was fluent in the war, but not atoned to it as enough to lose his sanity. He was a man, and one who was the same as he'd been at the start of the war.

"Just a minute to go. You'll do fine, lads." Quietly, he waved his hands towards the sentries, silently informing them to double their timing and to remove the barricade quicker. Even in the dawn of the morning dew, it was wise to keep things quiet as to not disturb the slumbering assassins that stalked their every motion. "Take care, keep your head on your shoulders and get us some good information. If you can't, just get back and play things safe. Chin up. Head down. Eyes forward. You've got this, scouts."

Finally, the barricade was cleared, and the walk of pity began. Jean moved first, hoping the others would follow behind as he unslung his rifle and clutched it within his chalky hands. Either side of them, a pathway-like canyon of sentries watched them intently, their eyes speaking for them in their gratitude for them going, instead of anyone else. Scouting missions were listed in the same lethality of raiding parties, though lower down on the spectrum due to no guarantee of conflict. Their formation was to be spread across the road, giving them freedom to duck into cover. Jean and Thomas would hold the centre-most areas of the formation to lessen the dangers of their squadmates, simply out of the audacity of their survival. Jean whipped himself clean of any negative thoughts. The time to focus was now. This could be a smooth mission, it just needed him to remain calm.

---

An hour passed. An entire hour they'd been out there, scavenging the wastes of the city streets. Part of their journey was unrecognisable. Scattered bricks and tonnes of unremarkable debris piles plastered the ground and roads around them. There was nothing short of destruction, and devastation didn't shy away from revealing itself. With every careful step, Jean felt himself silently growing closer to a mechanical churn coming from the general direction of the Imperial Frontline. Where did that frontline start? No one truly knew. There was no trench or general line of barbed wire to lay it out and mark down such a location. Instead, their instincts would have to check. Either way, so far was so good. Every now and then, Jean would signal his hands for one of the party members to check a house or two, making sure the rooms were empty. What they found in there could've been anything. Pre-war trinkets, small coins, photos of families and more than they'd found beforehand, regardless civilisation was barren and nullified by the aggressive aftermath of a large battle. Jean kept his head low, knowing that they were approaching the final street. Before them stood several large church towers, acting as holy beacons that supposedly guided the way for pilgrims to the Cathedral of Light. Its silhouette had been made out in the distance many times before, but never had it been seen up close. Jean yearned for such a sight, but the upcoming battle would surely force them to battle within its sacred lands.

Confined like rats in a tunnel, they pressed on. Jean took a knee, taking a break as he listened out into the dawn's movement. He could hear strange engines burning away fumes like no more. A rumbling slander of Imperial machinery preparing its movement from point A to point B. None seemed to head in their direction nor did the sound of foot-soldiers. For a while, it felt like the city was completely abandoned, or potentially being evacuated, but Jean knew that the Empire was simply fortifying a concentrated area for the best possible defence. They knew an attack was coming. It was obvious. It was just a case of how fast they could prepare for it, or perhaps provoke it.

Jean pointed to yet another building, writing down their latest findings of deactivated anti-personnel mines laid around, previously exploded. Bullet casings, though not very fresh ones, were still scattered around, and the remnants of sandbagged machine gun nests were laid in peace to remind the party that this had once been a terrible bottleneck. Not anymore, they hoped. Not anymore. Once he pointed to the building, he looked to the Darcsen and the Oceanic woman, signalling his hands and speaking in a loud whisper.

"Check the building, make sure it's clear then see if you can spot anything in the distance or further down the road. Write down if you see any defences, soldiers or whatnot. Just head back once you're clear and we'll proceed to the final street corner, then we can get the fuck out of here."

_{@Yam I Am@Smike@Jacky}