Makes sense, but I suppose it also begs a different question as well:
When do you draw the line on it not being interactive? How much interaction is necessary before it's not really an RP? I know that some GMs have vastly different styles, with some having a very set route on where they want to direct the story. How would that really draw the line?
That honestly depends on what the RP beckons. It's a bit of a non-answer but depending on the genre, atmosphere of the group and expectations of roleplaying liberty that goalpost can be as large or small as possible
Now, this is a discussion i've had with a couple of different people over the years, and it all came to when I really got into this with a few friends of mine this morning. I've had a whole-ass workday to mull it over, but I suppose i'm also the type to really get second, third, and sixteenth opinions on things.
When do you draw the line and say, "Yeah, this isn't an idea for an RP, this is an idea for a novel/comic/game."?
Probably when it's not interactive anymore? I've sadly turned things into that before and it becomes quite clear when no one is having any fun except the ones peddling the ideas
At the first crack of the hour, there was a knock at Jean's door. The heavy hand struck his opaque blockade with such force that it shuddered on its hinges, and he was awoken from a peaceful day's sleep. Before, he had sat outside in a rickety chair for all about five minutes, before boredom had overcame him and taken him to his room where he cherished a few hours' sleep. But the weighted first shunted his desire to sleep, and he dragged himself out of his duvet. He was dressed down, slightly, with a button or three undone from his main shirt. When he opened the door, he was met with another Darcsen, around the same age as him, spoiling little more than the standard issue gear and a private's insignia. The guy made quick work to readjust himself, despite the raggedness of Jean, and he cleared his throat. God, he was as clean as water, Jean thought, and the tasteful state of his attire meant one of two things: he was a kiss-arse or he was a new arrival.
"Corporal Robin?" He asked, and with a somewhat dreary lick of pedanticism, he rolled his hand and eyes to the more innocent lad.
"Robin-Charpentier...but yes, that's me."
"Message from Company HQ, by Captain Middleton." He began, with all the cheeriness of a skylark at morn. Jean felt his world get just that little bit heavier at the mere mentioning of his name. Every day, for as long as he would have lived on the frontline, the damn Captain had his fingers in every nook and cranny, and it followed him around constantly. At first, he assumed it had something to do with Lucia. Perhaps he'd been caught out taking her off to the village, and that he was ready to take out his next verbal lashing. The actuality, however, was quite different. "He wants to meet you and a selection of others from your platoon at the supply trench. Pronto, it says here."
From his hand, Jean drew the slip and scanned through the handwritten notes. It was his handwriting, alright, but it had an aspect of hurriedness to it. He looked to the little clock in the corner of his room and checked the time. On the dot, it was, and he had a little fraction of a moment to make his way all the way back to the supply trench. Missions were almost always at fifteen minute intervals, rarely ever at a time of actual convenience. He sighed. The paper barely gave any details, but it just mentioned that he'd been selected to join another daily task.
"That it? Anything else?" The other Darcsen shrugged. Between them, the formalities broke apart in an instant. He felt a little disheartened by seeing him there, acting as a runner, fresh off the production line of troops, but the lad seemed to make do of the exhausting work. Jean had spent such little time thinking of the Darcsen plight throughout his service, for he saw it as no different, if not a little better, than it was back home. With the war around them, there was little time to think about hating their fellow man - that didn't stop some people though, who'd made it more their source of entertainment.
Still, he saw little solidarity in the identity of the runner. They were on opposing sides of the spectrum. He looked, and behaved in the way that he talked, just like any other excited guy ready for war would. Jean was already past that point. He'd started to lose interest in what he was and felt more in line with who he'd become, and what came next for him.
"That's it, Corporal. I'd get a move on."
"Shut up..." He shut the door, and lugged his way back inside to dress himself. Whatever he had been called for, he was more or less ready to go off and die like it were any other Tuesday.
There was a light drizzle in the air, and the soggied bottoms of the trench brooded a concoction most vile. To add to the disgusting attitude that was the midday stink, Jean had arrived a little after he'd hoped for. There was already a gathering that had started to form in the supply trench and he'd done his best to slip in unnoticed. But as he arrived, there were a few pried eyes that had honed in on him. First, there were Lucia's, who'd done so simply out of reason to say hello, whilst also looking somewhat apologetic as she stood a metre away from the second pair of eyes. One Captain Middleton - with a piercing gaze that sank into Jean's skull. He was sick to look at, and he felt the dribble of the day worsen as he was soon nearby. The disgruntled attitude of the two had done wonders in keeping them cooperative with one another. And Jean knew why Middleton wasn't particularly fond of him - he'd made the wrong decision to promote the bastard to Corporal. Sure, he'd done his part here and there, and made some strides, but the stain of Carter's death was still on his legacy, and those like the Oceanics were quick to ensure he never forgot it.
He saw a good few faces; there were the regulars he'd recognised, that had stuck in his pack since the day he'd arrived at Hill 58, but there were also the new replacements. Some had some experience behind them before they'd arrived, whilst others were as fresh as daisies. Back then, he would've made the first impression as good as he could've. Perhaps even he'd have done the usual hopeless innocence, where he'd lose himself in the eyes of some pretty woman, or something. Then, however, he was just as inclined to do nothing but remain as lifeless as possible. They were probably going to die within the few days, or weeks, or months. And if it weren't them, it'd be him.
"Corporal."
"Captain."
"You're really pressing yourself for time, aren't you?" Middleton chastised him for his tardiness, but it was all the usual. There were a few Darcsens around, and unlike the first time they met Middleton kept his mouth shut of any demoralising statements. That being said, Jean never knew if they were serious or not, or if they were just part of some elaborate method to punch down the soldiers in order to build them up into killers. Knowing how he treated Lucia at times, he didn't cross out the possibility. "What's the excuse?"
"Sorry, Sir."
"Pardon?"
"At the village, Sir. Took a while for the runner to arrive."
"So it would seem." And right there, the conversation came to a close. Middleton took himself to the forefront of the party and he called for a gathering. The rain kicked up a little and he wiped his brow clean of a mud stain. Whilst it came through, he lit himself a cigarette and huffed in all he could. Jean had never seen him smoke, but it wasn't as if it were the most surprising aspect of the man. "Alright, we've got the usual today. Wire laying. Half of you will be taking the wire packs and will be laying them across the front, approximately thirty metres out from the frontine trench. There's a gap that was blasted out by artillery last night. You'll know it when you see it. Other half will do the usual security. Make sure no one sneaks up on you."
He looked around with an irritation. In the corner, there were only two packs of wire fencing in a coil, waiting to be hauled onto someone's back like a rucksack. It was less than he'd ordered, but it was still more than enough to layer up two lines of the wire, the minimal requirement for Federation standards. Jean saw him trudge over, flick the barbs and then return back, all in silence. The rain patted their coats and jackets to fill in for his absent voice, before his tongue drove the sound away with his booming command.
"Now keep yourselves on alert. Another section is being set out at a similar time. Just in case, make sure you have the ammunition needed to repel any sort of counter. Get that fence wiring down, but if all ends are hopeless, then get yourselves back pronto, and bring the wire with you."
The briefing went on for a little while longer. Jean, having caught up with it all and gotten the gist, made his way over to someone he'd spent a little bit of time departed from. One Isaac Black, the Lance Corporal who did his job better than he did. He was a tougher lad, no doubt, with that weird interconnectivity to mutts and whatnot. Jean didn't understand it himself but felt indifferent of it either way. He'd shown his compassion and camaraderie in the past before, and then he thought that the conversation before the big outing could've been a wise investment.
"Isaac." He nodded. "How've you been holding up? And - I guess - what's new on the street, right?"
"Caught wind of something coming, so what'll it be, Captain?"
There, in a dark, dingy dugout - where the rats and mice gnawed at the walls, with roaches on their backs and nits in their furs - sat a candlelit map of the frontline. At its top were the words: Plymouth Lane. There were creases all across its papyrus-like body where recent scribbles had been marked down. In the vast open plains at the map's eastern side were the labels of: "No Man's Land". Each mile of unentrenched land had been circled with possible positions for advanced defences and to highlight any potential lanes of threat after the premonitions of something large coming afoot. And what had the Captain done to prepare for this? Well, there were only two things he could do.
Ever since the winter had settled in, Middleton had lost many of his centralised powers and freedom of movement. It was a frustrating piece of business, but the with the arrival of additional forces and the congregation of assisting regiments, the Generals and Colonels sat far behind the frontline had withdrawn the autonomy he wished to have. He was restricted from orchestrating large scale manoeuvres, as least as far as the Europan Front would allow, and his favoured use of artillery cannonades had to be confirmed through a series of radio calls to his superiors, half of which were denied without much thought. He knew better than anyone else that an offensive in their wintry conditions would be rather disastrous, more so than the usual assault, and so he had opted for an aggressive defence - hammering the Imperial positions with a near constant stream of mortar and soft artillery fire. What had come of this was a disappointing two-paged letter about how they were to just dig in. Of course, he still made use of his indirect-fire capabilities, but only on such a scale where his high-command wouldn't take much notice.
On the agenda for that day, however, were two meagre but potentially viable plans to make better use of their defensive positions. The first he had made clear on the map in clear, black ink. He watched as it soaked into the paper, immortalising its presence on the map. It would be a small, yet permanent addition to the frontline, and he knew it'd make good use of it. For five or so straight days, he'd been stood in the shitty dugout without any intention of leaving. But on that day, Alexander prepared to make due haste for the men and women underneath his command, for he had a task to get going.
"Sergeant Talas?" He pressed the lid of his flask against his lips and sipped dry the cold watercan. Then, he eyed around the dugout, noticing no shift in his expected subordinate. "Sergeant Talas!"
"Here, sir!" The NCO waltzed in, half-arsed, before he met the busied Captain on the prowl. He watched as his superior sauntered over with bags beneath his eyes, and a freshened drizzle of water still soaked on his lips.
"We have our job. I'll need you to gather these soldiers and to take them to the assault trench." From the table, he had drawn out a handheld letter. On it read the names of several soldiers all within the same platoon, all under his own command. They read: Corporal Sokołowšky, Private Grumman, Private Mehetabel, Lance Corporal White, Private Roe, Sergeant Schafer, Private Furst, Private Morvan, Private Blanc, Private Levesque + Private Daunte."When acceptable, within two hours I want you to send them out for a raid on the opposing observation posts and, if they remain covert, perhaps the Imperial frontline trench, in the exposed regions. I've already sent that bloody Delfziji lad to gather some so you may knock into him along the way."
"Collateral, Sir?"
"No, no," he peered outside into the frosted trench, "snatch and grab - take at least two Imperial soldiers as prisoners. If possible, though unlikely, get them to grab an NCO. If not, just grab any Imperial stood in their strike zone. As soon as they have someone, and provided casualties are low, then they are to retreat immediately back to our lines. I need information, Sergeant, so make sure they know not to fuck up."
"Very good, sir. Anything else?"
"Yes - send someone around the trench. Give them this letter and get them to find these soldiers."
From the same table, he drew yet another piece of paper, two in fact - one for himself and one for the Sergeant to hand down - which read out the other list of names: Corporal Robin-Charpentier, Private Cienie, Corporal Romijnsen, Lance Corporal Black, Private Hagen, Private Vastergoth, Private Farris + Private Penttilä. Around Lucia's name were several ink splodges, as if he'd contemplated whether or not to cross off her name. There was a slight twitch in his eye as he looked back at the name, a few times over, will a little stain of reluctance hanging from his tongue. He watched as the Sergeant snatched up his spare list and he looked back up to the Captain nonchalantly for additional information.
"Tell them to meet me in the supply trench. Get the boys there to wind up some wire-racks. I'll brief them in proper when we get there myself, but you can let them know that I'll have them on laying-duty. Half cover, half setting it up." The two looked at each other for a while whilst Alexander reached into the Sergeant's pocket and took out his own flask, before downing the contents. He creased at the bitterness, instead tasting alcohol over water. There, he spat it to the floor and tutted at him. He handed it back and, before heading out into the wilds of the trench to meet his people at the supply trench in the support line, he grimly bellowed back at the Sergeant. "And fix your liquid formality, you drunken bastard!"
The narrow labyrinth had been engraved into his mind. In. Out. Left. Ten posts that way. Don't take that final right turn. Up the little mound and down past the first response medical dugout, and then he was on the road back to Trebín. He drifted away from Diana and Lucia along the path, leaving them together to serve as one as one another's pairing, but he did stay within earshot. The day had just dragged. He'd done his time on the frontline again. Rumours had it that something was going to happen. Nothing big, just something. There were no words coming from the Imperial line. Part of him, knowing full well the patterns of the Federation, that a raid to grab a man or two would come through. Last time Jean went out on one of those he came back with half the size of the original party and with a younger Imperial who said he knew nothing, with eyes wide and fearful for the demons that had descended upon him. God, it pained him to see those soldiers. Anything that tried to humanise the enemy, he hated it. He knew what seeing them, their flesh and eyes, up close did to a soldier. It stopped them, maybe it made them second guess. Those who cared all too little made no complaint, but no one could really say that the first time they killed a man they felt anything but the shock of how easy it was.
Jean still had those nightmares on occasion. A phantom pain was still carved into the palm of his hand and it felt like the fragment of a mirror - no, a glass shard. The one that went in the woman's neck, where her blood leaked onto his face and her eyes became cold. Every time he thought of that, he reminded himself of how easy it was for him to be in that position. The wrong move was just waiting to be made, and he thought about how close it'd be until he slipped up. On the contrary, he'd become a better soldier, by the Federation's standards. He was more in line with some of its formalities and didn't do as much as complain unless it was a necessity, which it rarely was. He had far too long of a way to go. The respect of his peers was next to nothing, so long as they were still talking about a leader.
Without much energy left in him, he turned to Diana around the halfway point back to Trebín. To him, she looked a little paler than she usually did. Lost a lot of that sprite in her system, she had. Lucia had faded a little herself but that one-piece smile barely changed. He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. He'd have shaved it off if there was still a mother around to disapprove of it. If it meant feeling like a child again, then he'd take it any day over the trauma bestowed on them.
"Once we get there, what're you planning on doing?" He just wanted smalltalk - something to just break the mould of his dwindling thoughts. And though Diana was usually far too blunt and innocent to drag him straight out of hell, it was something for the walking time's being. "Maybe talk to the bar girls or something? I don't know. I'll probably go relax for the first time in a while."
Part of him wishes he took leave when he had the option. He could still request it if he were desperate. So long as there was no big offensive in the works, there was a chance he could get a week out of the area, maybe into one of the Valois cities far behind. Yet that compelling feeling in his gut still told him to not go back. A strong, sickly taste was on his tongue whenever he spoke of the lights and happy faces back home. They were all deservedly joyful of the war going in the Federation's favour, for the first time in many years. Jean just didn't like the idea of facing a world he couldn't fully integrate back in. He'd go back when the war was over, or in a coffin, but never for a break. Not unless it was worthwhile.
Eventually, they arrived at Trebín. The hustle and bustle of the settlement was at an all-time low for once. Somewhere in the village, there was a sweet sound of music. In fact it was a unique tune, one he'd never heard anything like. It was a unique strain of notes and whistles that went beyond the normal shanties and soldiers' tunes. Usually, the cynical yet comedic nature of Federation songs helped permeate the bitterness around them. But the off-side performance really sold a different atmosphere. Jean didn't stop too much to say hi, but he walked past it, slower than usual, just to preserve that drizzled goodness in his ear.
He disappeared off to the side, eventually crossing into the South-Western parts of the village. There, one of the small collections of rooms for booking was in place. Jean had paid two packs of cigarettes for the higher-quality place. Wasn't so much private in terms of being away from the village, but it was there to just have a lock and a key to rest at. And it was always the same room for Jean. Same bed, same sheets, same pillows. If he wasn't anywhere else, and it wasn't during an offensive, he was there. It was the closest thing to a real bed, or what he considered one. Jean was handed the key and threw his stuff inside, before he went and lounged outside on one of the nearby chairs. The weather was still bitter and he froze a little in his seat, but he was comfortable enough. The music was still on the cusp of his ears and he closed his eyes, waiting for something, as the distant tune gave him but a brief moment of peace. How short-lived it was to be a happy soldier.
Hello. My buddy Hawthorne had made mention of this RP to me and I find myself interested in the setting. I know only the basic gist of the Valkyria Chronicles setting, but it’s one I find intriguing and would like a crack at it, if I’m able to join.
Heyo! You're more than able to join. Don't worry about having the basic gist, we have some people who've never played the games themselves. Feel free to join the discord : D
There was a lot of waiting around, as there usually was. The day of monotonous postings and just being present for an attack that was yet to come and go trialled many young soldiers through sickly tests of boredom. Some officers made it clear that it was better than constant distraction. Those who were bored actively looked for things to do, and thus it made them more attentive to what went on out in No Man's Land. And with the ever-looming threat of raids, observers, wirecutters and more, the emphasised attention was all welcomed to those along the Western Front. Jean, having spent much of his time there, indulged himself in writing and poetry, but it only lasted for as long as his creativity and graphite did - the rest of that time was spent either engaging in menial talk with local soldiers he'd never seen or listening out for the slightest discrepancy in the natural order of things.
Lucia dawdled in thought as she said her greetings to passing privates and corporals. Many had grown to appreciate her presence, from the men who saw her as the platoon's daughter to the women who adored her somewhat dazzling appearance throughout the muck and mud of the trenches. Of course, there were the belligerents. Some saw her connections to the officers as a sell-out or as a shill for the authorities at large. Hell, even Jean wasn't fully aware of her origins, and so rumours were more than fair game against the young soul. She'd grown used to hearing all of them and seemingly ignored that as they came her way. Not many dared to challenge her connections to power for fear of an officer's punishment, yet Jean begged to differ that her placement in the platoon was not one of privilege but misfortune. She maintained the few minutes they spent idle with her hellos and goodbyes, the yes and noes, and the common courtesies given to her through rigorous teaching from her superiors. It was hard to imagine that she was more of a veteran than he was, yet three years the younger. Horrendous irony, if anything.
On approach came another familiar face. Diana. Private Vastergoth. The woman who'd once tried to entangle with him and left with a little disappointment. No matter, he thought, she'd had her chance with but another man, and to that he cared very little of. It wasn't a bitterness towards her, just rather the place he had been in around that time. Even then, he'd grown distant from her both from common assignment and tedious postings along the front. He barely shared a sentry's post with those he knew, bar the odd one with Michael or Franz, yet he'd remained relatively inactive even out of duty hours. Obviously it was the dragged mood that weighed him down enough to note give so much of a damn, but he slowly crawled out of that shell if necessary. After all, he hadn't been so well since Reyna had since left the frontline.
Diana made her greetings with somewhat of a chipper-cheerio tune. But at first Jean didn't answer. He slowly turned to Lucia, expecting her to have more to say either way. And she did.
"I'm not doing too bad myself. Things have been as dull as the usual, but it's been warmer in the command trench than out there." She blew into the air, emphasising the temperature drop over the previous weeks. Ice and snow for as far as the eye could see. It did little to give the soldiers a little slack after all they'd been through. "We're gonna be heading to the village in a second. Just waiting for the clock to strike-"
"Speak of the devil." As Lucia had lost herself in conversation, Jean had been looking at a small pocket watch he'd been given as per his rank. Then, he returned his gaze to the visiting ally. "I'm the usual. You're free to join us."
Getting up and onto his boots, he stretched his arms down the aisle and exhaled. There was immense fatigue in his eyes, the glimmer all gone and faded for the countless weeks spend staring at grey and brown, black and red. He began their walk with a little flex of his fingers, bending them back into life after their idle slumber on his pencil. And as they walked, he went beside Diana, with Lucia taking the pathfinding duty of navigating the narrow trenchlines. They sauntered past the frontline support trench at first, doing their best to distance themselves from the command trench, all the while cutting it close. Luck was on their side, however, as their main obstacle, the one and only Captain Middleton, had stationed himself near permanently in that command dugout. It had what he needed - bedding, space to plan and radio equipment, and he only seemed to emerge to shower, as he sent for someone else to get him light meals as he did so. Even so, Lucia had once told him of his activities inside, where he'd be all over, making sure he was never just lounging about doing nothing.
But as he was pushing past the bodies, which in and of itself wasn't too difficult, he made his way into the vicinity of another soldier of whom he hadn't met. A somewhat averagely sized woman, kitted out with the standard military outfitting. She was a fellow Darcsen as well. Small bonuses, he thought, as she sort of waved in his general direction upon his passing.
"Hey, hold up!" As if he hadn't seen her the first time, she beckoned for his attention and stepped before him. "Jean? Jean Charpentier? Private Mehetabel. I've been transferred to your own platoon."
"My Platoon?" He rubbed his eyes, signalling for Lucia and Diana to head up ahead a little bit, though not too far to be out of eye and earshot. "It's...Corporal Robin-Charpentier, but yeah, that's me."
"Seriously?" Mehetabel furrowed her brow as she asked this, mostly to herself. She could've sworn that Robin part of Jean's name was a middle name but, realising it didn't matter, she shook her head. "Yes, your platoon," she moved on to clarify, "I take it you're the guy in charge?"
"No, I'm just a Corporal. Platoon belongs to the Lieutenants, but we all fall under the Captain's brow nowadays." Jean wasn't quite sure how she got the mix-up. I mean, judging by the differentiation in accent, anything was possible, so he didn't press in on the cause of the mistake. He didn't look directly at her much, but gave her the odd glimpse or two to make sure she knew he was at least listening. He then pointed to the two others who had been accompanying him. "That there is Private Lucia Farris and Private Diana Vastergoth. They're also in the platoon. The rest are scattered across the system here and there but I'm sure you'll bump into them eventually. Been here long?"
"God damn it, that asshole lied to me," Mehetabel took a moment to grumble before actually answering Jean's question, "Not long enough apparently. Got kicked off that other platoon within a month. My last commanding officer's a real piece of work, lemme tell you. And that's putting it lightly..."
"Word of advice, he sighed and looked to the grim sky of the December frostbite, "try not to get kicked out of this one either. You won't find an officer with a speck of kindness here."
He walked a bit further down the trench, ensuring he wasn't in line of sight of the command trench. He wasn't sure what Mehetabel was up to, considering she'd just been dawdling around the support trench seemingly expectant of his arrival. Jean made way, using a single finger to beckon her audience.
"I'm headed to Trebín now. If you aren't on assignment you're free to latch on, maybe meet with the others. I don't know. Lucia might be one to talk up a storm." There wasn't an inch of enthusiasm in his voice. Perhaps it was just the fatigue getting to him, or maybe he'd grown tired of waking up and finding new people to look at, to compliment and feel a flutter in his heart as he connected to them, only for them to be shot, injured or killed. The cycle of unending disappointment. Though his platoon seemed as well-kept as some, there was already quite a long list of names of those who'd came and went in the blink of an eye. If hell existed, by lord he was trapped in its mechanical devices.
However to his surprise, whilst taking a glance at her watch, Mehetabel rolled her eyes, noting that she'd already spent more time with this conversation than she really wanted to. She looked Jean square in the eyes one last time.
"Yeah... I gotta head back and get some more target practice in," she told him; she observed her surroundings again at this time as well, only to realise that she never really got the chance to fully acclimate herself with these accursed trenches, "Remind me where the shooting range is from here, again? Trying to navigate these things is such a pain in the ass..."
And so, with departure of Mehetabel, Jean made his own headway for Trebín whilst waving her off with a silent hand. He had a room booked out for himself, a small cubby hovel in the attic of one of the more emptier homes, half standing if anything. It was what as much privacy as one in the military could get out there.
The morning was welcomed with a sombre song; not by the sweet winter sounds of arctic birds awakening the world but instead the faint mumble of distant artillery. As if beaten by the weapon's of long-gone Valkyrur, a thousand shudders of Europa's core did little to permit silence. The potent whiteness of a desolate wasteland - caked in the ice and blood - held the spoils of war in a cornucopia covered in shrapnel wounds. Dressings of broken trees clothed the land, where a once mighty forest had once stood. But the sparsity of its prime attraction had long gone, with just a few stumps left split open by artillery fire. And across the valley was an ocean of wire, fit with barbs and prongs to catch the unsuspected rats that occupied the fields. Assen: a once beautiful land enriched with pastures unimaginable, with the bliss of the spring and chime of the winter highlighting its most beautiful sides. And for four years, it had been nothing less than a graveyard for culture, ideology and hundreds of thousands of soldiers.
December - the time of rest, the end of a year and the separation from work and home life. Gift-givers, great feasts and familial get-togethers. Out on the frontline, things were far from the same. Many drank alone or with strangers unknown. The greatest feast on the table was a slice of stale bread, tinned chicken or yesterday's soup. The only gifts exchanged were those of bullets, mortars and bodies.
Once, the land had been flooded from the toe to knee in rainfall. Mud drowned the prairies whilst the unending tide of shells made craters into dirtied lakes. One could not quite compare the trade-off in pros and cons between the autumn and winters of the great war. On one hand, the risk of drowning was far and few between the odd case of an unlucky soldier, but the alternative was the struggle of keeping warm in leathered boots and woollen trench coats. And the lives of soldiers had barely improved. The lonely remained as such, and the loved lost their partners. Those who were still around quelled their circumstances with terrible meals and bitter nights of passion. The trenches soaked their clothes and skin with ice, whilst the daily rainfall of bombs tore holes in their jackets.
From the skies, the birds saw nothing but lines in the soil with death and destruction between carefully constructed landmarks. Towns were either shielded by the trenches that spanned over the horizon or were caught in the middle, where they lay as ruins, indistinguishable from the shaken landscape itself. But if the eyes of the hawks were dropped from the sky, and into the laps of the 15th Atlantic Rifles, the brutalist groundwork of Plymouth Lane becomes clear.
What was Plymouth Lane? Well, a miserable lane to live on, for sure. The home to B-utters and C-harlie Company as well, though anyone would be lucky to find someone who called it a home. About three hundred and fifty metres in width, the sector aptly given the usual road-like identity was one of a thousand trenches in Europa. The little wooden signs, with unaffectionate scribes of chalk, gave it that avenue feeling, though far more grimier and with a worse state of peace. This sector vertically categorised a series of trenches two hundred miles East of Stavern, caught between the similarly named Holly Drive and Turner Road. They were the parallel frontlines ahead of the nearby village of Trebín. Interconnected by alley ways, zigzagged networks of purpose-built defences, the world of Plymouth Lane was unpleasant as it was homely for the decrepit souls of its occupants. And there was no shortage of patriots, criminals, lovers and thieves all caught inside the dugouts and sentry posts. Soldiers, conscripted or volunteered, mingled with one another just to bear the agony of imminent death. even the lively arrival of the Vinland Expeditionary Force from across the pond did little to raise the spirits of the downtrodden. Though in all fairness, they were just the first wave of many Vinland lads and lasses to fall in line with the devil's guard ahead of them.
While the few civilians still left in Trebín gave their safety for the hopes of those who served to protect them, they were at a constant threat of any artillery barrage, if one officer were to so order it. The 1.2 kilometre distance from the Reserve Trench did nothing to silence the worries of the resting and recovering. Those who showered hoped that only hot water would land atop of their heads. Many lacked the desire to sleep, knowing that any full-on assault from the Imperial frontlines would require all available hands to withstand the push.
Scattered throughout the corridors of Plymouth Lane, the men and women of B-Company, 2nd Platoon went about their days as they always had. There were newer arrivals, some who'd been there for a few days already, as well as those who saw the same old fields with the same old bodycounts waiting to happen. One Captain Middleton Jr. kept his eye over their proceedings without so much as ever leaving the Command Dugouts. Like many others, his attention was spindled in the web of a soldier's priorities: victory, survival and the next big one. Those crippled by the months of fighting into the Heart of Assen, he there was nothing to go back to. Some, however, returned from their due leave, or took their given time to stay in Trebín Village to lock hands with the ones who gave them an identity in the sea of uniformed, faceless soldiers. Many had died. Many were yet to die. Replacements be damned, of any experience, they came with the shame of filling in the boots of a hundred loved ones. Such was the cruel happenings of the Great War.
Ahead of the frontline trenches are a few narrow turns straight towards No Man's Land. You'd realize these are the observation areas by the looks of it. Narrow, empty and quiet. No signs of a living soul there, except for a lone man at the end of the recently finished trench, elfin but a powerhouse of his own. It was way past Michael's shift time. He could be resting at the rear line, at Trebín, enjoying a good shower and potentially a nice bed room. But he was deep in his work today, sitting right by the parapet, meddling with the periscope. They were really useful for the safety of not only the soldiers on the frontline to be warned early of enemy activities, but also for the about-to-arrive soldier on sentry duty from snipers.
In the reserve line, empty stomachs were slowly trickling into the dining area to be greeted with the tasteless smell of boiled water and diluted tea. A couple of soldiers paced across the room to hand the soldiers their respective rations. Excitement reigned the room as people dove into their food for the day, such as their rations of stale biscuits, dry bread, tinned meat and the varying qualities of soup.
For some here, it would be their first time seeing snow.
Curious minds wandered the village ground, feeling the snowflakes melting on their warm palm. The more playful souls had their temporary respite, enjoying the good ol' snowball fight or snowman building, including the pair of Darcsen couple Ines and Franz. Their honeymoon together were two blocks of snow and a couple of rocks and branches. Other individuals all too familiar with snow occupied themselves with shovelling them, getting the area tidied and clear because they all knew too well when a battle begins, if the stretch-bearer gets stuck in the snow carrying the near-deaths to their medical stations, their death is on them.
War had never been kind, and some of the best examples of it were all gathered here. The symphony of groaning, sighing and coughing greeted any visitors or workers, followed by the nauseating smell of anti-biotics. The bandaged were even more various than the races on the planet. There were those around the head, some hung their broken arms in front of the stomach, some were attached to a crutch, sometimes forever, and there were those almost mummified. The only ones without them were either sick from other forms of disease or were a part of what these men and women here would call various affectionate nicknames like angels. One of them were Senja, along with her partner Anneli, the former having found her true calling from the gods to be aside these men and women, comforting them in their pain and uplifting them from their great misery...
December 30th - Frontline Trench
Hark! The sound of the Atlas Whistle is upon us. Six Pounds! Six Pounds! Heave up the dirt like shovels and quakes. Two Twelves, Four Sixes. Up the sun, down the moon, Lest I beg for silence, the daylight cycle persists. Come here, you say, come here! The I's are on the ridge, walking in Europa's shudder. "Well Waltz they will!", and I exchange my brass for their buttons.
A man of faith, am I? Of what, I ask. But of course I believe, and choose to place my heart in the most vibrant of lamps- Why, the ones that stand in the dark like fireflies at early morn! For it is never too dark here, that would be too characterised! Hark! The General's paintbrush dabs the canvas, and we return to the grey. But black is as lively as white, and the dead lay somewhere between.
Turn of the century, the next man's graveyard shift; Twice I've been on duty, and I see just the injust'. By the November breeze, I've lost it. The sense of Touch and taste of the man on my left, and the woman's lips to my right. Hark! The ones who come next will bear the load! To hell with that, for they can't lift Atlas' Whistlers.
It had been the eighth time he'd read over the piece and yet he felt evermore the insecurity of the quiet writer. He dared to share his mind with the pencil and paper so sparingly taken from his neighbour's dugout bed, but rarely did he see the performance of his piece to those he trusted and cared for. What good was poetry to a page when the only expectation of the man was to pick up his pieces and soldier on with the two chevrons on his epaulettes? Another hopeless question with a clear answer. He had hammered in the sentiment of self-improvement at the sake of his friend's safety, but the costs of his own self-interests were far-beyond what he'd known.
The months - oh the fucking months - had taken pieces of his personality with each creeping hour. From Amone to Stavern's outskirts and the unnamed fields in-between them all, he had watched the degradation of his group with little control for what happened to them. Injuries had befallen unto the absent, and those who were unlucky enough to be unscathed persisted in fractured parties. The city had its way with him, and he hadn't been nearly as talkative to anyone since. The hopeless attempts at love became the fabrics of another time, of another person, whilst he chipped away at each piece of graphite until he had an unfinished anthology of ramblings most uninteresting to his allies. Two pocketbooks of cries for help, screams at his nation and pleas for the Darcsen plight to cease had given him more than enough of a share. Those dirty pages lost their white edges for yellow fades, where mud had stained the bindings and given them a rotten tone forever more.
He hadn't moved for a long while. Ever since he'd arrived to Plymouth Lane, he'd spent more than the given time in the Frontline Trench. More often than others, he volunteered to sit in the observation post, to commit to sentry duty for a couple of hours on the off-day, shiver in a caved wall dugout, only to rest in the reserve trench for the remainder time. He saw those he liked a lot frequently, but was never in a position to be stuck with them. For their betterment, he told himself, and waited for them to meet him in conversation. Many had when they got the chance, or on the occasion where he trekked back to Trebín with a desire to shower and rest in a legitimate bed. He never booked out those private rooms the village offered. What point was there, he wasn't sharing them with anyone?
More often than not, a soldier would barge past the Darcsens that were huddled in with the other national identities. There was little that could be done back, for the rising tensions in heated debates made clear of the Federation's disarray, whilst the Empire pried their ears open for weakened opportunities. The other night, a group of six went out on a raid to the opposite side, crawling through at the morning's inception, and they never came back. Well, one did. But he might as well not have, bleeding out just seconds after falling limp into the pit. Jean saw his face with pity, sympathy, but also a little resentment. How dare he die where others have asked to do so first!
"Sarn't on set! Section, 'tion!" Rarely did Jean get used to the lingo of the deep Edinburgh slang, less so in military formalities. And, rather sluggishly, he got out of the dugout and stood to.
The Sergeant had been the same one who passed through on occasion. The thick-browed barbarian with the paintbrush above his lips, so the nearby privates called him; the one who went out on many raids and seemed to come back with as little gains as he'd been ordered to. Many suspicions as to why such incompetence was kept around, but with the dwindling numbers of command staff on standby, Jean knew that the Federation would've accepted pigshit to lead a platoon. It was how people like him even existed in unfavoured positions of responsibility.
"Pritchard? We got a Pritchard on set?" And in he came, on set. The place in which the next 'big show' was going to happen on. A man who loved his use of words knew they thought they were very clever in coming up with the drivel that passed between the soldiers. Either way, he knew it couldn't have been any worse than that of his own home nation's flowery dressage for war and conflict. But to answer the request of the Sergeant, a frail lad stepped forth.
"Sergeant!"
"You're on the Observation Post. Get up there now." Passing through the rugged crowd, of which he dismissed as he passed them one by one, Jean caught a glimpse of a very familiar face in his wake. He felt the need to smile, but only gave off a weak one. The Sergeant then stopped in front of him. "Corporal?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Captain wants you to stand with Private Farris whilst he's preoccupied for the rest of the hours. You lurking around here?"
"Was going to head back to the village in a few, Sergeant."
"Boss wanted her on the frontline again, though." He said with a sly smile. As if conjuring up an old-time joke between friends of the ages, he put his hands in his pockets and muttered in a low grumble. "He won't know for five."
"Done." A lack of subtlety aside, Jean made quick work of drawing five cigarettes from the currency pack in his webbing. Like gold, the Sergeant swept them up without question and pocketed four, leaving the fifth to be lit by his own lighter. A giddy laugh left his lips, but Jean turned his attention to the friendly face.
Private Lucia Farris. Always a lurker, like himself, but with the disappearances of those like Michael on leave, she'd been left to drift between people once more. If anything, he thought it lucky that she had been graced with his responsibility. Someone she could at least talk to, and know, rather than the awkward flirting of a young soldier she'd never met once in her life. She was dressed, still, rather nicely compared to the others around her. That little morale booster was still in there, and the months of a maturing psyche pushed by war seemed unfazed by the troubles around her, as if she intentionally blocked it all out. Lucia crept a little closer, circumnavigating the leaving Sergeant, and smiled.
"How're things?" Always the nonchalant, even if her timid voice gave the opposite impression. Jean nodded at her and packed his papers, ensuring she didn't catch a glimpse of what there was to see. They still had a bit of time to lurk in the trenches.
"The usual. You?"
"I'm doing...okay. But, I can't wait to go back to the village. We can talk up a storm with the pub-ladies if you'd like?"
"I'll let you do that." And as he sat down in the trench, she did so beside him. Her boots didn't quite reach the bottom of the trench when she did so, something that he would've once jested about to lighten the mood. But the joke had passed, as did the time to make it. They sat there, waiting quietly. Sometimes they talked about little things. The rest they waited for something to happen, be it a voice, an order or a face. As such was the life on the Western Front. He just hoped he would gain something new when he'd go back to the village.
Banned
