Ingrid hoped that she could be off this ignoble world before she became accustomed to the sensation of cold.
Between everything else that had been lost in the exodus from Balya Gora, her position among the people, her retainer, the few loyal followers she had left, her possessions beyond her sword, and a not insignificant amount of her pride, at that moment in time she couldn't stand the loss of a controlled climate more than anything else.
She rarely let physical weakness show itself. The knit brow was often accompanying her uniform regardless if she was uncomfortable; she often had this sort of scowl. The shakes, the intermittent and subtle shivering that came from someone truly unaccustomed to the cold was new, and this time she didn't bother hiding it with a steel-straight back and a clenched jaw. Right now, she was alone, just another person hiding out in a cave like a terrorist. Her back was draped with multiple woolen blankets, already looking disheveled from the rapid flight from their base, and she hardly had the noble bearing she always tried to present.
In a lamp-lit corner of the cave - an honest to god kerosene lamp in this day and age, to her chagrin - she was hunched over a book, one of the few things she was able to take with her by the serendipity of holding it as everything went to hell. Shandra Noruff's The Principles of the Iron Men in Warfare was its name, a thick paperback copy of a treatise written by a Star League commander who had been alive some 400 years ago, during the dawn of the Battlemech.
Written after she had retired due to a heart condition, it carried a sense of desperation that only now was becoming apparent to the self-appointed Duchess. Between the pages that shook as she shivered, she read it like it was the work of a woman who could tell the end was coming.
That the best days are behind her, and all she could do was try to be remembered.
That she was going to--
"God, not now..."
She loudly clapped the book shut. No need for those thoughts.
"Books are never half as good as a strong drink in times like these," Ziska said, appearing out of the darkness. Smiling, she placed a cup sloshing with a clear liquid in front of Ingrid. Whatever it was that was barely contained within the cup smelled like a mixture of BattleMech lubricant and paint thinner. Hiding in a cave, surrounded by hostiles, and branded an enemy of the new state along with the rest of the Green Knights, Ziska seemed to be in her element. Where other mercenaries looked weary and dispirited, Ziska instead seemed almost to be relishing in the palpable sense of doom that hung over them.
Sitting down next to the other MechWarrior, Ziska spun a second, larger cup out from beneath her jacket by the handle. Smiling still, Ziska poured more of the foul smelling liquid into the battered cup from the rusted coffee pot she was rarely seen without. Having claimed the coffee pot from a still burning Epsian Guard Hetzer during their flight into the mountains, rumors among the Astechs had it that Ziska had repurposed the humble pot into a portable canteen for her more experimental field brews.
"Cold? Well, don’t worry, a cup or two will help with the shivers. Doesn't do much to make you warmer, but it sure feels that way going down."
Ingrid took a look at what sat on the ground before her, and raised an eyebrow. It took another second for her to smell it. Immediately, her nose crumpled and turned up and away from the offensive odor.
Despite her clear distaste, her response was measured: “I thank you for your generosity.” Whether she’d actually drink it or not was left out intentionally.
With someone’s attention drawn her way, she conquered the shivers and put on a composed face. Not some kind of instant, knee-jerk slam-shut whole body reaction, no. She slowly, naturally, straightened her back and put her jittering to a halt. Her sword, hidden under the blankets, rattled as she adjusted her position.
“I cannot say I’m familiar with this sort of drink…”
“They call it BattleMech Oil in the Periphery,” Ziska said with a knowing nod. She took a slow, careful sip from her own cup, and then proceeded to rattle off the ingredients, “Dissolved hard licorice candy, grain alcohol paired with equal parts water, and depending on who you ask, a touch of actuator lubricant for that extra kick. Wonderful stuff, really! My instructors always swore by it.”
It was subtle, hard to notice given their surroundings, but Ingrid’s face seemed to grow a little more pale with every ingredient listed.
“Anyways, how are you holding up, Duchess?” the Periphery mercenary asked with a generous wave of her free hand, “Missing the high life yet?”
She huffed a little. “I know we aren’t cut from the same cloth, but I would not call my life ‘high’. It is a story of constant striving to improve and high expectations, not a cushioned existence - one of glamour and delegation and…whatever it is you are imagining.” She held her hand low by her side, pushing away the image of a high-bred socialite from her own mind.
Her hand slowed, and her head tilted upward. The dark expanse of the cavern’s ceiling greeted her. “Though, I’m certain it’s all but universal among ourselves that these times are difficult.” She drew her legs in a little closer. “A week, and it feels like I’ve been on the run for far longer than that. Being chased isn’t new to me…but I will seek to conquer my discomfort, to harness this sense of defeat and use it to better myself.”
The Duchess had often launched into these sorts of long diatribes that sounded like they had been pulled straight from some tri-vid about men fighting with swords and shields. Thankfully, this one ended early.
“Have you much experience there, my fellow Mechwarrior?” She turned to face Ziska in her seated position, continuing to ignore the drink. “‘Being ‘On the Lam’, as they say. Even the brightest can have their enemies.”
Ziska paused, laughing slightly, but somehow kindly, and then shifted closer to the other MechWarrior until she sat alarmingly close, practically shoulder to shoulder with Ingrid. The noble didn’t budge, but she didn’t seem to be happy about the company. With a sly grin, Ziska spoke in a low voice, as if sharing some hidden secret, "I've got no enemies, Duchess. Least none that are still alive. But what good mercenary hasn't spent some time in the mud? I'm no ComStar Acolyte, that's for sure, however, I know the lines the Colonel doesn't want us to cross, and I follow the rules. Limiting as they may occasionally be...Still, rules are rules, and we can't besmirch the good name of our most honorable mercenary company, now can we?"
She smiled slightly, a rare sight. “You’ve got an eye for what matters, I see.” It was the most base of conversational tactics, to throw something back at them that they’ve already said in the past. Did Ingrid detect this clear brownnosing? No, she was just happy someone agreed with her. For once.
“I did almost consider joining ComStar once," Ziska said, slowly blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face with a loud puff as she carefully watched Ingrid's face for any reaction. A raised eyebrow, but no real surprise. “Can you believe it? Imagine me praying to blessed Blake seven times a day and working for the salvation of the Inner Sphere.”
Ziska burst into a small fit of laughter, before managing to regain her composure, “Ridiculous, truly a ridiculous image. All the same, they've got some pretty Acolytes and who doesn't like dressing in nice robes? Listening to Blake's many, many teachings was a bit much though and I found I have a deep aversion to sitting still for too long. So here I am, fighting wars in fabulous and exotic places for C-Bills.”
“Either way, don’t listen to the grumbling. The Espian Guard and the Crimson Fists did us a favor, even if they don’t know it,” Ziska added without a trace of apparent irony in her voice. She gestured at the surrounding darkness in the cave, towards the other Green Knights just beyond their view, “We are fortunate to have this moment. We are lucky to be in this place. Everything is easy now. Simple. We’ve just got to survive.”
“Wise words. We’re blessed to be alive when enough of our comrades were not so fortunate.” She looks up to the Ostroc in the distance, illuminated by the flares of sparking repair tools. The only real bad luck she received last engagement was a long gash down the panel of one of her ride’s arms - just a skidding blow from an autocannon, nothing worse than that.
“And we are, after all, fortunate compared to so many others to be the kings of the battlefield. Always strive to remember that, because otherwise you’ll grow far too used to it.”
She looked at her with a thin smile. It was nothing more than reassurances feeding into her pride, but Ziska had done well to raise this noblewoman’s spirits. That’s good. With the Green Knights’ luck, they’ll need all the morale they can get.
She tried to stand, briefly revealing the uniform underneath the sheets (looking worn by now, but still far nicer than most of the unit’s “uniforms”). With a sudden bite of cold to her chest, she realized it’d be best to wait - she had a while until the briefing.
“Thank you for the counsel. You may not be high-born, I look forward to working with you in the field.” She pulled her sheets back around her sides. “Go and spend your time better than sitting with someone in a dark corner…would-be acolyte.”
Downing her cup in a fell swoop, Ziska rose to her feet, patting the other MechWarrior gently on the shoulder as she stood to her full height. Assuming a serious pose, she waved a hand as if performing some archaic rite, “May the peace of Blake be upon you, MechWarrior Daschke.”
And then still laughing Ziska faded back into the darkness.
…Even if she was easily flattered, Ingrid could see some insincerity. Not all of it, no, but just enough hints to tell that she wasn’t taken very seriously…even if some of it did feel genuine. But how much? She couldn’t tell.
She grumbled as she pulled up her old book once more, ready to go back into it despite what she thought earlier. She pulled back to the chapter she was on…before curiosity got the better of her.
If Ziska could down it all in one go, it couldn’t be that bad, right?
She held the tin cup up to her lips, pausing for a moment, before committing.
It almost goes without saying that she was then very thoroughly convinced that it could be that bad.
BrokenPromise
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Expendable