Coldfront [EII]

[Brutus]

The day was cold. They were all cold. The sun at its highest point could do nothing to fight the bloody cold. It was a mystery why the Ilians even chose to put up a fight for their miserable country. A mystery he'd leave unsolved. By the time Brutus met someone important enough that they could give him an answer, Brutus would ask questions that aided the war effort, not existential questions on the nature of patriotism. He was Elimine's hammer and soldier, not her philosopher. He couldn't care less why this snowy hunk of rock inspired Ilians to lay their lives down for it, but the heathens that converted could have something worth dying in the name of, those that didn't convert could die for nothing. It was a shame to waste life, but those that cast shadows in the wake of his saints spreading light could themselves be cast aside, it mattered not.

Still, hugging his cloak tight to him, the general could not help but allow his mind to wander to the temperature. It was insufferable, he would need to request some type of thermal underclothes from the quartermaster. He decided as he made his way to the Remi square, to look over the new troops sent from Delfia and Aquleia as well as the... mercenaries, he decided to make due with the arcane in place of the physical. Focusing his mind he created the image of falling snow then that of a fire, and of falling flakes of spiraling snow being pushed away from the flame by the hot air that danced invisibly beyond the red and white of the fire. He recalled an old spell from the frosty blue book which even now he kept amongst his travelling possessions. It was one to control the temperature of the water in the air around you, to create a shield to the hot or the cold for a few inches from your skin. It would only raise or lower the temperature by a few degrees unless you were willing to fill the spell with your energy, but sometimes that could be enough. "Gloria clypeus." His body could feel the cold slink away. It was still cold.

He was near comfortable, or at least somewhere within shouting distance, when he entered the courtyard. Inspecting the troops. It was a part of his job he took quite serious.

[Will]

When Will imagined his first trip to Ilia, the picture he had looked different. In art the land looked like a desert of pure white, but in reality it looked just as bland as anywhere else. Ilia held no wonder and no splendor, and whatever mysticism it held got crushed under the boots of the marching soldiers. In the end this land had nothing special, yet another hunk of earth for greedy men to claim.

He had wanted splendor. Instead this was a momentous occasion marred by the call for bloodshed. It didn't surprise him really, as the world worked that way these days. Getting sad about this meant getting sad about the state of the world, and that never ends well. Rejecting reality and living in blissful ignorance looked like a better option these days. Otherwise no one would get anything done and just spend all their time worrying about the world. Or at least William would. So while he knew that he knows better, sometimes even blatant lies were easier to believe than the truth.

A thick slurry of muddy brown replaced the fluffy white snow he read so much about. The snowmud felt cold, wet, and slipped past his boots and socks to freeze his feet directly. It felt like no amount of fuzzy socks could stop his feet from getting wet, which was a shame because he had some very fluffy socks in his pack. The stories about the frigid air seemed true enough, though he wouldn't have minded if those stories had lied a little. It bit through his clothes like he was wearing nothing at all, and the thought of being out here in the buff sent shivers down his spines, well more shivers down his spine.

William grumbled quietly to himself, cursing his situation. Some people said that the best part of the military is getting to see the world. He would say that if in seeing the world you're oppressing it, that glorifying travel seemed like a callous choice. He had little choice in the matter, so one might tell him to look on the bright side. The bright side just happened to be kind of hard to see from this place.

He fought for Etruria as a battlemage, but he didn't make that choice willingly. Poor mages in Etruria have few options, and they either join the military or join research projects. Nowadays however, Etruria direly needs more mages for their armies, so they make every effort to scoop them up and drop them into their little invasion forces. That's why Will's feet were freezing in his boots, Etruria's ambition. He didn't care for what his homeland wanted, and in fact he was quite ambivalent to it all. Though the doctrine of Elmine was drilled into his mind every day growing up, it never really stuck. He believed, but not with the fervor his homeland wanted. His service was more because of social and societal pressure, rather than any obligation to Etruria.

If anything he stood starkly against what he was forced to fight for. Though he silently let it all happen, after all what could he do? Complain and get killed? That's about as far as it went.

"All this fuss over an icy wasteland." William said to himself. "I dunno why we want this place, even less why Ilia wants to keep it. Maybe the food's good or something." He sighed. He wasn't alone, he stood with a squad of fresh faced battlemages like himself. He knew several of them from training, though 'know' might be a bit strong of a word. Acquaintances might be more accurate. William knew their names and faces, but little else. Still acquaintances beat strangers, which is how he felt around everyone else here.

Will propped his head up to look the the slate grey sky above, and he felt a sigh in his heart. He closed his eyes and let that sigh float out of his mouth, feeling the icy breeze around him. "Maybe if I just stand right here..." He began. "I'll freeze to death. Become a Willcicle." He spoke as if he was the only person in the world. The commanding officer hadn't addressed them yet, so the men were talking among themselves. Some were ecstatic to bring down the holy might of Etruria upon these savages, while others were bemoaning their situation and feeling homesick. A few were praying to holy Elmine, and others were having a rather bawdy discussion about people of the female persuasion. He wasn't a part of any of these conversation, and he didn't particularly bemoan that fate.

One thing was on all their minds however, his included. "How much time do we have," Will began, letting out a long lazy breath. "Until this war starts?"

[Luba Gavrilova]

Slipping into town had been the easy part. The Etrurians forces had permitted the Remi citizens to collect and bury their dead. Parties of farmers and merchants milled about the city outskirts searching for bodies of friends, family, soldiers who'd died during the siege, and anyone else they didn't want the crows picking at. They'd been permitted to recover any remains they found, with the exception of black skeletons. Luba overheard one of the Etrurian's mumbling something about the skeletal mounds serving as a warning sign. Some ruthless psychological warfare nonsense or what have you. All Luba knew was that she may well have known some of those charred bones.

The grim seraph knight managed to slip into the search parties with little effort. The Etrurians either couldn't, or didn't care to, keep track of which civilians they'd departed with. And with Luba dressed as she was, they barely glanced at her. There were only a few things which might blow her cover. One of them were the scars on her face, but there were a variety of ways Luba could explain away the old wounds. Luba was more concerned with the whole 'dress' thing. The veteran was becoming more comfortable with the restrictive clothing, but she still moved with noticeable clumsiness compared to the other women. If she couldn't get the handle of moving in the tight outfit, then she might as well have just stuck with her armor. The outfit would've been equally conspicuous, but at least it would have offered some measure of protection. Not to mention it would've been less restrictive. Luba puffed out a sigh of aggravation. She should have found looser clothing.

The corpse party returned to town and everyone went their separate ways. Luba wasted no time in breaking off and made her way to the center of town. The old warrior had two places in mind that she wanted to search. The first was the market district, an area of the city located a couple of blocks away from the city square. In times past, the Gavrilovas often visited the market district to trade crops and small animals, like chickens or pigs. The family was well-known there. If anybody knew what happened to Luba's family, they'd be in the market district. However, there was also the chance that the market district had been shut down. A way for Etruria to show it's dominance by prohibiting the most ubiquitous means of day to day trade in Remi. If such was the case, then the old Iron-wing would check in at the Hog and the Swill, a popular farmer's pub, also located in the center of town. And if that too had been boycotted by the military, then Luba would just have to improvise. The mercenary stomped forward, nearly ripping a seam in her dress.

[Brutus]

Stalking up and down the ranks of men packed into the courtyard, Brutus was not surprised to find his estimation had been correct. The soldiers stood like soldiers, the mercenaries stood like sellswords. Nothing too shocking. The troops from Delfia were in good shape, but a bit ragged. They looked like soldiers. Many of the Aquleian's were more pristine in their appearance. They were fresher, green. He would dirty them first, with the mud, the blood, and the sweat. They would need to be soldiers, not recruits.

The mercenaries he inspected less closely, though he saw Ilian faces among them. That could either be a positive, or a negative. There was nothing that could break the spirit of the frostbitten heathens like the stomping hooves of a pegasus, and if Elimine's message could find a place in the hearts of the mercenaries, surely it could soon be at home in the populace as a whole. However, they were mercenaries. Ilian mercenaries. It would be a simple thing for them to turn on him, to turn on Etruria. Ordering the wrong village burned could start a coup within his camp. The right bribe from the right hand could turn them all away. He would be forced with their inclusion to keep a watchful eye upon them.

When he came to stand at the front of them all once more, he held a palm up, then closed it for utter silence. Not that any were truly talking at a volume he could hear, but now they would hopefully stand in place, and there would be nothing that would distract from his words. "We will be moving out in four days time. Heading west in an attempt to overtake the Ilian supply line. It is going to be a dangerous mission, but you will be in the thick of it. I, and more importantly our prophet, must see which among you walk under Elimine's guidance." Then Brutus was back to walking through the ranks.

As he passed men, they bristled. Spine's that were erect strained to straighten even more. Finally he came to stand before a man he sized up to be another twister of the arcane with a thick brown beard. "You. What is your name?" He saw it in his eyes, fear or doubt that screamed against his irises. Brutus wanted to know which.

[Brutus]

After the inspection the officers, old and new, sat around a table in the hall that had become the command center of the troops stationed in the Trade Port. Brutus held two fingers to his left temple, and took a sip of wine from the bowl in front of him. He'd cut it with more water than he needed to, but he wasn't going to get drunk at midday. He wasn't going to get drunk at all, but the time measured into his disgust at the concept.

The men and women talked in hushed voices, but the din of their various discussions mixing together rose to fill his ears with an incoherent mess. After a second sip, Brutus took his hand from his head and set in on the table. The conversations near him stopped, and those far away soon followed. "I have decided, we will move soon." Brutus took another sip of his wine, then set the bowl back down, and looked at each face around the table.

He continued, "We will be heading to Arphen, our bulk force taking the main road while I will lead the others to come around the back, and destroy the supply line to the city. When the main force arrives a days march before the city, it will set about the construction of a fort, and construct a dam and series of trenches to divert the river which runs to the city. We will lay siege for a month before we send our first envoy, then we shall begin sending an envoy once a month." He looked across the table, there wasn't a single question.

[Luba Gavrilova]

The market district was a no go. It continued to operate under the Etrurian occupation, but was heavily policed. Luba had only viewed the district briefly, but the trading stalls were lined with an equal number of soldiers to merchants. There must have been at least one guard per stall. Luba wanted to avoid the heavily militarized zones, not stroll into them. The Hog and Swill was her only option.

The Ex-Ironwing stood outside the farmer's tavern, staring at the wooden logo, which hung by two chains from an outstretched four by four. Occupying the oval sign was a cartoonish, full-bearded, muscle-bound farmer. His smile was wide and long, like a banana, and his eyes open and inviting. His arms were both outstretched, one reaching around a fat, pink pig, whose smile was just as wide and banana-ish. The other hand offered a mug, fully topped with a foamy ale. The exaggerated facial features might have been a bit childish, but the logo captured the image of Remi's working men. An inviting sign for the hard-working townspeople. Luba entered the establishment.

It had been years, probably even decades since the last time Luba had been inside the tavern, but she had always remembered it being a lively place. The Hog and Swill was where Remi's farmers went to bath their dirty bodies in ale. It was a place of merriment and singing, dancing and fighting, drunkenness and foolishness. It was a place to let loose after a hard day's work. But the tavern Luba had entered had no such dancing or singing. Farmer's and working men sat amongst one another, their chatter nothing more than a dull roar. It had more the feeling of a cafe than a tavern. Luba attributed the somber mood to the ruthless ass-kicking the port-town had just received.

The old soldier scanned the bar, looking for its owner, Wallace Wenderly. Luba and Wallace were only a few years apart, having grown up together as children. In their youth Wallace had been head-over-heels for Luba's sister, Talia, but his feelings were never reciprocated. In time, after Talia ran away to join a covenant, he got over her and married another woman before joining his father in the family business. With that wife he sired two sons, Warren and Wesley. Luba could see Wallace now, cleaning dirty mugs while trying to manage orders. Finally a lead, someone who might know where her family had run off to. The ex-Ironwing approached the bar and took a seat.