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I, Dune Fox

[WIP]

Evening had fallen, splashing the sky's canvas with crimson swirls and orange swathes in it's death throes, and now the land was dark, though the hubbub in the camp with its flaming spires, though relatively distant, was still distinct enough to shatter the visage of the quiet dunes. The initial furore caused by the arrival of the new reinforcements had passed, and apart from the usual rowdy talk by the campfires, all had once again settled into a state of grim vigil, to be broken here and there perhaps by the occasional dark joke or a mild tease of a fellow soldier.

[I]Such things are not for me, though.[/I] At least, not a such a time, nor at such a place. Melting away from the crowd and avoiding the spotlight had been her first priority since they had arrived in the troop carrier ship, which her greatcoat and hood allowed for rather effectively; it obscured both her figure and her face, either of which would have all too easily given away her identity: She was a Witch, and as such the most likely of candidates among the new arrivals to get fussed over for the rest of the day. It kept her warm, too, as the night began to grow cold, and for that she was thankful.

It was an undeniable freedom, to be alone again for a while, a liberty she would not so easily obtain once the horns of battle released the clarient call. And do that, they most certainly would, making this little peace, false and narrow though it was, all the more precious.

Leaning back, she peeled off her left boot, and grimaced into it inexplicably, before knocking it a couple of times against the rock outcrop on which she had made her seat of solitude. She peered gingerly into it again, and then sighed resignedly as she put it back on. She was already seeing why they had called this place the 'Hell of the South', even disregarding the presence of the Neuroi. For inside her footwear was insinuated already a torment of a different sort, having burrowed its way into her privacy even faster than a first assignment could, and which was now refusing to remove itself in spite of her best efforts, reducing them to naught.

Sand.

In her country, it was gladly relegated to the frozen coastlines, or buried under the blanket of grey-white snows, trapped, out of the eye's sight and the eye's mind. But here it was everywhere, an entire sea of pale-yellow-white, under the burning brazen sun. A ubiquitous devil sandstorm or no sandstorm, it stung the face, hands, lodged itself into even the smallest nook and cranny it could slip through with every whiff of wind that blew across the dunes, rendered useless all defenses and obstacles, and made the life within boots and Strikers everywhere a like hell to one another, equal in the branded suffering that was the desert of North Africa.

She'd have gone barefoot if the ground wasn't just as bad. It shifted, sank beneath bare feet and boots alike. [I]And one just can't trust the snakes and scorpions of this land to be kinder to the unprotected feet than those anywhere else...[/I] There seemed little other option than to simply put up with it, at least for the time being. After all, such things were but a fleeting worry, and would be forgotten once the black-red tides of Neuroi returned. She had read the report: Witch presence in North Africa was generally low, almost sorrily so, and for the longest time the Karlsland Africa Army Group and the Britannian 8th Army had been stranded with the lack of it, fending off assaults coming from Egypt and the Middle-East, which was being held firmly by the Neuroi. Needless to say, the battles so far had mostly been defensive due to the lack of Witches save for what the Britannians could spare, and the Karlsland Luftwaffe, who had a fair presence down here, as well as an unbroken record of commendable participation in combat.

But there had been no progress at all. They were at an impasse, and on the losing side of it as well. More and more casualties were sustained every day, while the hordes of Neuroi never seemed to run dry. The whole campaign was degenerating into a twisted competition between Man and Neuroi to see who would blink first, with lives being put on the line as the stakes, and the losses piling up day after day.

[I]A sorry situation...[/I]

She was quite tempted to continue losing herself in a sea of her own thoughts, to float on an oasis of her own making, but nonetheless, her senses told her otherwise: that she should turn her attentionto her other reason for having come out of the perimeter of their camp, which was just arriving. A soft crunching of boots striding across the terrain could be heard, faintly at first, and then coming closer and closer.

She wasn't the only one to notice. There was a growl in the distance. Her eyebrows twitched in sudden alarm, and she spoke quickly with a voice of authority.

"Larka, don't bite him." Another brief growl, and then a baleful silence, one that almost immediately made her regret her earlier authoritative tone of voice.

[Was I...a little harsh?] Even between a Witch and her familiar, words still had all the ability to draw blood, something that every one of them should always have kept in mind, especially for those with naturally wilder creatures as their special companion. Such was the nature of Larka, her white Orussian wolf, the only being in her company till only a few moments ago, who had made her perch on a lower portion of the wind-weathered rock face, and it something that she had to be [I]It is something that I for one keep forgetting...I'm really hopeless.[/I]

[No, not at all...it appears I was the hasty one, mistress...But you've always been the insensitive half, anyway.]

That intentionally barbed line was almost like a whip's lash, provoking a reply that she did not at all hesitate to give, as she felt a sudden spark of annoyance flash inside her head.

[What? Look who's talking here!-]

[...He's here.] Apparently ignoring her reaction, Larka popped her head into her view, and indicated the direction of the unknown stranger's arrival with a head's turn.

"Nice wolf you have there...Anyway, how was your first day here? Like what you see at this, the infamous last-and-only line of defense against the Neuroi this whole continent round?"

She turned to face the approaching silhouette. Its true form was almost surely a man, lest women were to grow abhorrent musculature for their sex, and was possessed of a distinct walk, almost like a confident slouch of some sort. It was probably safe to reply. "Well, it sure looks the part."

"But it's not quite as you expected, is it, Lieutenant?"

"Not really. I was told by my superiors to expect the unexpected..." Pulling her greatcoat a little tighter around herself, she allowed herself a frown as she inspected the person's countenance. No bright light was needed to recognize the face of the man from under his military hat, a face that, other than Bernard Montgomery, had become synonymous with the role of command in Africa. There was little room for guesswork at all. She resisted the sudden urge, brought about by the strangely casual feel of their conversation, not to snap to attention immediately as she should, and having perished the thought as swiftly as she could, stood to in one fluid motion that culminated in a sharp salute, and an appropriate greeting. "...Field Marshal Rommel, sir."

The marshal, now identified, waved his hand at her in a somewhat flippant fashion. "At ease, young lady, and relax. We're not back in camp yet."

"Your orders, sir?"

He grimaced a little, and adjusted his cap. "To the point, as always. They warned me you'd be a bit like that."

"I apologize, sir." It was a rather stiff reply, but it was all she could manage. [I]I did not think that he would come down himself...[/I]

"Loosen up a little...Too much tension kills you around here."

"I'll...keep that in mind."

[You're not getting anywhere with this talk...it seems you're not fully okay with *that* yet, are you?]

[No, I'm not, I'm afraid. I still-]

"Anyway, if you need it short, Here."

She was thankful that like any good commander, Rommel was quickly realizing that she had no favorable disposition towards conversation, and that her one liners were making it very clear. He backed off somewhat in order to allow her the breathing space that he perceived she needed.

"This is-?"

He grinned briefly, before regaining a more serious demeanour, suited to the normally official manner of such meetings. He reached into his coat's inner pocket, and from it produced a folded piece of paper. "Read it. You'll need it for tomorrow, when you meet the rest of your new unit. If you want, you can think of it as a sort of preliminary guide."

A rush of relief at the return to familiar officialdom almost consumed her better sense, and like a cross pardoned, the dreaded heavy load of the earlier xenophobic informalism was lifted off her shoulders.

"I will go through it."

Nodding, the marshal turned to leave. "Very good. I'll see you tomorrow then, Lieutenant."

"Sorry that I couldn't be a better person to talk to, sir."

"It's alright..." He waved again, the hand barely visible as his form seemed to fade away into the sands that surrounded him, the winds whirling their tracks around his coat, etching themselves into their folds. Likewise, his voice too wavered, a candle in that same wind, until his final line was near inaudible. "We'll have a lot of time to fix that."

[I]Indeed..[/I]

She gazed thoughtfully into the blank back of the parchment, as though affecting not to look into it. "..."

"This..."

[I]'Lieutenant Svetlana K. Usov, Commander, Fireteam Two, Delta Section.'[/I]

She bit her lip grimly.

[I]...Was unexpected.[/I]

[Something not quite to your liking?]

"I would say so...all the same, an order is an order, Larka."

[Even when you don't like it?] [Your face was terrible back there.]

"Well, how is it like when I order you around?"

[I don't mind.]

"Then we'll settle it at that. I'll reserve judgement till I see them."

[I]This is going to be one long campaign here, in North Africa...[/I]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evening fell, the steaming desert cooling in the embrace of the sweet night, and in the void's darkness a song, the spirit of music, floated over the waters: flitting, spritely, free.

...Rastsvetali iabloni i grushi,
Poplyli tumany nad rekoj.
Vykhodila na bereg Katyusha,
Na vysokij bereg na krutoj...

Under the clear North African skies a single girl stood, basking in the glow of music's song, hidden in the shadow of its wings. Her head held aloft, she lifted her pristine voice to the skies, an offering to a distant dream of peace. A dark complexion was juxtaposed against locks of pale blonde that floated lusciously against the draughts that blew in from the empty plains.

And to her command, spirals of arcane flowed all around, the sand following the trail of astral power, forming fields upon fields around her, billowing outwards. She seemed now no longer a small slight girl, but like an ethereal goddess within a Southern Aurora, her hair flying as her song did, up to the celestial heavens.

...Vykhodila, pesniu zavodila
Pro stepnogo, sizogo orla,
Pro togo, kotorogo liubila,
Pro togo, chi pisma beregla...

Slowly, but surely, the fields of green replaced the sweeping sands in a tide of euphoric reverie, an Avalon, a utopia conjured up by the magic of music. A mighty one-man orchestra, creating a world of its own, free from the cruel realities of war; a world where there was only virtue, where the mind of the divine was too the mind of men.

A world of a dream, born of love, united love.

...Oj ty, pesnia, pesenka devichia,
Ty leti za iasnym solntsem vsled.
I bojtsu na dalnem pograniche
Ot Katyushi peredaj privet...

And gradually, having at last reached its apex, the vision faded in a zenith of dynamic colors, soulful strains trailing off in a tapering melisma.

Beautiful, that scene had been, pure as the unblemished core of a lotus flower.

[I]One person can only create so much of a world that is not...[/I] Her song could never reach the whole world, and her hope would never fill the hearts of all. She knew full well. [I]And yet...[/I]

And then she noticed. She was not alone.

[I]Someone's...listening...watching me.[/I]

Turning her eyes to the world before her, she saw who it was who had been listening. In rapt attention another person stood, just a few meters off, thus far forgotten in the reverie of the singer and that of her own, wrapped against the waves of the tune by a desert greatcoat. And slowly, yet surely, the eyes of her sole audience came to rest upon her own.

A clammy shiver. A spark of panic in her guts. [I]Her...eyes...[/I]

But nothing sinister came from her lips, not the nightmare her mind had fled away with.

"You know this song?" A benign question. No, it was beyond benign, but it was also beyond malevolence. It simply could not be placed.

[I]Well, a benign question...deserves at least a benign answer.[/I]

"Yes, it's 'Katyusha'." Her eyes fell to the ground, averting themselves from those of the other girl, and yet endeavoring to hide their revulsion to the frightening emptiness that could be seen in them.

Her voice was mellower than the rest of her, thankfully, but still bore the touch of freezing sleet.

"Why?"

"I was thinking...that as I would sing this song tonight, there would be someone out there whose heart might be touched by my song...so I sang."

The previously noncommittal, emotionless countenance changed vastly, and as her stance was, her answer was suddenly discomfited, and yet discomfiting also. It was now unsure, indecisive at the edge of the conversation's continuation. "I...see."

"You're Orussian, right?"

"As much as you're from the Indies."

[I]Um, what?[/I]

"That's right...How'd you guess?"

The other girl just shrugged with a slight air of nonchalance. "Care to try me?"

"I don't mind..."

"Britannian manner of speaking, with modified accents in your 'l's and 'r's. A ceremonial knife at your side. Chivalry in bearing, and tact in thought. You're most likely a Sikh 'saint soldier', of mixed blood on your father's side..." She approached slowly, counting off what she could observe with her fingers as though going through a shopping list. [I]Am I really so transparent?[/I] "...What's your name?"

Her straightforward manner was strangely disarming, even factoring in those dead brown-yellow eyes of hers, which now only bore a hint of their former gold. She got others to let their guards down even before they knew it.

"Janis Ackinson."

She knew what she was revealing in saying that she was 'Janis Ackinson', for by and large almost everyone here knew of her by now, one way or another: Janis Ackinson of the 51st Highlanders, one of the famous Arkforce Witch Trio that had protected many soldiers who had failed to retreat from Dunkirk down the longer road to Romagna, barely outrunning the invading Neuroi in the process. Janis Ackinson the Myth Hunter, the legendary marksman who had destroyed 3 Neuroi with one AP round. Janis Ackinson the Anti-Air Ace, the first ever Tank Witch recorded to have destroyed a aerial Neuroi with an AP-round, and the first ever as well to use a modified Ack-Ack against them. What she was was no secret, and the curious queries were many.

But the Orussian Witch did not bother with any of that at all.

"You're not baptized yet, then. And I'm Svetlana Usov."

The Orussian passed her by without another word, and as she did, a pair of animal ears passed through her line of sight. A pair of snow-white wolf ears, adorned with a sufficient clump of down.

[I]A Witch...?[/I]

[I]Is this the person...I was singing for?[/I] Her countenance was as ice, and yet...something clawed, fidgeted uncomfortably, angrily slammed itself against her bastions. The person standing before her was like a warpath, exuding its aura of chaos both without and within, and as she walked by, her breath was a cold draft, fitting of the Pale Horse, the very mount of Death itself.

[I]What have those eyes seen, those eyes of a graveyard's pallor?[/I]

And they turned on her once more, those grave eyes of hers.

"May we meet again, Ms. Ackinson..."

"My name's Janis. Call me that, please."

"I'm sorry..." Svetlana turned her back. She slouched a little, giving the lie to her otherwise stoic figure, and even as her steps brought her further and further away, her last words still carried through to Janis.

"...I'm not used to that at all."

Janis stared after her, pondering those words in her mind, letting them roll about her head. She was not fast, but she was fast enough.

[I]What could she not be used to? What could be the thing that keeps her?...I cannot see into her mind at all, that pitch-black place in which even five fingers cannot be told apart.

But one thing I do know...

This is one person whom my song must reach, even if I know not how now.

I can feel it.[/I]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Winter Storm

The summons of a blaring alarm shattered the skies...

...and all hell broke loose.

Fires sprang up as the hoarse shouts rang higher, clawing at darkness and silence, bringing them to their knees.

"Man your posts!"

"Fall in in five!"

Stumbling footsteps carried stumbling masters half-roused through to just as half-manned posts, before proceeding, conspiring with treacherous hands to hurl them, thumping dully into hellholes of precariously variable defensive value.

Sleep-leaden eyes greeted each other for those who had gotten any, fatigue mirrored each to the other in bleary, red-streaked bloodshot lids, a horrifying mix of grim looks and dark grins from equally chapped, half-frozen lips. The crazier lot, the walking, shambling living dead who had survived the ordeal of perpetual waking, groped unsteadily for their weapons, falling in obliquely to the voices of their officers as well as they could.

The scramble was over in a flurry of motion, order achieved in chaos...

...Just in time to hear the final, desperate maydays fall silent, the echo bouncing around in waves all along the line, before settling into a foreboding silence - a silence, a tide of disquiet that could crack the morale of ten thousand men, shattering flagging, exhausted spirits like flimsy dams. The men held under the immense pressure, but only barely.

The knowledge of their situation weighed heavily upon their countenances now more than ever: they were the eponymous Last Outpost. A few hundreds, no more, the last of a long-doomed force. They were hemmed in, trapped like rats, with little to no hope of escape.

An aide to the left demanded his attention, snapping him out of his walk-induced reverie. "Latest reconnaissance report, sir...the enemy is but 20 miles off as of 2 minutes back. We have already received confirmation from Marshal Shaposhnikov that they will use that, but there is no guarantee that it will arrive on time."

"Understood. You may return."

The footsteps grew increasingly distant, fading away like shifting shadows, and he was alone once more.

20 miles. Given the enemy at hand, it would not be long before their war machine arrived in full force, a malevolent juggernaut, and steamrolled their pitifully minuscule force under cruel tides of black and red miasma.

An altogether gloomy situation. A simple walk down the streets seemed like a stroll through an infernal vale of shadows; the scent of war and the coming slaughter hung like asphyxiating smog in the otherwise clear winter air, now seeming frigid, cold as Death itself, glorious or otherwise, which seemed to be their inevitable fate. So the thoughts seemed turned, darkly, inside the shell-shocked trenches.

So, in short, we are sacrificial lambs, eh? Not bad at all, those big-hats...six hundred men, not much to the motherland in their eyes, now is it? Perfect reasoning. If they get here on time, we win, and if they don't, Zukhov and his cohorts have time to regroup and rest up before getting smashed again...

But at the same time, there was a certain aura of dogged determination that one could feel rising up from those man-made ridges, cast in fragile ice rather than stone, but a hard front nonetheless. It emboldened the heart past hope, gave it resolve past despair to face mankind's enemy, even in the face of impending defeat.

...Indeed, what am I saying?

We are the 28th Orussian Guards, and with us are our brothers from Sudeten and Lithuania. We are men: we have our pride, and we will never back down.

No retreat, and no surrender. That's the way in which we shall face these Neuroi, and that's the way we will see them off!

In the deep gloom, he noted that he was currently as close to the front lines as he could get: A hasty dug-out marked "32" lay some distance in front of him, and before it in turn lay No Man's Land, where the marks of previous actions that had laid waste their defenses to that point now lay smothered - mud, blood, sweat and tears, all under a grave of mortal snow. Clearly, he could see the gun port of a single 75mm gun, a Karlsland model from Sudeten, just as the people in it surely were - sentinels in a foreign land who had kept the position secure up till now against the enemy onslaughts. He could only begin to imagine the masterful work of the men in that trench, men whom he perhaps only knew by face, and even then, whose faces he might never see again after this night.

If there is another night for any of us here.

And so he stood to, leaning a little against the half-ruined wall of a derelict house, observing the movements in that trench, how the men did not mill around as some of their own people would. Instead, they huddled together, conserving their energy, while a lone sentry stood on the fringes of the group, surveying whatever could be discerned of their surroundings. They seemed to be in fair enough spirits as well: Every now and then, his ears would contrive to deceive him as to the presence of a rare thing in such grim conditions: laughter, traveling obscured and fleeting, a mirage sonority.

His shadow was cast against the wall, and the snow and winds muffled his already silent step. He was well hidden, until the wispy spot-lit scars of tobacco smoke affected to let its smell alert all present to his presence, which surprised him.

Kraut in-house training isn't bad, I see. They could probably smell Reemtsma from further out, but nothing beats the taste of Собраниe...

The sentry had seen him first among them, and swiftly roused the rest to their feet for a swift salutation, done in strikingly brilliant unison. Morale had yet to die by a long shot in this unit.

"Major Panfilov, the D Company of the Sudeten Army's 2nd Rifles salutes you, sir!"

At the sight of these furrowed brows and leaden gazes on your young faces, one cannot help but sigh. On closer inspection, he could even see etched upon their still-ruddy faces already were the lines and shadows of trauma, its effects held at bay only by the great hearts that lay behind those masks for faces. War takes its toll swiftly, a silent killer of the soul...it seems to get to us all, small and great both.

"At ease, men."

There was an awkward silence, and then a sharp laugh. The rest of the troopers attempted to stifle the singular source of mirth, awkward as it was in the dire frost. They failed miserably, and soon almost all present were momentarily distracted from their predicament by a torrent of laughter. No, it seemed almost that they did not think themselves in any such danger at all, and were morbidly thumbing their noses at it.

Or could it be that-?

"Did I miss something?" Something was clearly not normal about them.

Their lead sergeant decided that perhaps he should be the much-needed source of enlightenment, and sheepishly, he recovered from his earlier loss of composure to humors.

"Sir, your eyes deceive you, for we..." He stated, his face barely forcing its contours into a poker-shape, "...have a lass in our midst."

The sentry grinned, her cover blown thoroughly. Lifting the hood of her winter cloak over her head, she revealed a head of slightly unkempt golden locks, freed by a brief swash of her head, and a pair of azure eyes of blue fire set as twin jewels upon her face, which was without blemish save for a single scar that ran from her left eyebrow to her upper eyelid.

More tellingly, a pair of ears that should have belonged to some animal was set upon her head. not by strength of any human artifice, as all could see, but of the thing humans had come to call magic.

She was a Witch.

"Lance Corporal Zofiya Rubhako, Orussian 2nd Armored Division, Recon, at your service, sir."

"The 2nd Armored...?!" Impossible, how could they have been so fast- He collected himself rapidly, and steered the conversation to something more official, and pertinent. "...What is your current status?"

"We of the 2nd have in fact already been here for two days, sir, awaiting confirmation that did not arrive till of late, due to some hitches we ran into at the top. However, our blitzkriegers, if I may so use the term, have rushed all night to make up for lost time, and they could possibly catch up with the Neuroi before they get here, although as of now there's no guarantee of that scenario occuring."

She was perfectly calm, her voice rock-steady. Nothing in her bearing suggested any hint of a lacking confidence; rather, she seemed the very epitome of unshakable confidence. And it was not ungrounded as the castles upon sand, or illusory as castles in the clouds, although perhaps only so to him, a suddenly lonely Zarathustra. For she had as her strong backing what could be considered Orussia's pillar of strength, her fortress in the black storm of war.

The White Wolves.

The elite of the elite.

"Thank you, Corporal, you may return to your post."

Corporal Zofiya grinned, pulled her hood back on, and turned back to her lookout periscope, leaving Major Iza Panfilov to himself, and rest of the people. Strangely, almost foolishly, he found his heart much lighter, even capable of a sudden capricious whimsy, and the desire to take it out on the unfortunate soldiers in Trench 32.

To do it, or not to? That is the question...

"...Anyway, boys, got any drink in this shithole?..."

He got little more than incredulity for his reply, no less than he had expected. At least they still have a proper sense of danger...albeit now misplaced.

The sergeant again put it most gallantly. "Not a drop sir, we need lucid men for battle, and...no drinking in front of women, you know?"

They must think me mad, to ask for wine as though it were my death wish. Many are those indeed who would ask for nothing but good wine before an untimely grave, but not I, and what more, when death's kiss will touch us not tonight?

And egad, those ignorant lads, to think that women can't drink...

Wait till they see these angels, and they'll never themselves do it again.

-------------------------------------------

"3 nights without sleep. and the 7th battle since!"

That Pole, Aniela was in the corner on the far left cursing the insufferable absurdity of the situation. She was new in an already very raw group, and as such her frustration was understandable, even to be honored that no more well-deserved epithets came forth from angry lips to greet her misfortune. "Why the hell does it always happen on my shift?!"

It was hard to tell her that there was only one shift, and its duration was 'twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-sixty-five'. Worse than a nine-to-five job. Screw the lack of manpower that forces us to have groups with less than 5% concentration of veterans, and the retards that decided that the fast way to veteran-hood was key.

She knew better.

But at this point, though, there was nothing to stop the rest from chipping in their personal takes on the matter.

"The Neuroi love you, dear!"

Discipline and the weather were inversely proportionate to each other, and that was made quite plain by the complete lack of radio silence, periodically broken as it was by rapid bursts of static-plagued tease, even as their unit of 4 veered left towards their quarry: The town of Rassajnay. Funnily enough, no one in her group seemed too serious about defending the last outpost that Orussia had in its border defense.

"What, you saying no to a higher kill count?"

"Chicken?"

"Aw, SHADDUP!"

She at last felt the need to cut in. It was indeed getting a little overboard for her tastes, to say the least.

"You guys aren't helping."

Having new recruits is really hard...But at least they're in high spirits, if a little too enthusiastic.

But the fact remained that they had actually been able to join the White Wolves said quite a bit about them. They were skilled, and there was no mistake about that.

Such a damn pity they're all foreign talent. Britannian just doesn't have the local feeling, and I feel like a right fool whenever I use it.

"C'mon, Anna, don't tell me it isn't funny!"

She suddenly felt stung, as though like a whip, too close, far too close to home for her liking.

...Screw this.

The dormant superior lurking inside her subconscious finally chose to awaken, its black raven's wings spreading wide open from inside her usually pensive self, forcing her to exercise some degree of self-assertion. Such impertinence from foreigners. I really need to throw some people in the guardhouse over this later.

"Well, it wasn't. Anyway, it's our shift too, Aniela...Not as though you're the only one here who doesn't have a death wish or something."

"I know, but this is absurd! And I still don't get why do we have to climb up this damn hill-"

"One more insult to my ears, and I'm tearing my radio set out."

That alone was enough to silence everyone, and it was no mystery why: Some words dripped venom, others burned with cankered angry flames, and still others had the chilling sleet touch. But this, this was another thing altogether: That voice betrayed but a hint of the yawning void behind it, devoid of anything, and brimming with nothingness.

Why the hell does she always speak like that? It was that emotionless, stony feel to every syllable and consonant, themselves lent an edge only by her choice of words, that scared those who listened.

Blithely, the voice then turned its unamused, caustic tones upon Aniela for a moment. "Save your breath, and your energy. Just climb if you want to live."

"Sve-"

"And I agree with the Major, those jokes aren't funny."

An awkward silence reigned for a few moments, before Major Anna Panfilova, at last confident of her fellow commander's lack of intention to continue what might have degenerated into a lambasting session, she now addressed her to confirm and establish that as a lasting ordnance for the rest of the conversation.

"Svetlana. How is it on your end with Petra?"

"Fine. We're good, Major." It was almost unnerving how her voice was too constant, too much at peace to be natural at all. It did not change save for enunciations and pronunciations, and perhaps intonation for emphasis, no matter what she was doing at that point of time. Admonishment and advisory were but one and the same to her, to be stated without inconstancy in that same stoic, matter-of-fact fashion.

Still, she had to make it sound like it was a conversation. Too much unfamiliarity hurts. "Are the rest of us ready to advance?"

"12-strong in total as we planned, all at their designated places. They will commence on order."

"Very good. Stand by for open broadcast."

"Understood."

"And Sve-"

*Click*

The line went dead. What the hell. The Svetlana I knew was no-nonsense, dead serious, but she's only changed for the worse since Lithuania...

She bit back her words of reprimand, bloodying her figurative chapped lips. They would be completely useless on someone like Svetlana K. Usov, all the same, whether she tried ten or ten thousand times. Not like we have time to argue with each other right now. That can wait. It has to wait.

She keyed on an open broadcast.

"Commencing Operation White Death..."

"...Now."

Let's give 'em hell.

----------------------------------------------------

A hillock, not so very distant altogether from Rassajnay. Ringed around with precariously craggy precipices and outcroppings, it was where the rest of the White Wolves would have already have made their base. By virtue of terrain, it was easy to defend, hard to reach, and hell to attack save by air. Just the right place for almost any defending force to be.

But it was low ground nonetheless, much lower than the one they were on, and much less cold. The air there was thin for the lack of pressure, and yet it was chokingly thick with a reckless anticipation, the salacious expectation of their impending counterattack.

"Confirmation received. We're going, Petra."

A dull *thwack* barely sounded as the unfortunate headphones hit the snow.

"Maintain radio silence till the mission ends. Heaven only knows when the Neuroi learn to crack our frequencies."

...It's been 3 nights without sleep, and the 7th battle since.

"Geez...you didn't have to be so cold on the comm." Petra Karolewski sighed briefly, and checked her Tank Striker once more, looking it over for any possibility of mechanical fault, just as they'd been trained. "That was really terrible of you, Svetlana...that was the fifth one."

"Bad pun. Therefore?" She of all people should know that I disapproved, and still disapprove of dumping new recruits into situations like these. It's only going to give them the wrong impression of the war altogether, and overconfidence kills almost as many people as lack of skill. 'Good combat experience', they call it...

Her companion, and only other veteran member of the Wolves other than the Major, shook her head resignedly. "Um, well...therefore nothing."

"Fine. Summon your cavalry."

Still, a mission is a mission. We will finish it as effectively as possible. Complaints can wait.

"Gotcha."

The brown-haired witch stood to, as her magic field expanded outwards, a sphere of arcane power swirling around with her as the epicenter, causing her hair floated, buoyed and buffeted by the constant swathes of energy as she called the name of her ride, and her familiar.

"Voytek."

A resounding roar could be heard in the distance, echoing through the frigid fields behind them. Petra's bear of a familiar was not far off, not by a long shot.

I prefer to keep mine closer at hand though.

"Palla." Svetlana bent down, and gave her stoic companion a brief, but affectionate pet on the head. Her coat was a pure white, and she had the footwork of a wraith, a ghost floating upon the rivers of snow. A master of stealth as far as the white winter was concerned, the Orussian wolf would have been near invisible even to her master, if not for their mental link, which would enlighten them to the others presence even if they were miles apart.

[It is done. We're ready to roll.]

She turned to the other Wolf veteran.

"Ready, Private?"

"Whenever you are, Lieutenant."

The barbed syllables mirrored her own, even bettered the instruction, at the rather icy reminder to them both as to the differences between their ranks, and though it was not so much of an assertion of position as it was a friendly jab, it made a mark all the same.

All in good fun.

"Very good. Let's go."

3 nights without sleep, and the 7th battle since.

Normal life resumes.

--------------------------------------

Second Post of Madness Since God-knows-when

First Independent Witch Brigade - The White Wolves (3rd Line)

Расцветали яблони и груши,
Rastsvetali iabloni i grushi,
Поплыли туманы над рекой.
Poplyli tumany nad rekoj.
Выходила на берег Катюша,
Vykhodila na bereg Katyusha,
На высокий берег на крутой.
Na vysokij bereg na krutoj.

Выходила, песню заводила
Vykhodila, pesniu zavodila
Про степного, сизого орла,
Pro stepnogo, sizogo orla,
Про того, которого любила,
Pro togo, kotorogo liubila,
Про того, чьи письма берегла.
Pro togo, chi pisma beregla.

Ой ты, песня, песенка девичья,
Oj ty, pesnia, pesenka devichia,
Ты лети за ясным солнцем вслед.
Ty leti za iasnym solntsem vsled.
И бойцу на дальнем пограничье
I bojtsu na dalnem pograniche
От Катюши передай привет.
Ot Katyushi peredaj privet.

Пусть нас вспомнит девушку простую,
Pust nac vspomnit devushku prostuiu,
Пусть услышит, как она поет,
Pust uslyshit, kak ona poet,
Пусть она землю бережет родную
Pust ona zemliu berezhet rodnuiu
А любовь Катюша сбережет.
A liubov Katyusha sberezhet.

Apple and pear trees were a-blooming,
Mist (was) creeping on the river.
Katyusha set out on the banks,
On the steep and lofty bank.

She was walking, singing a song
About a grey steppe eagle,
About her true love,
Whose letters she was keeping.

Oh you song! Little song of a maiden,
Head for the bright sun.
And reach for the soldiers on the far-away border
Along with greetings from Katyusha.

Let us remember an ordinary girl,
And hear how she sings,
Let her preserve the Motherland,
Same as Katyusha preserves our love.

1st Fireteam 'Quadriga':

Anna Vasily Panfilova - Tokarev TT-30
Aniela -

0th Fireteam 'Triumvirate':

Svetlana K. Usov - Kliment Voroshilov KV-1
Petra Karolewski - 7TP Twin Turret Variant
Zofiya Rubhako - SU-14 Prototype 152.4

First Post of Madness Since God-Knows-When

Here's to Cadia's Third Variation - OCStrike!
Presenting Version 1.0 of:

The Independent Witch Brigade - Section Delta (Assault)

Heiß über Afrikas Boden die Sonne glüht.

Unsere Panzermotoren singen ihr Lied!
Allierten Panzer im Sonnenbrand,
Stehen zum Kampf gegen Neuroiland
Es rasseln die Ketten, es dröhnt der Motor,
Panzer rollen in Afrika vor.

Fireteam One:

Pat Sawyer - 90mm Gun Motor Carriage M36 Jackson
Kate Knispeller - Panzerkampfwagen VI King Tiger
Shelley G. Pool - M4 Sherman Howitzer
Maria Bellatoni - Caproni Campini N.1

Fireteam Two:

Svetlana K. Usov - Kliment Voroshilov KV-1
Janis Ackinson - M4 Sherman Firefly
Ellessa Barkmann - Panzerkampfwagen V Panther
Jeannette "Moses" Francis - De Havilland Mosquito

Engineering Unit:

Hara Tokiko - Type 5 Chi-Ri 88 Transport Custom

Fire Support Group Delta Sigma:

Anna Vasily Panfilova - Tokarev T-33 (double)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



Katherine "Kate" Knispeller
"Cross Knight"
Joint Mechanized Amored Infantry (Karlsland), "Afrikakorps"
Warrant Officer (Feldwebel), Independent Witch Brigade
Tanker, Fireteam One
14 years old, Pale Blonde Hair, Grey Eyes, Ruddy Beige, 154cm

Personality:

"My Tiger is my lawful husband, and the gun's my lover."

Alright, so that's a very bad way to start a profile, but yes, Kate is the resident tank-nut. She's pretty cracked up about it, really, almost enough to equal the underbelly-ANZAC gun nuts. In short, she is a very obsessive character, almost to a fault, and unfortunately, she's unhealthily obsessed with her Tank Striker (and about Ellie, but that's another story altogether) among other things, which are not many, and because the said Striker plays a disproportionately large role in the way she lives and perhaps, as she says, the way she will die, she is also disproportionately engrossed in practically everything she can do with it: From personal maneuvers to the art of markmanship in a tank, she probably can fire them all off her hip and think them up on the fly. Needless to say, she has great potential, according to both Rommel and Pat, to be one of [b]the[/b] quintessential Karlsland tank aces of the Neuroi War (which is saying quite a hell lot), as compared with rest of the group's relatively normal members, except perhaps Steph, who also has a more than notorious reputation for combat skill, albeit one that the latter refuses to acknowledge, while Kate doesn't mind hers.

As a result of the above, she also tends to be a perfectionist in all that she herself does, even though she does not extend this treatment to others, which can lead to some problems with losing: Not in the result, but in the aftermath.

She is also rather chivalrous, which is in Ellise's words very "knight-like": Indeed, she sometimes reaches the level at which she seems to embody the very gentle(wo)manliness that was espoused by the ancient orders: Caring, gracious, and always willing to step back and hear someone else's view, or give way to a more assertive character if the situation is not of great levity, and can simply be passed over with a patient word rather than loud argumentation, after all, as she would quote, "a gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger". Still, she has a much shorter span of effective time for more extreme applications of this character trait as compared to, say, Janis. People have limits.

And one last thing: Never shoot your mouth off about her tank and what you think of it. Just don't. And don't ask why.

One could almost swear that given her love for her tank, she'd have a Tiger for her familiar if she could, but since that's not possible, she opted for having something relatively close: Her male Leopard Cat, Toulouse, named for one of her favorite cities in Europe. He's pretty...scratchy...ow.

Achievements/History:

Knispeller was born in Sudeten, an external region of Karlsland to the east. Her father had been a tank commander in the First Neuroi War, and as such she was from young very well acquainted with armored military vehicles. As one who was honored to continue a tradition of military excellence in the family (being in the army had been a long running tradition for them), and also that of the nation of Karlsland, she eventually joined in what was probably the toughest training regimen in Europe at that time, due to Karlsland's understandable amount of paranoia when it came to their fear of being hit first by the Neuroi invaders. In the end, it really did happen just as expected, but unexpectedly, Karlsland nonetheless suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of the Neuroi.

Even though her desire was to fight in order to avenge her homeland's loss, there were more pressing issues at hand: Faced with an inexorable Neuroi charge, the allied human forces soon found themselves pinned to the borders of Romagna, Orussia, Suomus and Britannia, with the Neuroi seeping through the territorial gaps to the Middle East and Africa. They had to be stopped lest a defenseless continent fall without a fight. Seeing little other option in the matter, she was transferred to North Africa along with her friend Ellise, and were to be part of the Independent Witch Brigade under the command of the Desert Fox, Erwin Rommel himself. The only problem was, that the IWB was incomplete, and they just had to be part of the missing sections. As such, they spent almost 2 months unassigned until the point when they were eventually joined by the rest of the unit: Two tankers first from Liberion, and then joint forces from the Romagnan Front, to make a unit of nine in all.

The time for action had come.

She is the second out of the four AAAs, or Anti-Air Aces in the unit, with her main rival in this being Steph (12 AA kills) to her 10, while Shelley and Janis have 5 each, just enough to make the 'ace' grade. She gained most of these kills while supposedly "not doing anything", during Neuroi air raids. It is due to this that she often quips that given their record, the four of them could be Mobile Air Infantry Aces as easily as they can be Mobile Armored Infantry, although Janis often states, sometimes if only to burst the overly enthusiastic Karlslander's bubble of tank-ranting, that the two kinds of combat are vastly different, and cannot be compared. It has never been conclusively raised among them whether Air or Armor combat is more challenging, it is normally up to the tech-head Tokiko to say that "if one of us were to go up against an Air Witch, the chances of victory vs chances of defeat would be, in my opinion, around 50-50", which is not untrue at all, given the level at which some members of the team do battle. It was almost settled at that. Almost.

Special:

She has a special technique known as "Flicker-fire" which perhaps only she among Delta Section has the skill (and the time invested) to operate and master in open warfare: She seems to be able to fire even with a shield on, when this is actually not the case. Instead, she 'flickers' the shot straight through a momentary lapse in her shield's active state, before immediately pumping her magic flow into defense once again. This has made her one of the strongest Witches in the group in terms of being able to keep a defensive position going, vulnerable in this state only to sudden close-ranged assaults from the air, which fortunately the Neuroi aren't famous for.

Personal Magic:

Type: -Probably Defense Oriented-
Name: ??

Quote:

"Uhhh...is understating enemy forces an old tradition, or is there just NO END to these guys?!"




Ellessa "Ellie" Barkmann
"Little Miss Chokepoint"
Joint Mechanized Armored Infantry (Karlsland) "Afrikakorps"
Senior Squad Leader (Oberscharführer), Independent Witch Brigade
Tanker, Fireteam Two
13 years old, Chestnut Brown Hair, Brown Eyes, Pink-Beige, 152cm

[b]Personality:

Ellessa is a passionate sort of character, as can be expected from a person very much into the arts. It shows up even in her manner of speech, which is somewhat prose-ish in fashion, like free verse flowing around. And such is her character: Emotive, perhaps a little sentimental, and easily moved both by the displays of humanity and the lack thereof on the battlefield, which her teammates often say is a rather unique and refreshing thing in a battlefield that can too often become a heartless ground for attrition. However, she can also as a flipside of this character be rather temperamental and more volatile than some of other members, which brings her sensitivities very often into conflict with the near-complete lack thereof in Jeannette, among other things.

In battle she can be very to the book, and as such is a tad inflexible in the eyes of some.

An amateur musician and composer, she writes music in her free time, by the way, although she's not quite done with anything yet. "War tends to lessen my time for artistic committment, it seems...", as she would say, although Shelley points out rightly that it's more likely because "War dampens [her] inspiration", which is more likely, since she is pitch-perfect (in both senses of the word - her voice is pitch-perfect, and she has perfect-pitching in terms of being able to recognize a note).

Her familiar is a squirrel, which has no name, it is simply called "Squirry". Not that she's like a squirrel in any evident sense, but she just loves them. So there.

History/Achievements:

Ellie herself can't really remember her early childhood. One of her first few memories was as a child in an orphanage. She remembers next to nothing about her parents, and her only memento from those days is a small locket containing a picture of her as a baby. It is her most treasured possession, even though she ostensibly states that her lost childhood isn't of much value to her anymore, since it's all water under the bridge, and that she has another life now, a life that doesn't need her past one. So in a sense, she is different from the rest as to her view on her own personal history: While others hide it because it's valuable, she doesn't treat it as being of much value at all.

And as of now, there is only one role she will stick to, other than her few other imperatives: Being the effective second of Fireteam Two.

Special:

Barkmann is probably the most conventional and probably the only NORMAL fighter in the team, unlike some of the other wild-combat members, preferring to just roll, dodge and fire, rather than pull anything dangerous or overly risky. But she's pretty damn good at being the team prude, and as such, is highly valued for her reliability and stable combat record. She is also a brilliant AT sniper, perhaps only second to Shelley, and as such she's normally the stationary offensive quarter of the 2nd Fireteam.

Personal Magic:

-Unknown-

Quotes:

"Going...going....*BANG*...Gone."




Svetlana "Steph" K. Usov
"Lady Einhander"
Joint Mechanized Armored Infantry (Orussia) "Afrikakorps"
Senior Lieutenant (лейтена́нт), Independent Witch Brigade
Commander, Fireteam Two
Unknown age, Burnt-Brown Hair, Golden eyes, Pale, 163cm (she hunches slightly, so her real height is not certain)

Personality:

Svetlana is quite a stiff, stoic and reserved sort of person, in heavy contrast to some of the more boisterous, louder members of the team (especially those from Liberion, as she would probably state even from the outset). Also, she can be rather, in her own quiet and taciturn sort of way, very stubborn, almost insubordinate on occasion. Also, in private her pro-Soviet bias tends to start tank-rolling everybody in the unit soon enough if brought to life (this can very rarely be achieved given enough "insensitive capitalist shit" on the right pressure points), although she shows a great deal of professionalism and aplomb being the odd one out in keeping with her nature. As a matter of fact she often states that "A battlefield allows no bigotry. That can wait till the pub fight later." She is also the team's logistics chief and strategist, as more often than not she is able to pull the micro-management work (such as coordination of re-supply among others) that keeps the section rolling and keeps the Neuroi as crumbled dust. This has been credited to her being extraordinarily well-endowed with patience and meticulousness, as well as quick and critical thinking, which she is quite able to play to her advantage. This is the only time as well when she seems to show a great deal of energy and spirit while doing things outside of battle, where if anything she resembles something like a more stoned-out version of an animal on a predatory hunt.

Svetlana is also just as much a staunch, loyal Soviet as her fellow commander Pat Sawyer is in disdain of them. As such, while the two have a sort of tacit agreement to disagree on their respective political backgrounds, or as Pat would call it, "selective brainwashing", some of their private disagreements do actually carry over, and not quite in spite of themselves too: an almost natural rivalry mirroring that of their respective nations that the two has developed quite nicely, and as such the same has also developed between their respective fireteams as well.

As such, it is quite fitting that her familiar should be the epitomized hunter of the grey-white snows, the stone-faced Orussian Wolf, Palla, who follows her everywhere, even to war, and the bloodiest of battlefields. She is the only member apart from Tokiko to have her familiar with her directly on the battlefield, and it is not known what this purports.

Achievements/History:

"The era of the Witch will not end...it has only just begun."

Svetlana was born to an ordinary working class family, and due to the great sway that the Communists held over the Russian people at that time, she was brought up to be quite enamoured of the professed Soviet ideas, save for the somewhat curious influence that her grandfather had on her. As a child she was very close to him, and till today she still remembers one piece of advice that he gave her, almost like a premonition of the future and a warning: "No matter what you do in life, never forget the country that birthed you, and never forget the God that made you." Growing up with two radically different worldviews didn't particularly stop the rather headstrong from lass doing as she pleased though. Following her eventual discovery of her Witch abilities, she was drafted into Witch training in a part of the effort to guard against a possible second invasion. She was assigned to the original Lithuania/Latvia/Estonia (South-East Suomus) defensive line, which eventually became one of the bloodiest fights in the early days of the snowy white winter, and was later transferred to North Africa for reasons not so well known after the failure of said campaigns to stall the Neuroi advance.

Although she had often thought little of her achievements in the eventually proven-hopeless Lithuanian defense, which was in no small part due to the subsequent defeats that Orussia suffered at the hands of the Neuroi horde, apparently not everyone thought so. Her name, which had not (in spite of her belief that it had been lost in the Orussian snows, which admittedly it had seemed to be) escaped notice at all, was almost immediately recognized by the head of the Independent Witch Brigade, Erwin Rommel, and she was accordingly headhunted, along with the Arkforce Trio, to join Rommel's elite "Dune Foxes", his (namesake) nickname for the Brigade, and she was assigned to be the second commanding officer of the then-understaffed and woefully incomplete Delta Section, which was already possessed of a commanding officer in the form of Pat Sawyer.

Special:

Her Tank Striker has one weapon on each hand, or alternatively, she can load both parallel on one arm, and fire the combined weapon from a shoulder-mounted position, thus the name "Einhander", or "One Hand", meaning that she is able to fire both weapons with just one hand each. This makes her the undisputed firepower heavyweight of the unit, and to look on the downside, the undisputed most ammo-hogging member. She has a special harness with a holster for the extra gun, mostly, as having two except in desperate battle would limit her motor movement. She is, however, fairly proficient and mobile even when both her hands are occupied firing.

It is also of note that while the most physically assuming, Svetlana is the most underwhelming hand-to-hand combatant among the senior Witches (Jeannette, Pat, Shelley and herself), although her gun-fu is quite undeniably the best. She has a pair of Tokarev -33s as her sidearms.

Personal Magic:

*Continues poring over the order of battle, ignoring the question*

Typical Quote:

"No sleep in 3 nights, and the 7th battle since. Normal life resumes."



Shelley Pool
"Springheel Jill"
Joint Mechanized Armored Infantry (Liberion) "Afrikakorps"
Sergeant, Independent Witch Brigade
Tanker, Fireteam One
17 years old, Gold-Blonde Hair, Green Eyes, Pink-Beige, 160cm

If anyone can be considered "flamboyant" in Delta, it would be Shelley. She almost looks the type: idol-class looks, a premature figure to kill for, waist-length dumb-blonde hair, and she has a character to match. Never shying away from the spotlight, she is unique among the Witches in Delta in the sense that she does not mind getting the heck-a-lot of attention that one could expect a person of her type would get from the men. Basically she's pretty, vain, pretty vain and isn't afraid to show it, which disturbs some of the more conservative members (like Kate), and very honestly grates on the resident prude (Steph). She is also the main cause of the latter's rare but potent anti-materialist/capitalist jabs, although in classic fashion she tends to treat it as some kind of joke. In combat, she can get rather dissed about her hair being completely messed up by the conditions in the desert, although she would agree that it would be better that way than to have the poisonous miasmic smog that the Neuroi produced.

Overall, she is indeed one of the more material and shallow members of the team as a character, but that does not mean that she harbors little deep emotion towards this battle, and neither does she treat this as a publicity stunt. As a matter of fact, Tokiko and Maria did once concur that her outward appearances and behaviorisms were most likely a result of her original training and lifestyle when she was back in Liberion, and that perhaps she doesn't actually know exactly how she will adapt accordingly.

Also, her effect on team morale is undeniable: She is unfailingly upbeat, and nothing ever seems to get her down, or make her gigawatt smile disappear from her face, which is often a great encouragement to what can sometimes be flagging spirits. There are only rare occasions on which she seems to be "In the Mood", the group's way of referring to one of her periods of angst, and it only happens when something strikes a raw nerve with her.

No one seems to be able to identify her familiar type, for some reason, possibly because it's one of those Liberian hybrids that nobody would recognize on the average day. She calls it "fashion". Most others just call it...nevermind what they call it.

History/Achievements:

She keeps a personal commonplace-book/diary with her, which she refuses to have anyone else read. Also, she speaks little about her past, and not because it's not important, it has got to be, because in spite of her self-professed desire to be a model, she too realizes that this task will be difficult, as she lacks one leg. She was probably not born without one, the rest observed, and the lack of the limb was almost certainly due to amputation. What this has to do with her fight, among other things about her can only be guessed at.

Special:

Her current Striker has been modified such that instead of simply rolling, it can perform special "jump" maneuvers which are quite unlike that of even the Average Tank Sniper in terms of its power and total possible altitude. Also, it has a tripod-extension function that deploys in order to help her land properly following such an audacious leap (think of it as landing on 3 tank tracks instead of only one on landing, which forms a sort of "three-legged" shape), and fire from a stationary position with her super-heavy cannon. As Tokiko, who often has a rather problematic time fixing the damages the former's Striker sustains would say, "I don't care how she stays on balance, I just thank Heaven she does!"

Personal Magic:

Type: -Manipulation-
Name: Crash Waltz
Function: ??

Typical Quote:

"Why can't we all just be on time? Being early is as bad as being late."




Patricia "Pat" Sawyer
"The Nailer"
Joint Mechanized Armored Infantry (Liberion) "Afrikakorps"
First Lieutenant, Independent Witch Brigade
Commander, Fireteam One
16 years old, Light Brown Hair, Golden-Brown Eyes, 157cm

The 'other' leader of Delta, although she would most certainly refer to Steph (who came up with the term first) in the exact same way. Hard as nails and tougher to kill, she is most certainly the stricter and more no-nonsense half of the duo. A lot of her life in North Africa tends to revolve around her rivalry with her Orussian equivalent, and as such, she often tries to put on a front of being different from her. Perceptively, however, Tokiko mentioned that actually Svetlana and Patricia are very much alike, "They both charge around a lot, just that Steph has a cooler head while doing it." And that's quite true: both of them are what Foch would call a "apostle of the attack", a person driven by the motto "j'attaque, j'attaque, j'attaque!" no matter what the situation. The only difference is the quality of their thought process, in which for now they are evenly matched: Svetlana is conscientious to the point of being a little slower, and on the other hand Patricia herself is quick-witted to the point of being a little too narrow in her judgement.

And her character is as such: She has a real need for speed, as well as an uncanny ability to adapt to change, fast-fast-fast, which is the direct opposite of Svetlana, who plans things out based on the big picture first before doing anything. And she's quite impatient as well, often chafing under what she perceives as unnecessary delays, such as the initial order for the 8th Army to stand down and dig in.

She has a penchant for giving people short forms and nicknames in place of their original given ones: "Steph" was a result of her inability to pronounce "Svetlana", and many others like "Kate" and "Tokie" are all a result of her tendency to just use whatever name's convenient to address others.

History/Achievements:

Pat is from NC in Liberion, and probably has the most normal history, at least until the Second War broke out, after which "no Witch's life would ever be normal again."

She has quite a bit of talent with commanding her tank fireteam, even one meant to be as unconventional as the IWB, and got down to it quite easily, unlike Steph, who had to get used to being in a group full of abnormal people. In a rare show of irritation, the latter said that "At least you've got experience." Pat almost immediately took offense at the suggestion that Liberians were weird, sparking a rather explosive outburst from her. But it cannot be denied that her adaptibility knows little bounds, even if her sense of tactics and intelligent warfare are not quite at Svetlana's level yet.

Special:

Pat is probably the fastest land member of the unit, and also one of the more maneuverable ones, due to the more speed/flexibility based nature of her TD-type Striker. However, she often complains about the lack of shielding, which makes life "difficult" for her, to which Shelley always yells at her "Go be a heavily armored, slow, bouncing tank, then!" The rest tell her something to that effect as well, proving that, as Steph would point out ironically, that "complaints do indeed transcend cultural understandings."

Personal Magic:

"Huh? What the hell'r you talkin' about?"

Typical Quote:

"Alright. Pick. Do you wanna get shot by me, or do you wanna get shot by me?"




Jeanette "Jean" Francis
"Frog Yeoman", "Wooden Wonder"
Joint Mechanized Air Infantry (Britannia/Gallia) "Afrikakorps"
Flight Officer, Independent Witch Brigade (Formerly of Arkforce)
Air Support, Fireteam Two
Unknown age (claims to be 17), Red Hair, Grey-ish eyes, Ruddy Beige, 160cm

Personality:

Some say she just doesn't care. Well, they're right, she just doesn't quite care. About her own safety, that is. Jeanette is extraordinarily reckless in combat, and even though she is a very skilled fighter pilot, this often endangers her life. She has a somewhat berserk streak and an almost suicidal way of fighting, which is due to her extraordinarly brash, heck-all attitude towards life, and also her (similarly to her Section commander) slight tendency towards heroic insubordination. Why this is so is pretty much unknown, except to perhaps Svetlana and the other two more sane members of the Arkforce Trio, who normally choose to keep quiet about it. Needless to say, she's probably one of the hardest people to work with in Delta Section due to her scrappy nature, uncouth speech mannerism, and love for a good tiff with someone, which normally gets on the nerves of the original members like the equally argumentative Barkmann and no-nonsense Shelley, although for different reasons.

Reversely, she always concerns herself personally with the safety of her teammates, which along with her skill is her saving grace, and as such, people just don't know whether to love her for being a 100%-reliable ally, or censure her for being so grumpy and rash. She is also pretty okay when she's pretty much drunk; as a matter of fact booze seems to make her less wild, and instead more lucid, and even a little moody sometimes, though this may be a moodswing-esque result of her boozing, which the Arkforce was treated to, combined with a classic stone-out and subsequent hangover from the airwoman. This side, however, is actually more pleasant (due most to being more docile and creepily sistaaaah-ly) and less supercharged with the fiery bigotry that the normal Jeanette tends to have.

Needless to say, though, she curses the most in Delta Section. God knows how her familiar puts up with her, but as expected of one from the lineage of collies and his namesake, Lemuel tolerates her nicely, and is in reality extremely loyal to her.

Achievements/History:

Jean herself states that she was born in Marseille, and that there's nothing really important that anyone needs to know about it, except that "It's six feet under Neuroi shit, and that I want it out.", which she blurted out during one of her drunken binges, with sufficient vehemence to make even the usually dauntless Janis blanch. The first anyone currently knows about her is from the rest of the Arkforce Trio: she was left behind with the 51st Highlanders and the 10th French Army after being wounded and considered MIA. She met there the acquaintance of a fellow injured pilot Maria Bellatoni and a single Britannian Tank Witch who had chosen to stay behind and hold the Neuroi long enough for the retreat to have been possible. She would have taken part in the valiant last stand of said units if she had her way, but the other two more or less dragged her bodily, kicking and screaming, off the field: They were ordered as Witches to retreat and attempt to get to safety along with the battered 154th of the Highlanders, who had taken the full brunt of the initial assault to their cost, thus preserving "what should, and what could be preserved."

Eventually, they successfully retreated to Romagna, where an important shipment was to be made, and a new force to be formed: A conglomerate based off the veterans of the initial Neuroi attack, the Arkforce, as well as their precious cargo of 3 Witches, and an additional Witch Ace from Orussia, Lieutenant Svetlana K. Usov, who was herself already a veteran of the regional battles in Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, which had been among the first to be mown down by the Neuroi juggernaut after Gallia and Karlsland fell. Jean quickly made friends with the moody Orussian in spite of both themselves, though at first it was only a relationship born out of respect for each other's skill in combat, whether using their Strikers or not. In a hand to hand spar, Jean easily beat her future commander in a fight that the latter would sheepishly describe as beng "like trying to fight three Neuroi without a Striker." There was apparently little room for complaint, so solid was the crushing. Five deck-falls to none.

As a fighter pilot, it is unsure how much she has really achieved, although with her reckless but ingenious flight techniques, as well as quick reflexes it can be imagined that she is a formidable opponent in battle for the Neuroi. She did mention in passing (more as a curse than anything) that prior to being shot down due to being wounded, she had "shot three of those ****** ***tards real good".

Special:

Her Striker is, you guessed it, part made out of laminated plywood, which honestly doesn't make much of difference, but it did earn her the name "Wooden Wonder" due to the sheer amount of disbelief that such a device could be of such great use. She often returns the compliment with "well, it [b]is[/b] cheaper." Her speciality in battle is the Peregrine Bullet Dive, a vertical, magic-enhanced dive that would cause most pilots to lose consciousness. Not so her though, she normally presses her carotid artery to stop that from happening during the helldive-type maneuver. She may be nuts, but she's not suicidal. Okay, she's mostly not suicidal. Having a dog must help.

Personal Magic:

Type: -Speed-Offense Oriented-
Name: Steel Crow
Function: ??

Typical Quote:

"I don't give a shit for who you think you are...BUT GET OUT OF MY GUNSIGHT!"



Maria Bellatoni
"Toledo"
Joint Mechanized Air Infantry (Romagna) "Afrikakorps"
Flight Officer, Independent Witch Brigade (Formerly of Arkforce)
Air Support, Fireteam One
15 years old, Grey Hair, Green-Grey Eyes, Pink-Biege, 143cm

Personality:

Maria is easily the most inconspicuous member of the unit. Not noticeably talented in any sense of the word, not particularly loud/soft-spoken, normal in temperament (neither particularly short-fused nor long-fused) nor in any way abnormal in terms of height or age. She is simply somewhere in the middle, the mean value of all values in the team, a "symbol of balance" as Pat would comment that she is. Which isn't a bad thing, having too many cracked and abnormal people in one unit can drive people quite mad. In a unit of extraordinarily diverse characters, she is probably the only one who does not lean too heavily towards any major extreme. As such, she like Tokiko tends to get along pretty alright with everyone, although she is loth to know anyone too well, exceptions being perhaps Janis and Jean, although this was also partially due to their situation at the time, which did not quite give her the liberty *not* to get to know them well.

Being rather pacifist in nature, Maria would rather not at all be in Africa, and often shows her resentment towards some of the more cruel aspects in war, which she rejects. She is also somewhat afraid of blood, to the point at which sometimes one must wonder what on earth she came here for, in which case she will simply answer "duty". She believes that as a Romangnan it is her duty to protect her nation with what she can do, regardless of whether she likes it or not, and much of her actions are driven by this rather Kantian idea of what she "ought" to be doing.

History/Achievements:

Maria, like her nickname suggests, is a fairly good bladesmith, having been born into a family with such a tradition. However, she normally only does this for recreation, and to date has only produced her own weapon: A Swiss Baselard which has not seen use as anything save perhaps an object of ornamental value if anything. As a Witch, most of her history lies with her association with Arkforce, and the Arkforce Witch Trio (see Janis Ackinson and Jeannette Francis)

Her record number of victories in one day is about 6 solo and 2 shared kills, which occured over the border of Romagna during the last leg of the Arkforce retreat, and it is to date the most impressive show of her skills as a Witch. It was also during that time when her own personal magic ended up being used, although due to some degree of personal secrecy, it is not known to what extent she can use it; it doesn't even have a name yet.

Special:

Remember the argument about whether air or ground units were superior? There was indeed one example of this, shortly after the Arkforce Trio and Steph joined up, along with Tokiko, where Maria offered to go up against Kate in a training duel, with the victory conditions being catching the enemy in one's gun camera for a long enough period of time to confirm a kill, or the battle ending in a position in which one of them would most certainly be dead, with the rest of the unit as the judge. To Kate's surprise, though, Maria simply scrapped risking the Ack-Ack altogether, and charged her opponent with her [i]Khanda[/i] with a Barreling Helldive, a technique she learnt at great risk from the team's berserker Jean during the Flight from Dunkirk when she was shot down. The result was quite clear: Maria ended up just behind Kate with the Sikh holy symbol at the back of the tanker's neck, her other hand holding the gun-arm down. It was a done deal after that.

Personal Magic:

-Unknown-

Typical Quote:

"Um, if you guys are going to continue like this...could I just go back to my room first?"



Janis Ackinson
"Myth Hunter"
Joint Mechanized Armored Infantry (Britannia) "Afrikakorps"
Trooper, Independent Witch Brigade (Formerly of Arkforce)
Tanker, Fireteam Two
14 years old, Light Blonde Hair, Blue Eyes, Tan-Brown, 144cm


"Realization of truth is higher than all else, but higher still is truthful living." This can be considered an axiom by Janis as her own way of living: In all things she strives to remain true to her heart. As such, she often acts in a very free spirited fashion, as one who is little burdened by the sorrows of life, even though she would herself admit that this is not completely so. However, as compared to the rest of the members, who have one problem or another, she seems to have few major ones, or else they just don't show. She enjoys peace and quiet, often meditating away from the hubbub of the main camp, and also takes joy in going out of her way to help others out. One such example was when she went to help serve dinner to the men at the front lines shortly after a combat action, much to their great surprise.

She is an advocate of equality and acceptance, at times quoting that "Some wear blue robes, and some wear white", even more so than any other: for her it is almost like a way of life. As an interestingly queer extension of this stand, she is the only member of the unit who is interested in finding out what the Neuroi are really thinking, how they think, or if they think at all in the first place, believing that they too must have a soul, or as she calls it, a [i]hukam[/i] or "will" inside them somewhere. "For all we know, underneath that black and red grid of death and madness, may indeed after all beat the heart of a being that believes in something, and searches for some truth that we as yet do not understand...perhaps, even they are confused, lost, and need to go home." As such, she can be a little hesitant to land killing blows on them, feeling that it is akin to murder in some way, and it is also for this reason that she is often assigned to be the team's combat medic, rather than take on a direct combat role, though if forced, she will not hesitate to defend herself or a teammate.

Her familiar is a Mudhol Hound named "Kagdha", who was originally given to her as a test of her virtue, as such dogs were often not easy to breed to an ideal degree of temperament. So far, she has done rather well.

Achievements/History:

Janis is not Britainnian per se: Her roots lie in the Sikh, a religion from Northern India. Her mother was an Indian, while her father was a Britannian soldier stationed there prior to the Second Neuroi War. There, she had originally trained to be what the Sikhs called a saint-soldier, as a form of her service and devotion to God. But although it was a part of the saint soldier's duty to "lay his or her life down for the poor and the weak, regardless of race, religion, sex or creed", the outbreak of the second war made a new sort of meaning for her battle, as her father chose to go to war. She subsequently joined the Britannian Armored Corps on the sly as a colony trooper along with not a few others for mixed reasons. Before her departure, she was given a pocket copy of the [i]Guru Granth Sahib[/i] (the primary Sikh scripture) by her tearful mother, and was told to take care of herself.

Arguably, the Khalsa-in-training (note the lack of the 'Kaur' in her name that should signify a full-fledged baptised Sikh) is the most skilled hand-to-hand combatant in Delta, although she lost to Jean quite often during their time in Arkforce when they sparred, possibly due to a difference in combat philsophy, as the two have come to agree on (after a few more deck-hitting on both sides, of course). She trains and meditates daily in order to maintain inner calm and outward edge amid the chaos of war, and as such is able to maximize her skills with her weapons through constant practice, although she found that fighting Neuroi tends to be a different thing altogether, as their firepower makes close-range combat a lot more difficult. Still, she isn't too bad: Even before she learnt to operate her heavy gun properly, she had already taken out two of the enemy with just her Kirpan. (She considers this a mere event of luck, due to the fact that were only 2 enemies anyway, and that their weakness had already been exposed at that point of time by fire from her two pilot allies from Arkforce.)

Interestingly, Janis has a large collection of unusual weapons right from the colonies which she keeps in her travel trunk, and more interestingly for her fellow Witches, refuses to let anyone view its contents after Steph accidentally found the trunk open following a near fatal discovery (only her reflexes saved her from falling onto something altogether unpleasant).

Special:

Janis has a very unique style of fighting, using her traditional weaponry in perfect synchro with her modern tank gun, which when coupled with her excellent foot/trackwork allows her to ripsaw smoothly through even multiple Neuroi without giving them much time to concentrate fire or recover. As a matter of fact, she attached a single [i]Pata[/i] (gauntlet blade) to her 76-er, which she can then draw conveniently following a shot to capitalize on the opening created. She is also naturally ambidextrous, unlike Ellise, whose pseudo-ambidexterity is trained.

Special Magic:

"..." *continues meditating*
(Probably doesn't have one)

Typical Quote:

"If there is only one breath, and all are made of the same clay...then why do we fight?"




Hara Tokiko
"Fix-it"
Joint Mechanized Armored Infantry (Fuso) "Afrikakorps"
Sergeant Major (曹長, Sōchō), Independent Witch Brigade
Combat Engineer/Tank Mechanic
14 years old, Black Hair, Black Eyes, Pale Beige, 141cm


Personality:

Two words: Insanely Hardworking. That more or less sums up one half of her basic characteristics. Focused and meticulous almost to a fault, she puts in, as the rest would have it, "one hundred and ten percent" effort into everything that she does, even if she isn't very good at it to start with. If faced with a problem, she'll bend over backwards, think outside the box, and attack it from every angle conceivable to her in that timeframe just to get it to work, and get it to work as best as she possibly can. And Providence never failed the hardworking; given time, she will eventually get it to work, and more often than not, to quote a satisfied Tokiko on such gratifying results as she says it with the air of a pleased parent, "run like silk." A weird side to this is that she is pretty 'close' in that sense of the word to some of her tools, and even to her Striker, which she calls her "masterpiece". She apparently calls it "Chichi-chan", playing on the first part of the Type 5 tank's model name "Chi-Ri".

She hangs out pretty well with just about anybody in the group, even the more abrasive Barkmann and Jeanette, possibly due to her cheery disposition which no one can seem to get up the stones to argue with, and her normally rather passive self (well, who'd piss off someone who fixes your stuff for you?), but more because she is a rather peaceful mediator between arguing parties, unlike Janis, who tends to mediate by power of force, and as such she normally proceeds to break spats up between arguing members with the blessing of the two commanders, who sometimes have their own issues with proceeding about solving these problems (Pat makes no excuses for this, saying that "Oh well, I think I'd slap you people silly first rather than smile and say hi...", while Steph usually stands aloof and says that "That's called delegating duties."). She does lose her background girl image where mechanics and the like are concerned though, she almost seems to jump to and immediately start playing the slave-driver immediately, not even hesitating to order her superiors in Delta Section around. Alright, granted that there are technically only two of them, it's not such a bad thing, since they have a fair enough sense of humor to deal with that.

Most alarmingly, she doesn't have the thing called "nerves of steel" which most of her teammates have, which, according to Pat and Shelley (yes, they do occasionally release statements together [i]a la[/i] Gwendolen and Cecily from Wilde's IoBE), is the equivalent if not superior of having balls of steel ([s]damn Liberian Feminist Ultras![/s]), and can break into incapacitating hysterics if pushed over the edge. The cure to that, normally, is to get her out of the physically limiting Striker, and put her behind the steering wheel of a motorized vehicle. It seems to work.

Alternatively, the presence of her pure-white Akita-ken familiar, Benji, is a re-assuring one.

Ahievements/History:

Not much is actually known about Tokiko, she doesn't talk about it much, and due to the lack of presence in terms of Fuso personel (it's near zero), there's no one with whom one can inquire about her. Personally, most of her teammates tacitly don't mind her silence, and as such ostensibly don't give two hoots about her unwillingness to speak, their common way of expression being epitomized Maria's "It doesn't matter what past you've got. If you're here, I'll treat you like I treat anyone else: like a fellow human being. Not as though you aren't that or something, are you?"

In terms of her combat prowess, Svetlana's command dossier that she filed for herself summarizes her abilities: "Second-rate gunman, Third-rate Witch, but first-rate mechanic, and first-rate [i]ganbare[/i] (to borrow the Fusogo term) Witch." As a Witch in Fuso, she did not possess much natural talent as a fighter or even as one with powerful magic ability, but she was blessed with a nigh indomitable spirit, and a pair of good hands for working with all things mechanical, which was recognized early by her superiors, who then came up with the idea of having a Witch in the role of being like a highly mobile emergency supply line, and as as a result, she subsequently became the first of, and later the leader of a combat engineer group with the Fuso Armored Infantry. This is not to say, of course, that she is limited to being a mechanic and such: She is also the group's resident crazy (though luckily not life-threatening) driver, and as such, a very good choice for being their mobile logistics shipment driver. Summarizing this trait of hers very well is Ellise's first (and last) comments after taking a "very tame spin" with her. After a few moments of complete incoherence in speech, and at last sputtering "D-d...amn it...her driving's all good against the Neuroi...hhere, but back in Karlsland...we would've...banned her from driving. For...life...", the Karlslander threw up about twice and was incapacitated till dinner, when the smell and taste of food somewhat (and only somewhat) revived her. However, Tokiko herself seemed relatively unaffected, even refreshed by what must have been a hellish experience for the former.

There is something to be said about that mobile logistics shipment driver, though, which she considers to be her greatest achievement so far: Often, her Striker is attached via harness to it, and using the magic engine, it is capable of providing magic shielding and also some cover fire and not to mention extra speed and maneuverability, which helps her mad, wild-child driving quite a great deal. This 'little innovation' in terms of the integration of the twin vehicles is something that she is most proud of, and it shows in her shockingly imperious move in having her original machine reverse engineered and brought to Africa in parts, from where she then proceeded to re-assemble it in a surprisingly short time for a solo job, since no one else actually knew how to do that in spite of her bringing the schematics and blueprints along. It is called "Chichi Mk II", as a vague homage to the way the Britannians (who are the majority in Afrika other than the Karlslanders) name their tanks, and most of all, she can't use it in any way but drive it for now.

Special:

Tokiko can fix just about any tank there is in North Africa, and almost all planes, so long as it can be fixed and there are spare parts to fix it with if needed; if not, she improvises. Notably, though, she can't fix the Mosquito should it be damaged by enemy action/friendly fire, and is still working on some scenarios for the Campini, which she has never seen. Her skills, though, are veritable to the point that both the non-Striker and Striker tank crews assigned to Delta Section swear by them. This mostly owes to the fact that she received a great deal of training back in Fuso into the workings and schematics of different Strikers and tanks created all over the world, and it is quite possible that she had already reverse engineered a lot of these weapons and incorporated their good points into her own Striker prior to her assignment to North Africa. As such, her Tank Striker is occasionally able to make up for her problematic skills, although it's still the most over-engineered of the lot (a problem which she has yet to fix, she states that it's a long-term WIP), and the most challenging repair job.

Her most most common quote with regards to this is "watashi ga naosenee nara, kowareneenda!" (If I can't fix it, it ain't broke!) and then a *insert Type-V hand sign here*

Special Magic:

Who needs special magic when you've got 1337 techie skills?

Typical Quote:

*panicked firing* "Stop running around! Keep still so I can shoot you!" *panicked firing*

Independent Witch Brigade - Section Delta Sigma (Fire Support Group)




Anna Vasily Panfilova
"Red Scar" (Arkforce Cargo)
Rank Unknown, Independent Witch Brigade
Sniper/Guerilla Warfare Specialist
20-something years old, Unknown Hair Color, Red Eyes, Pale Beige, around 160-ish.

Personality:

Anna speaks little, and associates even less with other people, only speaking when spoken to by either Pat or Steph. Misanthropic and distant, she is not an easy character to get to.

Points of Note:

Svetlana recognizes her shooting style as that of one of her former acquaintances during the early Orussian campaigns, which she had taken part in until before the Moscow campaign. Her noticeable point is a flurry of red "scars" that run across her body that her well-covered clothing does not entirely hide, and her red and black ensemble that she wears almost all the time. She came in with Arkforce's Romagnan cargo, apparently with orders to join the fighting in North Africa. Her current rank is an unknown value, although it is assumed that she kept her old one. An expert sniper and sapper, she is essential to creating fireteam/section chokepoints for the team's more defensive-oriented members (such as Ellessa) to exploit. She herself is known to be able to destroy a Neuroi in one shot quite easily, even though it seems that she is a non-Witch. So far, she rarely shows her face save perhaps to Delta Section, preferring to wear a hooded Orussian greatcoat wherever she goes.

Typical Quote:

"Not this time, girls...I'll retire...somewhere."