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]
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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...
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.
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