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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.

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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.

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