by Helen W

Sergeant Ambriel Chermes, twenty-five, hunkers down against a tree-bole in the Garden Lands, wrapping her thin regulation cloak around her for wamth.


It's Lofty, the little Islands lad. 'Lofty' is a joke; he's five foot nothing of scrawny nerves.

“Yes, private?”

“Sarge, I'm scared.”

He's right to be scared. It's cold, and it's dark, and the weather's bastarding, and the lieutenant died three days ago with a Bodach arrow in his chest, and none of them are sure they'll be home for Solstice. Or ever.

“No need, Lofty. We're doing just fine.”

“Right you are, Sarge.”

misc/fiction/campaigning.txt · Last modified: 2011/04/05 19:34 by osj01
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