Three Years Earlier
From Whitefox to Eisgarten
On the other side of one night in Whitefox Penal Colony’s boreal embrace Sherry and her group of five met another smaller group of four trainees who had run through the same drill the night before. Each nodded at them and offered their chairs, rushing to pour them a cup of coffee and push a warm bowl of oatmeal into their timid hands.
“That part is over, thank your kin and ancestors twice!” a young handsome man offered them, “Next is Eisgarten I think, to train combatives with Heydendahl PMC!” he declared.
Sherry found the young man attractive, maybe, but she wasn’t exactly sure what anything meant yet still. “What are you?” Sherry asked the young man. Members of his group and hers shuddered, they had been woken up at all hours of the night to the sound of moans and barking hounds with this same question: what are you?
“I’m Theodore Goetzel, my friends here all call me Todd though, who are you?” the young man replied affably. The others there with him all shot Todd nasty looks, they were not his friends. Sheryl-Lynn winced again, this time through a splitting headache that the bright lights in this room did not help at all. “It doesn’t matter who the fuck you are, Todd. Shut up and let us eat!” Sherry sliced.
The next day they were in the sun again, not a warm sun, but true liberating natural light. Eisgarten’s volcanic mountains and icecaps loomed in the periphery as the small group of trainees marched to their next task. Captain Reeves was there again, marching them along in revolutionary war cadence, the Sylvanian revolution of course.
“Mark time march, group halt, left face” Reeves rattled off, “Now what the hell did Engellachians contribute to the Sylvanian Revolution that the mixblood blockhead Sylvanians couldn’t do themselves?”
“Captain, Wilbur Rydell hired my ancestors the Freikorps Ostmarkische Grenadiers who tipped the scales, Captain Reeves!” Theodore Goetzle chirped.
“Shut the fuck up Todd,” Reeves reprimanded, “Sure the Ostmarkians took this volcanic shithole that only trendy tourists and wannabe Ostmarkians enjoy, but no Todd, it was the Running Rifle Militia employed by General Skip Valance!”
Sherry held back a smirk, she knew what this was, and learning it would be another physical and mental nightmare. Skip’s Militia didn’t just run to the battle for miles on end, they would then dive into the dirt and aim, then fire their shot. It was actually a joke for the entire war Sherry’s Cussian step father had told her several times, yet Skips odd style of sprinting, diving, then cracking off a shot on target actually matured when rifles began to repeat reliably.
For the next week Sherry and the other repeated this sprint, dive, and shoot on target drill over until their bruises were bruised. They practiced with grenades and were tackled hard into the mud each time before the explosion just because the safety officers enjoyed the ritual. And best of all they gained confidence with these tools of violence as if they were hammers and nails.
Easter Sunday, 3:00am
The Bungalow
Chinde, Port Stanley
Sherry turned from the window, sprinted to the bed, and dove on top of William MacLeod. “Will we have to go, this is our, this is your chance!”
The young lady dragged the young man out of bed and fed garments at him like a machine gun. “Hurry hurry, Will!” she sang to him, glad she stopped herself from calling him a robot. In a few moments they were sliding down stairs and Sherry had her finger in her mouth to whistle for the party of nine to stop.
“Y’all got room for two more?” Sherry shouted as they caught up, “William of Clan MacLeod can lend a hand, and a sidekick, to your cause!”
Realizing that these were meaningless statements she simply put her hands on her hips and said: “I won the Ironsights Yammasaw Grand Prix in Beautancus last year, that’s a three day march, swim, shoot race. We’re coming with you!”
From Whitefox to Eisgarten
On the other side of one night in Whitefox Penal Colony’s boreal embrace Sherry and her group of five met another smaller group of four trainees who had run through the same drill the night before. Each nodded at them and offered their chairs, rushing to pour them a cup of coffee and push a warm bowl of oatmeal into their timid hands.
“That part is over, thank your kin and ancestors twice!” a young handsome man offered them, “Next is Eisgarten I think, to train combatives with Heydendahl PMC!” he declared.
Sherry found the young man attractive, maybe, but she wasn’t exactly sure what anything meant yet still. “What are you?” Sherry asked the young man. Members of his group and hers shuddered, they had been woken up at all hours of the night to the sound of moans and barking hounds with this same question: what are you?
“I’m Theodore Goetzel, my friends here all call me Todd though, who are you?” the young man replied affably. The others there with him all shot Todd nasty looks, they were not his friends. Sheryl-Lynn winced again, this time through a splitting headache that the bright lights in this room did not help at all. “It doesn’t matter who the fuck you are, Todd. Shut up and let us eat!” Sherry sliced.
The next day they were in the sun again, not a warm sun, but true liberating natural light. Eisgarten’s volcanic mountains and icecaps loomed in the periphery as the small group of trainees marched to their next task. Captain Reeves was there again, marching them along in revolutionary war cadence, the Sylvanian revolution of course.
“Mark time march, group halt, left face” Reeves rattled off, “Now what the hell did Engellachians contribute to the Sylvanian Revolution that the mixblood blockhead Sylvanians couldn’t do themselves?”
“Captain, Wilbur Rydell hired my ancestors the Freikorps Ostmarkische Grenadiers who tipped the scales, Captain Reeves!” Theodore Goetzle chirped.
“Shut the fuck up Todd,” Reeves reprimanded, “Sure the Ostmarkians took this volcanic shithole that only trendy tourists and wannabe Ostmarkians enjoy, but no Todd, it was the Running Rifle Militia employed by General Skip Valance!”
Sherry held back a smirk, she knew what this was, and learning it would be another physical and mental nightmare. Skip’s Militia didn’t just run to the battle for miles on end, they would then dive into the dirt and aim, then fire their shot. It was actually a joke for the entire war Sherry’s Cussian step father had told her several times, yet Skips odd style of sprinting, diving, then cracking off a shot on target actually matured when rifles began to repeat reliably.
For the next week Sherry and the other repeated this sprint, dive, and shoot on target drill over until their bruises were bruised. They practiced with grenades and were tackled hard into the mud each time before the explosion just because the safety officers enjoyed the ritual. And best of all they gained confidence with these tools of violence as if they were hammers and nails.
Easter Sunday, 3:00am
The Bungalow
Chinde, Port Stanley
Sherry turned from the window, sprinted to the bed, and dove on top of William MacLeod. “Will we have to go, this is our, this is your chance!”
The young lady dragged the young man out of bed and fed garments at him like a machine gun. “Hurry hurry, Will!” she sang to him, glad she stopped herself from calling him a robot. In a few moments they were sliding down stairs and Sherry had her finger in her mouth to whistle for the party of nine to stop.
“Y’all got room for two more?” Sherry shouted as they caught up, “William of Clan MacLeod can lend a hand, and a sidekick, to your cause!”
Realizing that these were meaningless statements she simply put her hands on her hips and said: “I won the Ironsights Yammasaw Grand Prix in Beautancus last year, that’s a three day march, swim, shoot race. We’re coming with you!”