You rallied your men to a last stand [+ Divine Blood]

You are a Hero of War.

You laughed when the orders came. Even a Fusilier can count to a hundred and seventy-seven – that much ammunition remained for your squad. And even the brightest mathematician would have struggled to count the massing Foe – for they numbered in the thousands.

Your squad shared in your grim amusement – for HIM’s finest generals had decreed that you die. The others, the remnants of battered regiments, did not handle it well. Some gave in to despair, and others spoke of desertion and fouler treason.

Those that ran were the first to die. The Fey sniffed them out, and you may never forget the sounds. The gnashing of teeth and the breaking of bones. The screams. Unimaginable pain followed by a horrible ****.

Those that stayed lived for a while longer. They were shaking at first, and even your crack-shots held too close to their rifles. You did not mince words. The end was nigh and most of you would die. You did not expect to survive. But your words convinced them, and you convinced yourself. You rationed out the bullets and ordered them to affix bayonets.

Then came the slaughter. The flashing of silver and steel. Blood-quenching wails gurgled from pierced lungs. The carrion smell of ****.

The False Fusilier pulled you out from under their corpses and then collapsed herself. No one won on that accursed hill. The orders to retreat came a day later. You survived, slipping in and out of a comma throughout your time at various tent hospitals and houses of healing.

Colonels were promoted, and Generals were awarded their merits. You may have qualified for either, but you never wore the uniform again. Your papers are in order – you think – but even the land itself felt firm no longer.

The Captain had heard rumours – about your exploits and about your skills – and she offered you a job. You accepted and the Sea of Mists – however dangerous – has healed some wounds. The Demeter is a poor salve for an ailing soul, but she is the best you got.