Music: http://media.putfile.com/Brother-Battle-March

The glaring red light of the sun's final descent bled across the rocky terrain ahead of the trekking unit, casting the land in a harsh fiery gleam. The troops marched in step, their shadows passing along the uneven path like rows of resolute phantoms. Their armor shone in the crimson light like blazing silver, shields on their backs and swords at their sides, rifles resting ready on their shoulders. Ranks of Eskatonic and Avestite theurgists marched with them, their blue and scarlet robes mixing with the brown tabards of the Brother Battle, staffs and flameguns in their grasp.

Up the rugged slopes of the northern Istal mountains they marched, through the summit nexus of the eastern highlands, over the arching precipices above the northeast valley, and across the uplands overlooking the east canyon, until at long last they approached the rendezvous point on the northernmost crest of the Istal mountain range.

Night had fallen hours ago, and the mountain top laid shrouded in darkness. The company's armored ranks glinted faintly in the starlight.

"Stitum!" ordered the Captain with a raised hand, and the unit halted.

One of the Brother Battle sergeants brought a squawker to his mouth and spoke, "Primus has arrived at rendezvous. All Ghost-Runners, report in."

One by one, the company's scouts revealed themselves, appearing from behind rock outcroppings and crevices, their forms shifting colors as they each deactivated their chameleon suits' camouflage systems.

"Ghost-Runner One, reporting in." radioed the first as he approached the unit.

"Ghost-Runner Two, reporting in." replied the next, following.

"Ghost-Runner Three, reporting in." echoed a third, joining the others.

Lieutenant Eduardo's sergeant also spoke into his squawker, "The strike unit has arrived at the rendezvous point. Scryers, report in."

Two more figures materialized from the surrounding rock faces as their chameleon suits reverted from camouflage, radioing in as they moved to regroup with the Manifest Light platoon.

"Scryer One, reporting in." said the first.

"Scryer Two, reporting in." followed the other.

Each came before the sergeant and saluted, before filing into their respective positions within the platoon's ranks.
This message was last edited by the GM at 06:52, Mon 14 Apr 2008.

Their tread was resolute.  From her foxhole, Chance watched.  And thought.  And tried to think less.  War was, despite her record and her rank in the garrison, not her purview.  She was a survivor.  She had to trust that those in charge knew what they were doing.  The alternative was just too depressing to even consider.

It was probably possible to tell that the scouts had been working together, alone, for a long time simply because of how they fell into step.  Ghost Runner One approached the unit.  Then Ghost Runner Two.  Then Ghost Runner Three.  Then, without deviation, without a hint of individuality:

"Ghost Runner Four, reporting in."

The fourth one.  The woman's voice was still just smoke, cool, controlled, despite the fact that the glinting, glimmering ranks could be more than enough of a sign for any nearby symbiot.  Just who was still watching them?
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:57, Mon 14 Apr 2008.

Her troop came to a stop as the scouts reported in briefly and the movement of the Symbiots was confirmed. So far it seemed their own actions had gone unnoticed by their enemy and with any luck it would stay that way until the last possible moment.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:52, Sat 26 Apr 2008.

The Ghost-Runners and Scryers rejoined their respective platoons, filing into the ranks. Harper found her sergeant waiting for her with his characteristic seriousness, but as they exchanged salutes, he gave her a faint, approving nod.

Harper was not one of the Brother Battle, and never would be. She, like many of the conscripts filling the ranks of the Scions of Zhal, had been absorbed into the legion due to the extreme shortages of troops in the regular garrison ever since the Commander withdrew the Regency's forces to attack the al-Malik worlds. With the main bulk of the Regency's legions gone, and the steadily dwindling numbers of their remaining forces in the years since the withdrawal, it was no longer feasible for their remnants to operate independently; they lacked the necessary size, command structure, and support to function as separate legions.

The Brother Battle had their own problems as well. While not having to deal with large withdrawals of troops, they did occasionally suffer casualties. The Scions of Zhal could not simply replace their losses through conscription - it required years of training to become a Combat Brother. Instead, they employed "auxiliary troops" - troops who were not sworn to the Brother Battle Order themselves, but served in their military. With the Stigmata Garrison's severe shortages, many of these auxiliaries came from the remnants of the Regency's legions themselves.

Harper was one of these. Though technically having signed on with the 6th Legion, she and the other recruits had been immediately transferred into the Scions of Zhal as auxiliaries. As such, she had spent her service surrounded by Brother Battle soldiers, theurgists, and officers who shared very little in common with her. It was definitely a departure from the life of a Scraver on Byzantium Secundus. Many of her platoon had regarded her with suspicion and distrust at first - several still did. But over the past year and a half of her service, she had demonstrated certain reliable qualities which had endeared her to some of the Brothers - including her staff sergeant. And it was with this understated respect that he regarded her these days.

The other three Ghost-Runners were directed back into the platoon's ranks. "Ghost-Runner Four," said the sergeant before Harper joined them, "take point."

Lieutenant Eduardo's sergeant selected one of his Scryers and sent him to scout ahead of the unit's position. The Scryer, a clairvoyant Penitent in a chameleon suit, saluted the sergeant and jogged ahead down the eastern slope of the mountain.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:22, Thu 26 Aug 2010.

When her sergeant nodded his approval, her mouth tugged into a half-smile -- easy as kissing, easy as getting killed. Maybe easier. There was no tension in the smile, no jolt of whatever it is you get from kissing or being killed; just humor, just awareness. Take point, he said. "Sir," she replied. Then she saluted, again. Then she said, "Be sharp."

Then she disappeared. Not literally, of course, because she didn't turn her chameleon suit on again until she'd gained some distance from the glimmering, glittering force on whom so much rested just now. The suits didn't run on air, after all. And she was broke.

But she left, and she didn't linger, and she didn't look back.
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:30, Thu 24 Apr 2008.