agogelogs | AND THE ANZAC LEGENDS DIDN'T MENTION...

AND THE ANZAC LEGENDS DIDN'T MENTION...

AND THEN SOMEONE YELLED OUT "CONTACT!";

and the bloke behind me swore

THE SILENT WAR

The news of the day of the retreat spreads like wildfire through the Trenches. Leading up to the final date, all soldiers on the ground are instructed to limit their gunfire, to make it look like the usual traditions for warfare, which have determined much of human history up until this point: no one really goes to war in winter. Everyone is to maintain a verbal and physical presence, but the time to confuse the Turks has really become paramount. At times, whole sections are ordered to be perfectly quiet until the last possible second and then spring out before the Turks can get too close.

Which is just how it is supposed to be. In fact, for COST recruits, there's a real sense that this might just go according to plan.

Around this time, the Rear Guard signup starts. COST recruits are met with some surprise by Captain Lewis; he will blink in surprise at a group so new wanting to volunteer so readily, but he's glad and gives everyone who joins a big warm handshake.

Each day gets closer and the mood of the soldiers becomes more jubilant and tenser; the erratic sense of relief that they might be leaving what has become the graveyard of so many friends and, often times, family, combines with the frustration of not being able to do anything but wait. This leads to more than a few fights breaking out, often over nothing important. Just the edge of temporary relief.

Then, before dawn on Jan 7th, the evacuation begins in earnest. It's possible to see it from the top of some sections: a bustling populace until it trickles down to the ghost of the Trenches, where there is nothing left but the rear guard. It's a smooth, efficient evacuation.

The Rear Guard

This is a skeleton army, just enough to make it seem no one has left. Everyone is encouraged to come up with ways to make it seem like there are more men than there actually are.

The local soldiers have come up with a particularly sneaky one - a rope is wrapped around the trigger of a rifle, just loose enough not to pull it, and from the end of it hangs a bucket. Another container slowly drips water into the bucket until it fills and drops, pulling the rope around the trigger and firing the gun. Soldiers are tasked with emptying the water, refilling the cannister, or checking the gun if it looks like it has jammed.

Outside of that, if someone has a sneaky idea to keep up the ruse - even if it's lighting small fires or singing loudly in a chorus to give the notion of people still around - it's all encouraged.

THE THUNDER OF GUNS

Everything is going well. It's not even that worrying when a thick mist comes up, heavy and difficult to see through. But, for those with powers, it prickles oddly on bare skin, followed by a pressure that builds in the back of the mind. It seems to dull any extra powers or senses; magic and its ilk are still usable, but require more concentration to reach now.

In the stillness of the night, however, there is no breeze to move the fog on and it settles like oil through the trench.

It's 1am when the first shell drops. It falls to the east of the recruits' position at Lone Pine. It's a shell that comes down and splits apart the night air in an explosion of shrapnel, dirt and heat. Then a second, then a third, now starting from both sides.

All the soldiers' clamour out of the way and Captain Lewis can be heard shouting over the din: "Into the Tunnels!"

But not everyone can make it. The shells are coming steadily now and one step in the wrong direction is the difference between life and death in such a small space. It's chaos - some soldiers are killed outright. Others get buried under the debris and dirt. Others catch shrapnel that, if not fatal, is enough to throw them and make it hard to get up. But COST's mission is the same as it always is: save as many of these men's lives as possible.

There are four direct entries into the tunnels, all about four or five meters apart, and they're all interconnected within the tunnels themselves.

One by one, however, shells fall and destroy the entrances to the tunnels.

WARTIME ARCHEOLOGY

It takes another three hours for the bombardment to stop and, once the tunnel entrances collapse, it becomes very dark in there. Might be time to fish out a match and strike up a torch.

While Officers previously told soldiers to keep out of the tunnels and otherwise left them ignored, these tunnels are huge. Not like the ones in other sections of the coast; here, they seem to go far into No Man's Land. They're crudely constructed and only some sections are reenforced with heavy beams of wood. But once journeying into them, there are all sorts of things to be found. There are old gas lamps that can be used to light your way or hung on a secure nook or cranny. The stone has been worn smooth in some sections, and other parts have been carved with graffiti of the soldiers who cut them out.

Some locations go down a few steps, while others go up and small holes seem to have been dug through the roof of the tunnels.

It's definitely best to get away from the front of the tunnels, where the bombing is still going on. There are wounded to be seen to and secured from bleeding out, people to find to make sure everyone is still alive. Maybe you want to go farther into the interweaving tunnels to see what else can be recovered. Or maybe you're being stubbornly sensible and looking for a way to dig your way out again, once the bombs stop firing.

Either way, it's a long, exhausting wait in the dark as the ground shakes, showering dust and rocks over everyone.

INTO THE DAWN

The sun has risen when the firing stops - and it's time to search for a way out of here.

Stepping into the light reveals utter destruction. The concentrated bombing has done its work; everything is strewn or buried in dirt and rubble. Machine guns are overturned and parts of the Trench have collapsed; going over the top would be disastrous, given that the Turks have no idea what is happening and will pick off anyone who sticks their head up.

There also isn't...anyone else around. All that's left is this one segment of the rear guard, just 500 men and the COST soldiers. It isn't possible to discern if the other groups have been evacuated or killed at this point.

It's time to consolidate, count their losses, see who is alive and who isn't, and salvage what supplies are left after some digging clean up is done. Work out who needs to stand watch. For now, Captain Lewis' orders are to use the tunnels as a new base of operations.

SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

They appear first as a shimmer of off-light, no more than a haze against the resettling mist. A faint shape against the grey - the long lines of a dog's face, almost Jackal-like, in a clean black uniform that gives more to the appearance of shadows - moves closer, but not too close. They could almost be a trick of the light, out of the corner of your eye. Almost intangible.

They're not moving closer, however, choosing to hang back in the rubble of the Trenches. The ANZAC soldiers don't seem to notice them at all.

Ten minutes after they're first spotted, Commander Grothia issues a priority message:

Contact. Regency soldiers. Do not engage.

If a shot does get fired that way, whether it's from Turkish or ANZAC soldiers unknowingly or from COST operatives: it's quick but, as the bullet seems to come into contact with them, the air around them shimmers blue, like it's hitting a field of light. This effect seems to be stronger when they're standing close together and, as of now, they remain unhurt.

Moving closer to them increases that feeling of mind fog on powered characters; for the unmagical, a sense of unease prickles up. It's a feeling not unlike the beginnings of the time-step, the hum of sensation that marks a transfer through time. Veteran recruits will easily recognize the buzz that dances through their bones before it stills as they move away; rookies might recall it from their initial arrival from BASE.

READ THE OOC INFOPAGE.

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

a. The Thunder of Guns; i
[ He's not sure what happens to trigger the mist, but Meliorn feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin. It's subtle at first, like his uniform doesn't quite fit (the fabric has been driving him crazy this entire excursion anyway) or his helmet is itchy. It gets worse as the moments drag on. Whatever it is, he doesn't like it, and he's never been one to ignore feelings like this. Seelie aren't as instinctual and primal as werewolves, but that doesn't mean they don't listen to their gut. Right now, Meliorn's gut is telling him that something's very, very unusual.

He's by a fire when he pieces it together, and instead of his usual (if strange) habit of looking like he's in a near meditative state he's all lines and rigidity, back squared perfectly, not hunched but looming. He knows what the mist is suddenly and all at once. ]

The mist. It dulls. [ His eyes narrow, staring into the flames. ] It's wrong. Something's coming.

b. The Thunder of Guns; ii
[ It happens all at once, and some strange part of Meliorn is almost glad for more action--more action means less waiting, less of how things Aren't Right festering. They're being bombed--bombed? That's the right word, he thinks, but doesn't have time to dwell for a single second, instead ducking for cover. Shrapnel falls, people scatter, voices scream, and Meliorn snaps into action.

The person he grabs has metal in his leg and is unable to walk. Meliorn's certain he can smell the blood from him until he realizes his shoulder has been cut as well--red bleeds through, not green, courtesy of COST. The pain is easy to ignore when adrenaline shifts through your body--and he grabs the soldier, can't be more than 20--and lifts. He's not a particularly buff man, nor is he tall, but it looks almost effortless as he dashes for the tunnels. ]

I think there was someone else behind me. [ He calls it over his shoulder, his first priority getting the wounded soldier out. ]

c. Wartime Archeology;
[ His haul is a little better than others, he thinks, even if it tastes awful. Sitting in the cramped tunnels with only a single lamp to illuminate him and the others around, Meliorn has a pair of dog tags that certainly aren't his wrapped around his wrist. If others keep trophies, he may as well, too, despite the fact that the tags belong to an ally. He'll dispense of them properly later--more important are the three boxes of hard tack he has tucked neatly in front of him.

He's disappointed it tastes awful, truth be told. The first thing he's going to do when he's out of the tunnels is try to find some sort of vegetable to eat, and the second is going to be alcohol that doesn't make him gag.

He exhales slowly, taking the box he'd opened previously and silently passing it around. Let them think it's a generous action instead of the fact that he can't stand to eat anything that's this displeasing to his palette. ]

d. Into the Dawn;
[ They're out, and not a moment too soon. They scrape and shuffle and bang around, looking for light and an entrance and Meliorn hardly realizes that at some point he'd grabbed onto someone's shoulder and squeezed. It's the dark--his kind are used to lush forests, everything aglow with ethereal quality. Not dark. Not the abyss. It gets to him, after a time, and he doesn't realize just how much until he sees the entrance and all but bowls over the person in front of him, gasping for air in a rather inelegant display. He doesn't care.

He's finally outside. ]

e. Closed to Hux;
[ Meliorn had been distracted before he saw them, focusing on light--light, the sun's rays and what little warmth it has to offer is infinitely better than the darkness where demons dwell--until he gets the alert.

The first thing he does is find Armitage. There are a myriad of reasons as to why: he's a capable fellow, he craves some form of leadership, and he's smarter than most of the people in the trenches. Every single one of them boils down to one simple fact: by now, Armitage might have an idea or two as to how to even approach something like this, and Meliorn, at his core, is a soldier. He just prefers to choose who he follows when it's not his Queen. ]

They're responsible for the mist before the shells, I'm sure of it.

[ It's what he says as greeting, standing straight, hands clasped in front of him. ]

It felt like lead weighting the senses.

Edited 2018-02-04 22:22 (UTC)

[ Merlin likes the mist less and less as it persists. He spent several hours just gazing into it with the sign of Logrus and get absolutely nowhere in figuring out the fog's origin or purpose. He had to give away the sign a while ago due to the dampening effect of it, but not before he glimpsed the true visage of this man who is now talking about the mist as if he knows what he's saying. His confidence combined with the curious illusions set upon him make Merlin wonder if he actually has some insight on the peculiar phenomenon that seems to linger but actively do nothing more.

He glances at the man from the corner of his eye, quietly considering him for a moment before he ventures a question: ] Something is coming? Why do you say that?

A feeling. [ It's not meant to be dismissive, though it probably comes off that way--Meliorn has simply learned to boil it down to the facts when actually telling something that matters. It's strange, how prompt a response can be sometimes from a Seelie. Keeps others on their guard.

Still, Meliorn at least checks himself with a small smile, one meant to disarm. It's almost an apology if he comes off rude. ]

Can you feel it, too?

[ Merlin merely nods to his answer that might have seemed dismissive to most but he's grown in a world of casual divination all his life. He's not one to dismiss a feeling. ]

I have the same vibe.

[ He crouches on the ground with elbows perched on his knees, poking the little fire and thinking about coffee once again. Being a slave to his habits is such a pain at times. ]

Yeah, [ he says as he glances at the man and his small smile that makes Merlin's own lips twist into an answering curve. ] I couldn't detect its origin but it seems to eat away at the edges of my magic. [ His voice lowers at the last observation to avoid being overheard by the ordinary soldiers. ]

[ Magic. The word itself seems to crackle with electricity, and Meliorn's attention is obviously pulled from the dim embers right to the other, gaze impassive. Treading carefully is something he does naturally, despite his innate curiousity.

But he bites, and his head tilts slightly to the side. His eyes rake over the other, reigning himself in so he at least doesn't look at the other like he's a piece of meat. Small miracles. ]

A warlock?

[ That seemed to gain his attention. Merlin meets that impassive gaze with a curious one, his smile curving a little deeper. ]

Not a word I would use but sure, I've got some magic. [ An understatement. ] I can see you know a thing or two about it, too. [ A nod to the fact that he saw a glimpse of a different kind of visage earlier under the Logrus sign. ]

[Meliorn wasn't the only one put off kilter by the mist, and Kylo had been trying to fight it off since it had arrived. It was a feeling he hated, being bogged down or restricted in his powers, and it was worse than how those powers had already been reduced upon arriving here. He'd been hamstrung twice over now, and he dreaded whatever more might come.

When Meliorn spoke, Kylo looked over at him, across the fire. He didn't know him, or why he'd get that sense, but he didn't disagree.]

I think it's already here. Or closer than it was.

[ Someone else can sense wickedness. For that, Meliorn is at least grateful - it rules out that the other is a mundane. He doesn't hate those without powers, no, but since he's well aware that he is the only one from his world, it helps to find solidarity when he can. Perhaps this is one of those instances, even if, looking at him sharply over the flames, he wonders if his companion anything anything similar to what he has. Probably not.

But it's solace. That's what counts. ]

The real question is what is it a harbinger of. [ His chin lifts in the other's direction. Any idea, fellow stranger? ]

[He wouldn't categorize it as wickedness, but he had a sensitivity for these things regardless. People with powers like his were vanishingly small back home. He was lucky to have a majority of the known ones gathered to his side, and the rest dead or hunted.]

Nothing good. For us.

[That was worth clarifying, he thought. They were here to save people yes, though Kylo hadn't really been going out of his way to do just that. It had taken more effort to just try to look like he belonged here.]

It's not natural, so, I would suspect our alleged enemy is behind it.

The regency. [ He hears that--the word 'regency,' yes, but 'alleged' is the important phrase, the one that sounds like the equivalent of silver. It's silly, but Meliorn's gaze slide from the embers to the other, far more scrutinizing than he should.

Alleged enemy. The stranger is right, at the very least. ]

Whatever it is, it's foreboding. [ And nothing like he's seen in his world. That's what makes him nervous most of all. He lets a sharp intake of breath out. ]

It itches.

You think it's someone or something else?

[He was open to suggestions, if they made sense. But this world seemed to have nothing special about it whatsoever. Just regular people trying to kill one another. The same as anywhere else -- minus the time travelers.]

I don't feel an itch. Just... a pressure. The fog. [He looked over his shoulder, frowning, but there was nothing there.] Is the itch how you sense it's wrong, then?

I never said that. [ He looks over at the other again, gaze sweeping, and there's half a smile on his face. Not amused, but friendly. ] I believe you're right. The simplest solution tends to be the correct one. [ In most cases. Not Seelies, no, but Meliorn and his kind make things needlessly complicated. ]

The pressure, does it give you a sense of looming? [ That's the only way he can describe it. ]

meliorn | shadowhunters

a.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

a

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

e.

no subject

no subject

c.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

d

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject