A flash, a scream, and just the moldering steam that hung in the cold Winter morning air as the arcane flame died down upon the rapidly-charred remains of the regular soldier. Lieutenant Matthew Regin had stood atop his barricade all night, the day before, and now was looking at another sunset and rise. After the retreat of the Colchis, it all went to shit . It fell apart when royal orders came down for the regular and drafted forces to pursue the “fleeing” invaders, which were at best ignored, or at worst, the messenger was attacked and murdered in outrage. What remained of the regulars, and many draftees, then revolted, and the Royal Knights were sent in to “restore loyalty and order”. For their part, the Parliamentary forces, namely the Arcane and the Engineering & Grenadier Corps, fell back to defend parts of the city from the fighting factions. For this, the other camps labelled them as an enemy; as traitors.                 That was weeks ago now. Since

      All thunder and manic fervor, the scrawny, filthy man fell upon Cornet Laurent, the terrified boy. In the trench, hastily half-dug and now equally a river of muddy blood, the filthy man pressed his weight upon the broken spear, attempting to end Laurent with the jagged and splintered wooden end. Screaming and crying, the cornet with hands so already slickened, tried to press back against his enemy. And just as suddenly as this scene began, a shell blasted just above the two, and the scrawny filthy man from Colchis was now as much shredded ribbon as he had been a soldier.     But, truly, he was no soldier; no more than Cornet Laurent was. What had he been? A farmer? A serf? A brother? Lover? A teller of tales or jokes? Now only shot and roaring silence could be the answer; he was dead. And the "cornet"? A boy of 16, who, tragically, was literate and had been in school. Enough for King Alphonse IV to have him commissioned, as a cavalry officer no less. In the following se