The sound of birds chirping and singing echoed out and across the lush green valley below. Winds that would frequently howl and blow cold air across this valley were thankfully weakened by tall protective mountains that flanked either side and nearby a hilly pasture, creating a natural barrier for all life below their ancient stone. Running down the length of this lush paradise of sorts was a small town nestled neatly between a thick forest and low sweeping plains used as farmland that seemed ever fertile due to the river that cut the city in two, with only a single stone bridge connecting the two sides.

Shots rang out, breaking the peaceful tranquillity of the valley, turning what was once the sound of bird songs to those of dying men and women, with orders being barked to soldiers who marched at the tune of drums and fife. One such soldier, who sat hunched within the safety of a recently dug trench that appeared as though it had been dug in a hurry, was Vance Wolfram. He sat silently in the dirt, musket clutched so tightly in his hands so tightly his knuckles were white. Fear, self-loathing, and regret coursed through the young human teen, whose sea-blue eyes were awash with his anxiety and fear. It wasn't until the half-elven man next to him reached over and rested his hand reassuringly on his shoulder that he snapped back to reality.

Taking a deep breath, he looked around as if waking from a haze, "Huh? Wha-"

"Vance, relax. Take a breath."

Vance blinked a few times, taking a breath as instructed before he realized how tightly he was gripping his weapon. "T-thanks." He replied, waving his hand in an attempt to return blood flow to the knuckles.

Nodding in turn, the half-elf shot him a smile, "You're fine. We're fine. Just keep close to the Sergeant, and we'll make it home."

Vance nodded, unable to share his comrade's optimism. Try as he might, he couldn't find the right words to speak, until the last minute. As he opened his mouth to speak, the Sergeant in question came rushing around the corner of the trench and towards the rest of the purple and white trimmed coated men who wore black tricorn hats atop their heads, their white cross belts holding their shot and powder charge bags shaped like boxes.

"Company, up!" He barked.

Within seconds, all sixty men and women of the Platoon stood as one, their training and drill taking over in place of their fear. Even with only three weeks worth of training provided to them as conscripts, the formations and other such military traditions had somehow managed to stick in each individuals head. Vance himself could feel himself shaking as he stood, but did his best to push aside his fear, hoping the Sergeant wouldn't notice - If he did, the Sergeant didn't show it. Instead, the veteran soldier pushed past some of the others, funnelling those still frozen with fear up to the ladders. Vance stepped up to join the ranks of the others who began to file towards the poorly built ladders, each individual making a silent prayer as they took tentative steps up and over the top.

As he took his first steps towards the ladder after his half-elf comrade took his fateful steps onto the ruined greenery of the hills that lead to the valley, Vance had to take a moment to collect himself, taking a deep breath, then out. Each breath slowly dispelling his worries. What was likely a second felt like a lifetime as he recalled memories of his time back home on his family's farm. He recalled his parents looking towards him with fondly, their smiles earned by hard work and dedication to one's chosen craft. The memory quickly faded into something else, but as the memory formed, it was quickly torn apart like paper as the same veteran Sergeant barked out the order to form a line. Vance immediately snapped back to reality, slinging his musket over his shoulder, before scrambling out of the trench as he formed ranks with the others. As he regrouped with the others creating what was the third line in the column of foot, Vance only had to step in tandem with the rest from there. Up head their commanding officer, a Colonel wearing the same purple coat as the rest of them, but with more refinement and ornaments serving as decoration suitable of his, could be seen preparing his things for the coming engagement. From what Vance knew of him, he was just a young man no more than six years older than he, and yet he was expected to follow his orders and trust in them as though they were the will of the gods. It was often moments like these that made Vance feel cursed in life. For having a young commander at the head of the formation, to being conscripted to fight a war he had no part being in, or care to be in. But, there was little he could do as the young Colonel drew his sword, waving it up high into the air.

"Regiment! Forward, Double Quick!" He bellowed, his voice shaky and hoarse, clearly giving away his own anxiety and inexperience in leading a formation of soldiers numbering well over six hundred.

Despite the questionable experience of their commander, the Regiment moved as one at slightly quicker marching speed, and why? Vance wasn't sure; all he knew was they were moving, and all the training he had received had told him to follow the man or woman in front of him, and hope they knew what was going on, as he was not one to retain any of the training that the others had. So it was they that marched forward, spurred on by the comfort that each man and woman in the column were watching over the other. For out in the front, the only family one had were the ones around you.

As they crested the hill, Vance, like the rest of the Regiment, were quick to spot what it was they were doing, as the outline of a trench system came into view. It clearly served as the first line of defence leading towards the enemy's primary field headquarters resting on a high hilltop similar to the one Vance found himself on poked, but the hill the enemy stood on, was more heavily fortified and better armed. What made the sight scary, though, was the battery of Artillery arrayed on the far hill, spewing out magically infused balls of metal towards their intended targets, carving up and tearing through purple coated units that surged forward towards the readied enemy defences. Vance could hardly believe the carnage being dished out to the once smartly dressed lines of soldiers, now being rendered to the bloody mess of limbs, dirt, blood, and pulp. The screams of the dead and dying filling the air in between cracks of musketry and cannon fire. As it seemed all sounds were blotted out by the crack of musketry and roar of cannon in this hellscape, and young eighteen-year-old found himself pale with palpable fear as the sounds began to eep their way into his heart, breaking his spirit further.

Even if his entire being told him to run, he couldn't, not when he knew that each man and woman he saw reminded him how they were his family now and were rushing towards that hell below. Courage? No, it was the simple thought of protecting your fellow soldiers is what kept him going. Hoping-- no praying that some miracle might allow him to survive a battle that had already claimed the lives of thousands by the look of offensive.

"Regiment! Take is to halt!" Barked the Colonel, whose orders were quickly repeated by red-faced NCO's.

"Ready Arms!" Came the follow-up order as the Regiment came to a halt overlooking the trench they had been tasked with taking.

Six hundred muskets getting readied rang true among the line as men and women prepared for the first of many volleys of disciplined fire by rank. The sound of Flint locks clicking into full cock echoing out across the line.

"The first rank will kneel!" Drums helped relay the order, and the NCO's again repeated the orders, with the first rank kneeling, muskets at the ready held out and brought to bear.

The world seemed to slow as their Colonel gave the next fateful order, "Take aim... fire!"

With a downward swing of his sword, the first and second lines fired in unison, the crack of hundreds of muskets sounding off as one ringing in Vance's ears. A heavy thick heavy powder smoke soon masked over the regiment as the second rank knelt to reload their weapons just as the third and fourth rank made ready.

"Third rank, ready!"

Hands shaking, teeth jittering, ears ringing.

"Aim..."

Musket raised, eyes burning, knuckles white.

"Fire!!"

Squeezing the trigger, the musket bucked back into his shoulder, as Vance quickly turned away, fearful of a misfire as his Flint lock musket spewed out its lead ball towards the general direction of the enemy. He didn't know if his shot hit its mark, but there was little doubt it landed somewhere close, and that alone was a comfort to him, knowing he shot straight towards the enemy.

As the third and fourth ranks fired in unison in a rolling volley, a strange silence hung in the air for a moment as the shock and awe swelled the ranks of the conscript line of foot.

"Fix bayonets!"

Another order rang out, and Vance looked to his Sergeant, who gave him a nod before barking out the same as the Colonel, knowing full well a charge at this distance was suicide. Quickly drawing the long ten-inch bladed point and socketing it in place over the muzzle of his weapon, he promptly shouldered his weapon while the first line stood, lowering the tips down to eye level, while the second raised theirs up higher, creating a solid wall of spears. Vance waited for the next order that would see them surge towards the trench in a headlong, mad dash towards certain death. For them, or the enemy.

"Charge!" The Colonel bellowed as he began to run ahead of his regiment.

Hundreds of voices soon joined their officers in cries and screams of murder, as the ground began to shake and tremble as six hundred individuals lurched forward into a massed charge, spurred on by the same red-faced veterans whose experience and bravery helped push on the others. There would be no cowards this moment. No hope of running the opposite way. Only death or glory waited for them in that trench.

As they drew ever closer, the enemy suddenly rose, bringing their muskets to bear, until suddenly they returned fire, unleashing a torrent of hellish musket fire that decimated the first rank, killing or wounding an entire company of soldiers whose bodies were stepped on and over as the rest of the formation continued with their charge, undeterred by the loss of so many. Some even tripping and falling forward, the momentum of their run throwing them face-first into the dirt. For his own part, Vance tried to ignore the scene of his fellows being cut down all around him, but his curiosity got the best of him as he looked down in the midst of his charge, seeing the mangled corpse of a young woman whose face was a twisted mix of fear and pain. He wanted to puke but managed to swallow it back, pushing himself onward. Looking up ahead of him lay the Colonel, slumped over, clutching his gut before Vance ran past.

"Oh, gods..." Vance muttered under his breath.

With their commander dead or wounded, who was leading the charge? Who was taking command? The Captains? Maybe, there were dozens of officers mixed among the Regiment, and some more vastly more experienced than their young Colonel, so there was hope at least. But such thoughts were quickly dashed as he ran up and over the dirt hill and dove into the trench alongside what remained of his line platoon.

Dropping into the trench with an "Oof", Vance was set upon by a soldier wearing the lime green coat of the opposing force.

A young human male, like himself, barrelling towards him, bayonet poised to end the blonde-haired soldier then and there.

Vance quickly brought his musket over, slapping aside the blade with the butt of his weapon, breaking his guard long enough to pull his own musket turned spear downward, cutting open the other's chest open, leaving a wide bloody gash in its wake. He wasted no time in pulling the weapon back and thrusting it forward into the other man's throat, only to twist and pull free, sending the green coat down, clutching his ruined neck. As his enemy fell to his knees, slumping forward into a lifeless heap, Vance began to shake as the shock of his actions began to creep their way into his head. He had just killed a man! He felt a surge of regret, and self-loathing course through him, making his teeth chattering from the anxiety.

"Keep pushing! Keep pushing!" Shouted the familiar voice of his Sergeant, prompting Vance to turn and see his NCO surge forward, waving the others to keep going and not stop.

He was likely due now the last surviving commander of their platoon, and that thought alone put more fear into the conscript to the point he felt as though he were breaking apart at the seems mentally.

Turning and giving his head a shake, Vance looked round in time to see his half-elven comrade, the one who had tried to soothe him moments earlier smiling towards him, laughing at how they had just survived not only the march towards the trench but the charge as well. Vance managed to muster a wary smile back, he tried to bring some sort of response before suddenly everything slowed as a thick heavy ball of magically infused metal slammed into the trench, striking a nearby hidden powder magazine.

Vance opened his mouth as though to scream until it all went black. His world erupted in a fiery explosion knocking him down onto his back, the sound of a dull ringing overtaking his mind.

But that wasn't the only explosion that filled the trench...

As he lay there, a voice suddenly called out, whispering, "About time you woke up... Wolfram."