thehussargeneral

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle rolls his eyes furiously as the two Cuirassiers try to explain themselves. Nearby, some of the hussar NCOs watch from a hidden spot, nodding approvingly at the various insults.

And just whose bloody job was it to ensure it was not open? There were two of you! I know Cuirassiers are not chosen for their brains, but by God you have to be the dumbest ones to walk the earth! You'll stand before a court if I have anything to say about it!

His frustration is punctuated with steady strings of profanity of the Alsatian variety, as well as Lorrain and a few other languages.

You can't even say where she went! Are you both blind, deaf, stupid and neglectful? A person and a horse do not simply disappear! Who even chose these two morons? Who was in charge of guarding the horses her mount was with?

He calms down a little when his bay mare is brought to him.

Well, your new bridle looks rather nice on you, doesn't it? Suits you much better.

Then he leads her around to the back of the tent, and her body tenses up as she sniffs around it, briefly sticking her head in before removing it and pawing insistently at the ground. At this point Lasalle mounts, drawing his sword and allowing the horse beneath him to take off into the white nothingness.

The sword and pistols are recent inventions, the pistols loaded with silver balls but also with silver-plated butts, the sword similar with a silver-plated hilt and its blade heavily inlaid with silver in intricate designs. Neither the pistols nor the sword conform to any of the regular military patterns, though the pistols are most similar to a regular long pistol and the sword most similar to a dragoon's sword.

For a long while they remain in empty white void, the brightness frankly hurting his eyes, the two pistols already in the holsters slightly bouncing in them as the horse gallops, the other two stuck into his sash quite firmly in place.

Eventually they emerge onto a cobbled street next to an oddly familiar building. It is just before dawn, but Strasbourg is as recognisable as ever to a man who spent much of his later childhood there, this building his home for much of it. There is no time for sentimentality, however, and he sets off again after only a few passing moments, the sound of hooves thundering down the streets as he passes through and back into the mist to the North. And although he's quite sure no one can see or hear him, he makes sure to hurriedly salute and greet the old sergeants and officers he passes, the ones who were the first to teach him his profession.

This time as he enters the fog, an ear-splitting rumbling gets louder and louder, the mare beneath him still at a flat gallop despite having never slowed down once.

Finally Lasalle reaches Woerth, a place he had never seen in life and so is unsure how to navigate, finding himself in a side street and cautiously heading towards the great noise of battle. The stench of smoke and blood mix in his nostrils, and although it's a deeply familiar scent it never gets any more palatable. His horse has moments of tension, but gets over them quickly, trusting Lasalle in the smokey street.

He manages to see the carnage of the battle as he rounds a corner, but quickly hides behind it again as he notices a crowd of infantry guarding this street. Someone put some thought into the trap, clearly, but their weakness is that they are too distracted by what is in front of them to notice him behind, the roar of battle completely drowning out any noise he or the horse makes.

So he seizes his opportunity, charging them with little hesitation, the part-silver sword cutting through them and causing them to disintegrate into the sticky black soot they were born from. They put up some resistance, but Lasalle is relentless, running them all through or cutting them in half in good time, leaving none to raise an alarm.

From this new point he spots De Beaune in the midst of his weeping despair, and he rolls his eyes briefly. He remains in his side street, leaving himself just visible enough for De Beaune to hopefully notice him, while also keeping a position he can easily defend. What he has not had time to notice through the chaos is that the previously bay mare has, at some point, turned a pure white.

He decides to call out to De Beaune, in his loudest voice of command that on occasion has carried quite sufficiently through close cannon fire and the din of the charge, raising his sword in one hand but keeping a pistol in the other in case he needs to defend himself from anything else that hears him.

DE BEAUNE! STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF AND MOVE! HERE, NOW!

Shortly after, a few of the sooty opponents notice him, and he shoots at them before they get too close, the silver balls having a similar effect to the sword.

DON'T ACT LIKE YOU DON'T HEAR ME, COLONEL! MOVE!

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

Fontaine dismounts hesitantly and with difficulty, leaning on his horse for a while before handing it off and stumbling away towards an unoccupied tent.

Well, it isn't as unoccupied as he thinks in his muddled state. The inhabitant is, however, rather happy to see him, and grabs him by the shoulders as soon as he more or less trips into the tent and starts trying to be comfortable. He had been sitting on the bed, but promptly stood.

Squadron Leader Maubert: Fontaine! There you are! I knew I saw you somewhere, I've been looking for you.

But his smile fades as he sees the mess Fontaine is in, thinking on it for a while before remembering the date.

Squadron Leader Maubert: Ah, yes, it's that day, isn't it... I... I'm sorry I could never come... I really would have... Now, come on, sit down, let's at least have your armour off, yes? No, I don't care it's my bed, I have little use for sleeping during the day, don't I?

Fontaine can do little but comply, the man being his direct superior, sitting down and allowing him to peel his armour, sword and coat off him like too many layers on a hot day. Really, he has no response to the apology; he has always endeavoured never to hold grudges, and indeed he does not feel like he has, but he can never quite shake the feeling of not one of his comrades finding time to even show themselves before him as he lay dying.

Captain Fontaine: I think there'll be good entertainment afoot, you know... It seems General d'Hautpoul will have to attempt The Thirds, you know what that is?

Squadron Leader Maubert: How can one not, eh, Fontaine, if even you know it? I'll go watch, just promise me you won't go anywhere and hurt yourself, yes?

Captain Fontaine: I'm hardly in a state to go anywhere, Sir...

Squadron Leader Maubert: Good, then you'll stay in that bed and rest, I trust.

He pulls a blanket over Fontaine, patting his shoulder one more time before getting up and leaving. Fontaine, on the other hand, feels a wet patch where his eventually mortal wound was, just below where the cuirass would end, but when he withdraws his hand it remains dry, the sensation seemingly a hallucination of some sort.

Maubert, meanwhile, emerges from the tent, putting on his helmet as he does so, heading subtly in the direction of the General and the situation.

10 August.

Captain Fontaine, normally quite the bastion of calm and composure, is unsettled by the date. His head has hurt a treat all day, though he had insisted on carrying on as normal, and his leg and hand twitch at perceived strange noises. It confuses his horse, who is not used to unclear directions, and it occasionally glances back at him in the saddle as if to ask what is going on.

He has always said that he could never be a hussar, which greatly amuses the primary residents of @thehussargeneral's camp, but he has very much proved himself correct by getting lost rather quickly. On a normal day he would probably find his way out eventually, but today his mind is simply too occupied.

It is his somewhat bemused mount that manages to get him out of the endless forest, the destination the edge of the various Cuirassier Generals' domain. The headache gradually turns to something more like a full migraine, but he continues searching for life.

Demongin rode beside the confused Fontaine, equally confused at his new situation. He had just emerged from the mists himself, and was unaware of how this strange afterlife worked.

"So... where are we? You are not looking too good there, Capitaine. Perhaps we should rest a while... I think I see tents..and I can smell... yep, that's Cuirassiers... I see some things have not changed."

Demongin wrinkled his nose at the usual pong of the heavy cavalry on a hot day, made all the more ripe with the humidity and the stress the men were under.

A huge man on a black horse rode up to them, his mustache large, his stubble blue, and Demongin grinned crookedly.

"General d'Espagne... long time no see, sir. I take it this is the edge of your domain?"

"Well well, if it isn't Squad Commander Demongin of the first, and... Captiaine Fontaine? Gods man, you look like hell... ah... there's a bit of an incident here at camp, but... you are both welcome to come in and take a load off. General d'Hautpoul is a bit... indisposed." d'Espagne laughed, his accent, the rolling R's and added terminal vowels of Gascony as rich as the region he came from.

A small man, in a hussar's uniform, riding General d'Hautpoul's massive bay, came cantering up, cursing a storm.

"I am NOT indisposed, goddamn you, Bridget! Once I find the jean-foutre who sent me that goddamned magical letter, I'm going to introduce him to the subtle art of involuntary yoga, to quote madame! Macarel, and which one of you assholes put my cognac on the high shelf? THAT IS NOT FUNNY AND NEITHER IS THIS!"

Demongin blinked, his jaw dropping. "General d'Hautpoul??!! WHAT in the name of all the saints??"

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle is taken completely by surprise by such a welcome, not quite sure whether to return the embrace or not, trying to continue breathing as Murat goes on, laughing at the statement about a blessing to Naples.

Fortunately, the Afterlife has allowed me to remain my own age, and thus I have not changed much. But of course, I must present my best self to the King of Naples, not that I don't to everyone else. To do otherwise would be improper. I am sure that someone like you understands the importance of a good impression, yes?

He is taken very much by surprise by Murat's affection, smiling as he is reassured that his meticulous appearance has not been damaged.

How could I not answer, Monseigneur? And an invitation from a King, at that? Why, it would be an insult.

Most wine is capable of bringing me energy for singing, you will find, one must only ask the Lancers of the Imperial Guard, but fine wine is certainly a special thing.

The tapestries do certainly look expensive. Being so active in the army, Lasalle has rarely had the luxury of remaining at home for terribly long, and thus has had little time in his life to acquire homebound collections of this sort. His house in Paris is but a modest one on a modest street, being quite comfortable enough for his wife and children, and for him on the rare occasion that he managed to stay there in life. These days, of course, he is perpetually on campaign, and has not been back to the house in a long time. Even laying in a real bed at Thiébault's while recovering from his wounds felt strange and alien, his body quite used to cots in tents.

This is not to say he is not a collector. Indeed he is, but of items that are more easily portable; in particular fine swords and good maps. The sword by his side is an excellent example of the former collection, and he draws it partly out of its equally extravagant scabbard to display part of the black damascus blade. The handle and hilt are suitably decorated to match, of course.

My collections tend to be of the more portable sort, considering that I rarely have the luxury of a house or any permanent place to sleep. This blade is a favourite; indeed, no expense spared in its construction either, and it cut through solid iron bars in life. Sadly, I never had the opportunity to use it on a real target, though some would consider it too fine for such vulgarity.

Indeed, I allow myself nice things to satisfy myself, but I know my duty is to be sent from one campaign to another with little more than the bare necessity of time to travel in. But as for spoiling, that is not something I have felt in a long time, if ever. A soldier is spoiled by having the opportunity and ability to defend his homeland, and having the pleasure of going to war. All else is second to that, my friend.

Letter from His Majesty Joachim-Napoléon Murat, King of Naples and Sicily, to General Lasalle

To our esteemed General Lasalle,

It is with the greatest regard for your service, your valor, and your friendship to the Empire that I extend to you this formal invitation. I would be honored by your company at the Royal Palace of Naples for a private dinner, where we may sit together as men of arms and of honor, to exchange words not only of campaigns past but of brighter days to come.

I wish that you will find in my house the warmth of a hearth, the openness of a comrade’s table, and the dignity befitting those who have carried the eagles of France across the world.

You shall be received with every courtesy due to your name and merit. A carriage will be made ready for your arrival, and your comfort in all things shall be my concern.

Your devoted brother in arms, Joachim Murat, By the Grace of God and the Emperor, King of Naples and of the Two Sicilies, Grand Admiral, Grand Constable, Grand Eagle of the Empire, Marshal of France, &c…

Lasalle has always taken his personal appearance very seriously, and so upon receiving this invitation he and his valet set about making himself fit for an appearance at a royal palace. Only his finest dress uniform will do, with only his best cologne and meticulous arrangement of his hair and mustache. For once he feels comfortable wearing one of the finer examples from his collection of swords and sabres, seeing as he will not be risking it being melted by the creatures. The one he chooses is one of his best, a very fine and expensive example with a black Damascus blade and a finely carved handle and guard. It is this sabre that he once accidentally broke while demonstrating its strength before Thiébault and some of his other friends, but happily the Afterlife has put it back together.

He is somewhat surprised to find a carriage waiting for him in the camp, despite the mention of it in the letter, but he gets in nonetheless, leaving the two Colonels in charge in his absence. As it sets off, he rearranges the pelisse draped over his shoulder, the entire outfit covered in as much gold braid and embroidery as could tastefully fit on a hussar's uniform. That is to say, a lot. He also brings his nice hat, a pristine pair of gloves unmarred by campaigning, and his boots are polished to perfection.

The journey is confusing, as are all journeys in this Afterlife. If his camp is in Austria as he suspects it to be, then it should take at least two or three weeks to get there, and one should pass through a logical set of countries, but neither of these concepts apply. The landscape changes erratically - now some Austrian battlefield, now Egypt, now Poland, occasionally France - and the journey certainly takes less than a day, these realms clearly some sort of shortcut.

Lasalle's travels never took him to Naples, and so he has no idea what to expect as the carriage wheels begin to rattle over a cobbled street in what finally seems to be a coherent city, a very large building on the left. Here the carriage halts, and as he steps out he straightens out his uniform and walks inside.

Buildings of this scale have a tendency to freak him out somewhat. He is used to the usual houses in which he is quartered, tents in fields or simply the open air. He has not really been home since he left for his final campaign in life, for he is permanently stuck on campaign here, and so being inside such a structure just feels rather strange. He pushes the feeling down and follows the footman after handing over his hat, the sumptuous rooms and chambers passing by in quick succession with wildly inadequate time to appreciate their craftsmanship.

And when is the last time he even saw Murat with his own eyes? Heilsberg or someplace, surely, unless he has forgotten some other time. For two men who are often considered acquaintances, they certainly have never seen each other particularly often, not helped by the disparity in their ranks and titles.

When the door is opened and he is announced, he stands not entirely at attention but not in any relaxed manner either, and he waits for his host to speak or acknowledge him first.

[thehussargeneral]

The General's expression hardens as Houchard recounts what happened.

Why was I not informed? And you left her unattended? But you'll find it consumes most metals - take a look at the state of our present guests - but silver appears to harm it as it does so. As for getting it off, I-

His sentence is rudely interrupted by the appearance of Marshal Kellermann at the door, his face quite enough to give Lasalle unpleasant flashbacks to his youth. Nonetheless, he keeps a straight face and merely raises an eyebrow at the intrusion as Kellermann speaks through overexerted breaths.

Kellermann @les-ducs-de-valmy : Houchard, your daughter is gone. Lasalle, those two poor excuses ought to be court-martialled for neglect of duty. You are never hard enough on your men.

Halfway through the sentence, Lasalle has already stood up to grab a sword and two pistols, the choice of all three items deliberate. He has had quite enough of relying on others to do everything for him, and talking him down will probably be more difficult this time.

I invite you, Monseigneur, to ask any man present at Golymin his opinion of that statement, and if not then perhaps those who went to Spain with me.

That comes out a bit too naturally for comfort, but he's said it now, so he once again restrains his visible expression, and to his surprise the older man backs down and eventually leaves. Certainly at any other time he would have been made to regret saying such a thing.

Now, did the two idiots have anything useful to say?

--------------------------------------------

At least at first, W̶o̶e̵r̷t̵h̶ is apparently horrific enough by itself to warrant little change, except that there seems to simply be more of everything, and time seems to pass almost in slow motion, every emotion and sensation slowed with it.

And then the cannons start to fire, and the guns rattle off too, but as the projectiles pass through flesh, horse and ground, they leave behind indescribable holes in the fabric of existence itself, the cobbled street giving way to a black void, shots passing straight through it like through fabric rather than bouncing off stone.

Of course, the Prussians are not Prussian, but the same creatures of darkness that Delacroix had seen as Cossacks in his nightmares, but their goal now is different: instead of aiming to kill him specifically, they target everyone around him, digging into every man and horse unfortunate to be caught in the trap.

De Beaune, however, cannot fight back or do anything for them. He is not frozen still in the scene, like he was when he was ran through by the Entity, but he is like a ghost here, none of his words or actions having any impact on anything that happens.

Y̵o̶u̶ ̵c̴a̵n̵n̶o̸t̴ ̶s̶a̵v̸e̶ ̶t̶h̴e̵m̸.̸.̶.̷ Y̶o̵u̶ ̸w̴e̶r̷e̶ ̶f̴o̷o̸l̶i̴s̷h̷ ̴t̵o̶ ̵t̷h̴i̷n̴k̶ ̴o̴t̵h̵e̸r̵w̸i̸s̸e̷.̵.̷.̷

N̷̺̚o̴͉͒w̷̪̿ ̵̘̕w̷̦̔a̷̘̓t̶̺̂c̴̝̋h̷͈͗ ̵̥́t̶͎͘h̴͇͝é̵̻m̶̢̄ ̴̧͆d̶͊͜i̶̥͒è̸̲.̴̋ͅ.̸̣́.̶̟̾

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

Letter from His Majesty Joachim-Napoléon Murat, King of Naples and Sicily, to General Lasalle

To our esteemed General Lasalle,

It is with the greatest regard for your service, your valor, and your friendship to the Empire that I extend to you this formal invitation. I would be honored by your company at the Royal Palace of Naples for a private dinner, where we may sit together as men of arms and of honor, to exchange words not only of campaigns past but of brighter days to come.

I wish that you will find in my house the warmth of a hearth, the openness of a comrade’s table, and the dignity befitting those who have carried the eagles of France across the world.

You shall be received with every courtesy due to your name and merit. A carriage will be made ready for your arrival, and your comfort in all things shall be my concern.

Your devoted brother in arms, Joachim Murat, By the Grace of God and the Emperor, King of Naples and of the Two Sicilies, Grand Admiral, Grand Constable, Grand Eagle of the Empire, Marshal of France, &c…

Lasalle has always taken his personal appearance very seriously, and so upon receiving this invitation he and his valet set about making himself fit for an appearance at a royal palace. Only his finest dress uniform will do, with only his best cologne and meticulous arrangement of his hair and mustache. For once he feels comfortable wearing one of the finer examples from his collection of swords and sabres, seeing as he will not be risking it being melted by the creatures. The one he chooses is one of his best, a very fine and expensive example with a black Damascus blade and a finely carved handle and guard. It is this sabre that he once accidentally broke while demonstrating its strength before Thiébault and some of his other friends, but happily the Afterlife has put it back together.

He is somewhat surprised to find a carriage waiting for him in the camp, despite the mention of it in the letter, but he gets in nonetheless, leaving the two Colonels in charge in his absence. As it sets off, he rearranges the pelisse draped over his shoulder, the entire outfit covered in as much gold braid and embroidery as could tastefully fit on a hussar's uniform. That is to say, a lot. He also brings his nice hat, a pristine pair of gloves unmarred by campaigning, and his boots are polished to perfection.

The journey is confusing, as are all journeys in this Afterlife. If his camp is in Austria as he suspects it to be, then it should take at least two or three weeks to get there, and one should pass through a logical set of countries, but neither of these concepts apply. The landscape changes erratically - now some Austrian battlefield, now Egypt, now Poland, occasionally France - and the journey certainly takes less than a day, these realms clearly some sort of shortcut.

Lasalle's travels never took him to Naples, and so he has no idea what to expect as the carriage wheels begin to rattle over a cobbled street in what finally seems to be a coherent city, a very large building on the left. Here the carriage halts, and as he steps out he straightens out his uniform and walks inside.

Buildings of this scale have a tendency to freak him out somewhat. He is used to the usual houses in which he is quartered, tents in fields or simply the open air. He has not really been home since he left for his final campaign in life, for he is permanently stuck on campaign here, and so being inside such a structure just feels rather strange. He pushes the feeling down and follows the footman after handing over his hat, the sumptuous rooms and chambers passing by in quick succession with wildly inadequate time to appreciate their craftsmanship.

And when is the last time he even saw Murat with his own eyes? Heilsberg or someplace, surely, unless he has forgotten some other time. For two men who are often considered acquaintances, they certainly have never seen each other particularly often, not helped by the disparity in their ranks and titles.

When the door is opened and he is announced, he stands not entirely at attention but not in any relaxed manner either, and he waits for his host to speak or acknowledge him first.

[thehussargeneral]

Good afternoon, Monseigneur, I apologise for the intrusion.

Lasalle nods to the Marshal, stepping closer and laughing at Bertrand's comment.

It really isn't that bad, I assure you. I am not much of a swimmer, however, and I fear it would be improper considering the present company.

The horse, meanwhile, does not seem to share his notions of proper manners in front of senior officers, and dunks its head into the water, splashing it in their direction. If horses could laugh, it would probably be laughing right now.

It's much too hot outside. It almost makes one long for the cold misery of Russia. Fortunately, as old-fashioned as Bessières' colleagues might have thought him to be, he was very modern in one aspect. He knew how to swim.

While others were locking themselves in cellars and fanning themselves desperately, Bessières was drifting happily in the lake on his lands. His son was sitting in a chair on the bank with his feet in the water, reading a book with the dignity of a middle-aged portly man who had been a Duke since boyhood. Not far from him, Bertrand was splashing around. Lannes had point blank refused to get in the water, claiming that he "wasn't a fucking mermaid."

In order to swim, he'd shed the outer layers of his clothing, which rather revealed the hole in his chest. A few tendrils of blood rose and twisted in the water around him, but he seemed to have an endless supply of it as long as it's outside of him. He'd also left the powder behind, so that black hair floated in a large halo around his head and shoulders. His gaze rose idly to the clouds above as he gently kicked around on his back.

Frankly, if any of his colleagues were to drop by, they'd hardly recognize him.

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle looks up at Houchard as he enters, gesturing for him to sit down. Du Prel has also sat down at the smaller desk at the back of the tent, glancing up at the two of them occasionally but mostly turning his idle attention to the paperwork laid out on it. The General waits for a while to see if Houchard has anything to say before speaking himself.

General Houchard, I never had the opportunity to work with you, particularly not in my capacity as a General, and therefore I must be cautious. I'm told you want to know what is happening here, but that is sensitive, and not something I can reveal to just anyone who comes asking.

Meanwhile, DuQuay's surroundings become a white dimensionless void as soon as she enters. She will feel like she's being watched, and out of the corner of her eye may catch a blurry shadow in the fog for mere moments at a time.

A̴̝̦͌ȟ̵͚̗̼̀,̴̺̆͜ ̷̘̲͙̇y̵̳̥̰͂̾ò̶͙͒u̴̮͇̅ ̷̡̠̏͝a̶̩͊͗̒g̷͚͋͝ä̵̛͓͚̤́ì̸͔͙͛͠ṅ̴͓̓,̸̬̗̏ ̵̰̪̐l̶̝̫̇ḯ̵͉̼̥̾̈́t̸̺̦̿t̸̢͓̮͗l̵̳͋̚̕ẻ̷͓̱͙̏̄ ̶̣̈́̔͜ļ̸̫̿̓̓ỉ̸͈̙̿v̷̨̖̾̒̕i̷̤̞͐̎͑͜n̵̼̆g̴͎̯̤̓͛ ̶̻̳͒͘͘l̸̪̟͐́́ä̸̭͈̣͐d̵̙̞͊́̕ỳ̸̪͔͜͝.̶̹̯͝ͅ.̸̛̟͋͝.̵̥͔̾̾͜

Y̶͎͖̦̌̓o̷̜̱̽ǔ̸̙̪̋̇ ̸͍͛͛r̸̲͓̭͂͑e̵̬̰̬̒ắ̸͕l̸̺̈́̋l̶̝͍̑͛̓y̶̥̗͋ ̴̭̊ͅn̶̖̄e̸͉̩͛̓̓v̸̞̾ë̸̖̇ȑ̴̺̦̼͝ ̵̫͑͒̚ḽ̶̪̰̀̓͠é̴̢̚a̷̡̛͙͍r̴̹̀ǹ̴̛͈͈ ̸̝̚a̸̗̦̜̒ ̸̠͂̓l̶̗̞̖͛͠e̵̺̓̑̔s̵̨̏ͅs̸̝̊o̸͉̬͖͠n̷͎̘̯͊̍̈,̸͍͋ ̷̡̛̱̹̌̀d̵̜̤̗͗̇̓o̴̧̊́͜͜ ̸̨͇͈̏̕y̷̜̘̾̈́͆ŏ̷̗́ü̶͈͎̖?̵̟͖̈́͆

It sounds like gunshots, but can one ever be sure of anything here? Nonetheless, black balls of nothingness that seem to be burning, seething with something fly towards the ground and the air near her mount, singing the invisible ground they hit with a crackling noise.

V̵͙̆͠e̶̹͊r̵̘̹͑̉ỳ̵̫̯̀̀ ̷͉̙́́w̵͍̯̣̍ḙ̴̼̽̏̇l̵͍͙̦̂̃l̴̪̳̠̿̇͐ ̷̨͓̩̊t̷̬͂h̸͈͖̅̅́͜ę̵̭͚͊n̷̤̺͚̾̆͝.̸̼̓̐.̸̡̧͕̀͠͝.̴̻͒̏͑

Kellermann Sr, while a little confused by DuQuay's various forms and choices of expression, being but an old man, is under no delusion that the strange unladylike woman was not important. After all, she in part brought his son out from the depths of the fog. He therefore decides to go and check on her, having heard of her wounds and general state.

But when he enters the tent, passing the two men who are meant to be keeping her inside, he finds it empty.

He is quick to grab these two men by the collar and physically drag them into the tent, his strength rather shocking on account of his old age, holding onto them as he alternates glaring at both of them.

Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : You had better have a good explanation for this, both of you, or may God help you.

Ah, you again, little living lady...

You really never learn a lesson, do you?

Very well, then...

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

Fontaine: A bit over a month, Sir, and a rather painful one. Alas, a junior officer does not receive much in the way of comfort while dying, but that is simply a soldier's fate.

He is reluctant to obey for once, thinking it rather improper, but after staring at d'Espagne for a while and realising that he is serious, he nods in acquiescence.

Fontaine: Ah, but General d'Hautpoul, Sir, they ask the same about us. How we ride in armour, how we survive a hot day, how we find so much feed for such large horses... They do it by knowing their work, just as we know ours. But, if I may enquire, Sir, did the letter include instructions on returning oneself to the proper size?

10 August.

Captain Fontaine, normally quite the bastion of calm and composure, is unsettled by the date. His head has hurt a treat all day, though he had insisted on carrying on as normal, and his leg and hand twitch at perceived strange noises. It confuses his horse, who is not used to unclear directions, and it occasionally glances back at him in the saddle as if to ask what is going on.

He has always said that he could never be a hussar, which greatly amuses the primary residents of @thehussargeneral's camp, but he has very much proved himself correct by getting lost rather quickly. On a normal day he would probably find his way out eventually, but today his mind is simply too occupied.

It is his somewhat bemused mount that manages to get him out of the endless forest, the destination the edge of the various Cuirassier Generals' domain. The headache gradually turns to something more like a full migraine, but he continues searching for life.

Demongin rode beside the confused Fontaine, equally confused at his new situation. He had just emerged from the mists himself, and was unaware of how this strange afterlife worked.

"So... where are we? You are not looking too good there, Capitaine. Perhaps we should rest a while... I think I see tents..and I can smell... yep, that's Cuirassiers... I see some things have not changed."

Demongin wrinkled his nose at the usual pong of the heavy cavalry on a hot day, made all the more ripe with the humidity and the stress the men were under.

A huge man on a black horse rode up to them, his mustache large, his stubble blue, and Demongin grinned crookedly.

"General d'Espagne... long time no see, sir. I take it this is the edge of your domain?"

"Well well, if it isn't Squad Commander Demongin of the first, and... Captiaine Fontaine? Gods man, you look like hell... ah... there's a bit of an incident here at camp, but... you are both welcome to come in and take a load off. General d'Hautpoul is a bit... indisposed." d'Espagne laughed, his accent, the rolling R's and added terminal vowels of Gascony as rich as the region he came from.

A small man, in a hussar's uniform, riding General d'Hautpoul's massive bay, came cantering up, cursing a storm.

"I am NOT indisposed, goddamn you, Bridget! Once I find the jean-foutre who sent me that goddamned magical letter, I'm going to introduce him to the subtle art of involuntary yoga, to quote madame! Macarel, and which one of you assholes put my cognac on the high shelf? THAT IS NOT FUNNY AND NEITHER IS THIS!"

Demongin blinked, his jaw dropping. "General d'Hautpoul??!! WHAT in the name of all the saints??"

[thehussargeneral]

Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : Yes, young Lasalle was similar... Running around and fighting and all sorts. Well-educated already at that age, but his father felt the energy needed to be subjected to more vigorous discipline than he could provide, so he sent the boy to an Alsatian regiment. That is where he picked up Alsatian, and that awful accent in German. He was always destined for the army due to his birth, so I simply consider it an acceleration of the inevitable.

This time it is Kellermann's turn to contemplate something for a while with the pipe in his mouth, then continue speaking.

Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : His age at the beginning of his career is something that surprises many, yes... But I do think it did him good. He does know discipline, believe it or not, in fact he knows it quite well underneath everything else. You know the concept of knowing the rules to break them, ja? He often credits me with his success, but I credit the Alsace Regiment for managing to teach him to control himself. God knows that must have been difficult.

Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : He will probably make it so you have to apologise properly before he'll tell you anything, if he trusts you with it to begin with. This is something of a sensitive situation, you understand, he controls who knows about it rather tightly.

Du Prel returns eventually, a mildly uneasy expression on his face. He mostly just hopes that Houchard will quit saying stupid things to his cousin, not that he can say that out loud, of course. He salutes both Kellermann and Houchard, but faces the latter.

ADC du Prel: The General will see you, Sir... Not that he's terribly pleased to.

Lasalle sits at his desk, his own pipe in hand too, intermittently humming some old military song or other to himself. Everything sensitive has been put away, and he has managed to calm himself enough that he probably won't kill the man as soon as he walks through the door. He really isn't sure whether he should trust Houchard with this information - particularly considering his connection to Kleber - but perhaps he will at least get a real apology.

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

Fontaine forces himself to sit up straighter in the presence of the General, grimacing in pain as he did so, gradually losing control of himself in a way that makes him very uncomfortable.

Fontaine: I... I apologise for my... state, Sir. It seems that the Afterlife wants me to remember the day I died rather well... Well, I remembered anyways, but it saw fit to remind me...

While trying to breathe to calm himself and distract from the violent headache now trying to spread to the rest of his body, he is distracted by the appearance of... small General d'Hautpoul? The surprise throws him off, and a sharp spike of pain is the result, but he stares at him with mild confusion anyways.

Fontaine: General d'Hautpoul, sir, what is...

10 August.

Captain Fontaine, normally quite the bastion of calm and composure, is unsettled by the date. His head has hurt a treat all day, though he had insisted on carrying on as normal, and his leg and hand twitch at perceived strange noises. It confuses his horse, who is not used to unclear directions, and it occasionally glances back at him in the saddle as if to ask what is going on.

He has always said that he could never be a hussar, which greatly amuses the primary residents of @thehussargeneral's camp, but he has very much proved himself correct by getting lost rather quickly. On a normal day he would probably find his way out eventually, but today his mind is simply too occupied.

It is his somewhat bemused mount that manages to get him out of the endless forest, the destination the edge of the various Cuirassier Generals' domain. The headache gradually turns to something more like a full migraine, but he continues searching for life.

Demongin rode beside the confused Fontaine, equally confused at his new situation. He had just emerged from the mists himself, and was unaware of how this strange afterlife worked.

"So... where are we? You are not looking too good there, Capitaine. Perhaps we should rest a while... I think I see tents..and I can smell... yep, that's Cuirassiers... I see some things have not changed."

Demongin wrinkled his nose at the usual pong of the heavy cavalry on a hot day, made all the more ripe with the humidity and the stress the men were under.

A huge man on a black horse rode up to them, his mustache large, his stubble blue, and Demongin grinned crookedly.

"General d'Espagne... long time no see, sir. I take it this is the edge of your domain?"

"Well well, if it isn't Squad Commander Demongin of the first, and... Captiaine Fontaine? Gods man, you look like hell... ah... there's a bit of an incident here at camp, but... you are both welcome to come in and take a load off. General d'Hautpoul is a bit... indisposed." d'Espagne laughed, his accent, the rolling R's and added terminal vowels of Gascony as rich as the region he came from.

A small man, in a hussar's uniform, riding General d'Hautpoul's massive bay, came cantering up, cursing a storm.

"I am NOT indisposed, goddamn you, Bridget! Once I find the jean-foutre who sent me that goddamned magical letter, I'm going to introduce him to the subtle art of involuntary yoga, to quote madame! Macarel, and which one of you assholes put my cognac on the high shelf? THAT IS NOT FUNNY AND NEITHER IS THIS!"

Demongin blinked, his jaw dropping. "General d'Hautpoul??!! WHAT in the name of all the saints??"

[thehussargeneral]

Du Prel freezes for a moment at the request, questioning whether or not Lasalle would find it acceptable for him to tell. He promptly decides not to risk it, especially considering the incident earlier. He walks beside Houchard as requested, trying to think of a nice way to phrase it.

ADC Du Prel: I am afraid, sir, that it is for my General to decide if he will tell you about this. It is something of a sensitive matter, and I am not permitted to discuss it with outsiders. I can see if he will receive you.

Du Prel then salutes again and walks off to do that, and just as he leaves Marshal Kellermann spots his fellow old man, walking up to him with his pipe in hand.

Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : I heard that you got him rather angry, and found one of the few things he doesn't forgive as easily. He won't hold a grudge, though, his personality won't allow it; it's almost impossible for him to think badly of anyone for too long.

Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : I would plead your case, but admittedly I provoked him unwisely too... The things we do while distracted by thoughts of our children, I suppose. How is yours?

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

At this moment Du Prel walks in, having been sent by Lasalle (still cooling down from the confrontation with Houchard) to check on DuQuay. He halts rather abruptly as the situation plays out, then salutes Houchard.

ADC Du Prel: Do you need the surgeon to come back, Madame?

Outside, Marshal Kellermann paces around the vicinity of the medical tents. His son has gone to sleep again, muttering frenzied regrets until he fell unconscious, so now he simply observes the now somewhat calmed state of the camp, occasionally reaching out to pat a horse that has been tied up along his route. The horses are generally scattered in small groups and tied to any solid enough object, the existing stabling arrangements insufficient for such a large addition.

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

The horde continues to come and go, striking him with lances and sabres made of darkness, each strike eating away at the frozen cuirass, the substance left behind sizzling and sputtering, sometimes getting on his saddle or his horse and burning those too.

The rest of the column has disappeared, not just in the snowstorm but seemingly entirely. No matter how he manoeuvres or where he looks, he now seems to be alone in the blizzard with the dark horde.

The cold somehow becomes colder, the wind picking up, howling and screaming around him, a whisper carried among the noise: H̸e̸r̷e̸ ̶y̴o̴u̶ ̴w̶i̶l̵l̷ ̶d̸i̴e̷,̶ ̵i̷n̴v̶a̶d̵e̶r̶.̵.̶.̵ The flakes of snow feel like projectiles being launched at him in this wind, each impact painful, making it hard to open his eyes let alone fight, and all the while the cossacks continue to attack.

After more teasing, one of them closes in for the real blow: a lance made of emptiness, plunged through one of the fresh holes in the cuirass and into his chest. It does not have the paralysing effect of the Woerth Entity's sword, but it induces all the same emotions of panic, fear, emptiness...

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

R̶̡̓u̷̮̎s̶̯̾s̶̰̈ĩ̷̖ã̵̗.̷̭͑

Everyone who ever had the misfortune of being sent to that desolate wasteland and murderer of empires remembers it as if they were still there.

F̸i̶r̷s̸t̶ ̴c̸o̵m̷e̴s̷ ̴t̸h̶e̵ ̷c̴o̴l̴d̷.̷ The country itself tries to kill him. First the baking heat of summer, but next, longer and worse, comes the cold that never goes away. The snow does not melt; it turns to ice that frightens his horse and sends it into a slippery meltdown, only to be covered by more by the end of the day. The fire does not warm; it only makes the cold burn, frostbitten parts in agony in even the temperatures that are meant to be pleasant. To stay too close to the fire is to die, for as soon as it burns out the cold moves back in with a vengeance. The wind does not stop; it roars over the flat wasteland endlessly, carrying more cold with it, knocking the weaker of men and horses over to meet their last moments, carries a chill that kills within a day. Clothes do not protect; what little they had to begin with is unrecognisable by now, a collection of rags torn apart by a place here everything is hostile, and of course boots hardly exist anymore.

N̸e̶x̷t̵ ̶c̶o̶m̸e̸s̵ ̴t̴h̶e̷ ̵m̴a̶r̵c̸h̷i̷n̷g̴.̷ That never ends either. He is forced to simply march and march with no end through a landscape that never changes, the horse beneath him struggling more with each step and slip of a hoof on the icy remnants of a road, seeming as if it might simply collapse at any time. When he walks, he is the one who could lay down and die at any moment. All is white; his eyes burn with the brightness, just as the rest of him burns with darkness and cold, and there is nothing to look at, even when he can see more than a foot in front of him without a snowstorm to cover it. After all, everything was burnt or buried. As they pass the scorched remnants of structures that were once landmarks, the frozen corpses still staring up at them, begging for help, for food, for warmth, they all seem to scream into the miserable void.

T̷h̷e̴n̷ ̴c̶o̶m̸e̴s̶ ̵t̵h̵e̴ ̴h̷u̸n̵g̶e̷r̴.̴ Most soldiers are used to hardship and hunger; it is merely fate for logistics to fail in such a grand operation on such a scale. But this... This is different. One burns more energy in the cold just to try to live, and how does one explain to an ulcer-ridden and emaciated horse that there is no end in sight, that it must continue to exist and die in constant pain due to the whims of a man it has never seen? A man can sometimes reconcile it, though it becomes difficult here too, but the animal cannot understand. Everything is food: bread with things living in it that somehow survive the conditions, cheese that has ceased to have any normal cheese-like form, soup that is not much more than water, and all of that is scarce in itself. On one of the precious few halts, he will pass a miserable mess, wearing something that has long ceased to be any identifiable uniform, in the process of searching for whatever meat remains on the frozen form of a horse that was little more than skin and bones to begin with. One of these men, a saddle and bridle by his side, sits apart from it and does not look. He will refuse the resulting concoction later, despite the best efforts of his comrades, and his feeling towards the dead animal will kill him in the night.

A̴̢̨̱̔͊̒͌͋n̴̼̍̈̆͗d̴̤̔ ̸̨̮͕̝̜̯̇͝l̸͇̏a̶̾̀̄͒̄̈́͜s̸̗̈̕t̷̛̮͇̾̂͝ ̴͕̝̲̗́̅ć̷̲͠o̶̡̝̖͍̿̀m̶̰̽̄͜͠e̴̙̖̯̜̥͋̍͋͑͛ͅ ̴̨͍̘̩̯̒͌̋t̶̼̏̈́h̷͔̤̜̲̘͑͗e̵̘͙̹͓͌̐̿̋ͅ ̴̹̘̯̮̪͐͒͐̈̂̔p̵̼͎̮͓̋̓͒̂̐͘ě̷̛͖͓̤̙̂̀͋o̵͙͐̂͐p̶̡̡̾̎̈́ļ̷̣̝̗̤͗̽̆͝͠ȇ̷̥̤͘.̷̨͙͕͉̮̈̑̋̈ͅ The country itself trying to kill him is not enough; the people crave vengeance for the intrusion on their way of life too, crave punishment for the grandiose ambitions of a man who flew too close to the sun and all those who followed him there. The worst are the cossacks; they appear seemingly out of nowhere, are everywhere all the time, and always disappear before the half-frozen remnants of the column are able to lift a finger or take a step in any direction. And it is worse here; instead of men they are the same faceless things that he saw at Waterloo. The wind seems to whisper in between its screams, carrying ominous warnings of doom, shortly followed by an onslaught of the tarry things that make him feel dread just from looking at them. Sometimes there is no warning and they simply appear out of the white void of a snowstorm as he shivers along on a half-dead mount.

And when they come, they come with anger, the column merely a sitting target for their rage. The men are all dying to the weather anyways, a faster death is a mercy to some. But when Delacroix is around, they seem to ignore everyone else, interested in him specifically...

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

[ This post is a continuation of a longer thread - clipped due to app performance problems ]

Lasalle is entirely unimpressed by Houchard's height or his demeanour, and as much as he would like to respect a friend of Marshal Kellermann, he is rather insulted by the man's disrespect towards his authority, especially in public in front of his men.

— Please imagine that the below is in German —

And I will not be spoken to and have my authority undermined in such a manner in my own camp! Would you treat someone of a similar rank but your own age in this way? I have reason to doubt it, so do not try it with me. I do not need to be taught or corrected on my own profession, which I like to think I am already well enough acquainted with, and I think you and the other generals from the times of the Revolution should know what that feels like and should know better. You may not respect me at any other time, and I do not care, but while you are here, and especially in front of my men, you will at least pretend. And yes, you are guests here, regardless of what you commanded or what titles you hold, the definition of the word is sensibly egalitarian.

————————————————————————

Grandjean's appearance and intervention defuses him a little, enough that he at least does not go on ranting, but he continues to watch Houchard with a sharp stare, and his tone remains largely cold and unsympathetic. While an apology would probably go down well, he is too wound up already to calm down instantly, and he really is offended at being challenged like this.

If it is Madame you are looking for, then she is in the tent over there, where the two Cuirassiers are on guard. I am not sure if she will be awake, but you are welcome to see her. Marshal Kellermann and his son are in the other closed one. The younger is in a bad state, do not agitate him.

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

Fontaine tries to pull Demongin back down, frankly rather afraid of Houchard and not wanting to catch his attention.

Fontaine: I would suggest, sir, that you sit down and pretend we aren't here.

In the tent, the old Marshal nods.

Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : Indeed I did, Colonel. I admit that may have been less than wise... I simply hope Lasalle does not realise he is here.

Of course, it is rather too late for that, considering that half of Lasalle's profession relies on sharp senses. He swears to himself in German that is accented both with Messin and Alsatian as he steps angrily out of the tent.

Was ist das für eine Störung? Ich habe schon genug davon!*

Upon spotting Houchard, he walks up to him with a presence that probably doesn't affect a man like Houchard much but scatters a few of those close enough nearby to see his thinly veiled annoyance.

Wer hat Sie hierher gebracht, General? Sind Sie sicher, dass Ihnen niemand gefolgt ist?**

Despite his self-control forcing him to be more respectful to the senior General, he still asks these questions sharply and expecting a good answer. He already has quite enough to deal with without someone completely unrelated to the situation turning up and causing a scene.

Ich verstehe, dass Sie besorgt sind, aber es besteht kein Grund, hierher zu kommen und eine Szene zu machen, wenn schon genug los ist. Deshalb bitte ich Sie, höflich zu bleiben. Wen suchen Sie?***

If they had not carefully ran away, anyone familiar with Lasalle in such a mood would beg Houchard to simply capitulate and defer to his authority in his own camp. Besides, Lasalle has never done well with being told what to do in his own independent command.

*What is this disorder? I have enough of it already! **Who brought you here, General? Are you certain you weren't followed? ***I understand you are concerned, but there is no need to come here and cause a scene when there is quite enough going on already. Therefore, I ask you to remain civil. Who are you looking for?

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.

[thehussargeneral]

Fontaine: In truth, I have no idea who supplies weapons and cuirasses in the afterlife, they simply arrive as necessary here without anyone ever ordering them. Luckily whichever unknown place supplies them does not seem to re-issue them anymore, and they are all new. You never really know what's been in that old lining... Besides, I always found them a little disconcerting, almost like they're unlucky.

He shakes his head at the question of who to report to.

Fontaine: If you must report to someone tinned then it is Colonel Grandjean; there have been orders not to inform any of the cuirassier generals for now, and our General does not appreciate security breaches. I suspect General Lasalle will also call you to give a report soon enough, once he has finished with the existing ones. He'll want to know how you ended up in that mess.

Fontaine: As for Madame Kléber... Well, I hear she isn't in the best of states currently, but you'll probably meet her. She's... Formidable, yes, though I have only met her a handful of times myself.

-------------------------------------------------

Kellermann Jr. is soon forced to lay back down by the pain, his father making sure his blanket covers him again and gesturing for Grandjean to come in.

Kellermann Jr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : Grandjean... I'm sorry...

Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : You'll have plenty of people to apologise to later once you're a little more alive. Save yourself for that, hm?

The younger Kellermann seems not to hear him, since he simply continues speaking unimpeded. He's only really half-aware of the presence of anyone in the tent at any given time, and he probably would've continued whether Grandjean had heard him or not.

Kellermann Jr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : Did I kill anyone...? I didn't... I didn't mean to... I was meant to get out of there myself... I fucked up...

Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.

He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.

The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.

It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.

Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.