#an entity...

[charico]

I need everyone to know about moldy o'brien. I am so charmed by him.

[thehussargeneral]

W̶a̴g̷r̷a̸m̷.̸

T̵h̸e̴ ̶f̶o̶g̴ ̴i̸s̷ ̴h̸e̵r̴e̷.̸

It chokes the air, stifles the wind and muffles noise; normally in the fog a man can hardly hear another speak next to him, and it is quite the same now. But above all, the stillness is most disconcerting: it is a tense stillness, electric and unsettled like the air before a thunderstorm but forced into silence, and if it were a human emotion it would be the anticipation before a battle.

Lasalle is woken by Colonel Schwarz, the man somewhat reluctant to disturb the General's rare half-decent sleep but not knowing what else to do in this situation. He throws on enough of his uniform to be considered decent and steps out of the tent.

He sees nothing, only the white void that is usually limited to outside the camp, and reaches to the side where a sentry usually stands guard until he feels the cold metal shape of a cuirass. Well, at least they're dedicated.

Do you know where your Captain is?

Cuirassier: Couldn't tell you, Sir, I'm afraid to move from here lest I get lost in this.

They are forced to almost shout at each other, despite being directly next to each other, in order to communicate.

I can't blame you. But you might have to soon.

A feeling of D̶r̶e̸a̷d̵ takes him, the white nothingness more D̵i̵s̷o̵r̷i̷e̶n̸t̷a̸t̷i̵n̸g̷ the more he stares into it. He feels... W̴a̵t̴c̷h̷e̷d̴, even though he cannot see the culprit. Was that a moving shape? There? A̷n̸d̴ ̶t̷h̷a̷t̸ ̷v̵o̶i̴c̷e̶ ̶i̴s̷ ̸b̴a̶c̷k̸.̸ The victim retreats back into the tent, which Colonel Colbert has also found.

Y̸o̸u̶ ̷c̵a̴n̶n̵o̷t̶ ̸r̸u̷n̶ ̸n̸o̵w̸.̸

Something is happening. Choose men with good coordination and focus, have them ready themselves. Be quiet about it. We can't hear each other, but I think they can hear us. Have my mare harnessed, she is calmest in these conditions.

Colonel Colbert: Might I ask where we're going with them, Sir?

I don't know. Wherever this fog stunt takes us. Be prepared for anything.

Colonel Schwarz: I would like to bring your attention to the date, Mon Général...

I know that. But this business is never quite what you expect, is it?

Colonel Schwarz smirks knowingly, and then both of the officers and Lasalle's orderly take their leave to carry out their orders. But that V̴o̴i̵c̸e̷ never leaves him alone.

Y̶o̵u̸ ̴w̶i̶l̷l̴ ̶a̷l̵w̸a̶y̸s̴ ̴f̶o̵l̵l̴o̵w̷,̴ ̶w̶o̵n̴'̵t̸ ̶y̶o̵u̴?̴

To protect people, yes. You always follow too, technically, don't you?

A̴h̷,̴ ̶b̵u̵t̸ ̷w̷e̷ ̵w̴i̷l̴l̴ ̵p̴r̴e̵v̷a̸i̸l̴,̵ ̶w̶o̸n̶'̸t̸ ̸w̷e̴?̴

How overconfident of you...

These conditions are prone to emphasising relationships between horses and riders: the mounts who trust and understand their riders go well and remain calm despite the loss of all of their senses to the invasion of the fog, while others move reluctantly and tensely with pricked ears and hard eyes. The mare that had been a birthday gift from Kellermann, however, seems almost entirely unbothered, even appearing to look at and listen to things that no one else can see or hear.

They ride into the void silently, the formation tight to try to keep everyone together, the usual jingling of tack muffled. Then into a trot, going further and faster in what felt like a dimensionless space with no concept of distance.

V̸͕͌e̴͍̔r̵̯̆y̵̰͌ ̵͇͘w̶̯̓e̷̛̩l̴͆͜l̸̻̕,̷͇̒ ̶̯̏s̵̞͘ḭ̶͝n̶͙̒c̶̩̿ė̵̤ ̸̨̈y̵̚ͅȯ̴̥u̷̻̔ ̸̳͛i̵̧̇n̷͊ͅs̵͔̀i̸̭͋s̸͚̽t̸̖̎.̷͍͐.̶͇̈́.̷̠̀

Now the canter, and the body of chosen men hurtle towards whatever is there.

Suddenly the fog fades, and although noise returns he only hears his own breathing and his own horse, cursing himself as he realises that his men are gone. Smell returns too, and before him the prevailing stench of death finds its source: Ẅ̴̩̟̈a̸͎͉͂̑̚g̵̨̍̎̉r̸̨̞̲̾̄ä̸̭̳̳́͌̋m̵̨̯̼̆̓͝.̸̗̉͛͗

He remembers this place well from various journeys into the fog, but what he remembers most vividly about this particular position and this feeling is his first encounter with his own reflection. But this time there is no snow, no peace: it is replaced by the incessant burning of a day too hot for physical activity, and instead of snow the ground is blanketed in reddened coats of all colours, each worn by a participant in the acrid stink and iron taste of blood and suffering. He is sure that he would find himself somewhere in this hellscape, but he has little time for curiosity before t̷h̴a̸t̶ ̷t̷h̶i̷n̷g̵ returns.

A̵̙̍̈͛r̴̻̪̄ẻ̵̺̾̚n̶͉͊̈́̈́'̶̖̦̩̉̚t̷̠̱͒͐̐ ̶̰̈́̂y̵̰͊̀ő̶̱u̷̗̤͗ ̶͍̑̆̚ś̶̙̬t̵͉͠u̶̲̮̒̍͋b̴̡̼͋͌b̷͔̱͗o̶͇͍̬̓ȑ̷͙̻́͌n̵̝͋͗̈́.̸̼͉̒͝.̴͕̻̏̓.̴̗͚̼̓

But the dragoon does not show himself so easily, and instead of seeing him he feels the wind left behind by his horse, then a sharp sting on his right arm. His own sabre drawn, he races after the only other "living" thing on the field, the little mare surprisingly able to keep up with the chase, and for a time Lasalle forgets about the rule of reciprocal wounds that applies between him and the creature as he lays into him with all his strength at the frantic gallop.

B̸u̴t̴ ̶t̸h̴e̴y̸ ̷a̴r̸e̶ ̷n̷o̵t̴ ̴a̷l̵o̵n̷e̵.̴

The sound of shouts and other hooves join them, but he glances back not to see that any of his own have managed to break through, but rather that t̵h̵e̶r̸e̷ ̶a̵r̴e̷ ̸m̸o̷r̴e̴ ̵o̷f̵ ̸t̶h̷e̵m̸.̴

The rest of the real men have emerged into the active form of the battlefield, directly into the middle of a vicious melee not against their conventional enemies but against dark faceless forms on horses made of some sort of invincible dark matter, the dark swords oblivious to cuirasses or any other protection, the only defence being to R̶u̷n̵.̵.̸.̷

C̶͖͇̆ủ̸̼̉̐r̷̙̖͜͠ỉ̸̮̮͔ò̸̠̒ś̸͇̚͠i̶͖͙̺͛t̵͈̳̱̀y̶̡͉̝̓̚ ̷̝͉̀̓k̵͚̲̒͛͠i̷̞̽̓͝l̴̛͕͉͝l̶͉̅̌̾ȩ̷̬̫͆d̷͇͝͝ ̷̧̤͌̋͝t̶̥̘͇̚h̷̡̺͓̓͐͌e̵̹͚̙͆ ̷̫͇́c̵̯͕̽̔a̵̰͙̙͆͑͑t̶͇̭̑͠.̶̙̈̆̑ͅ.̶̹͠ͅ.̸̻̖̭̄ ̶̮̂̍H̴̞̩͛ǫ̶̮̏w̸̻̖͂̚ ̴͉̾͜f̴̧̦͇͂e̷̻͕̣͠l̷͂̌͜ͅḯ̷̘̿̆ń̷͕̝͝͠e̵̛̙̝͛̚ ̴͈̥̅̋ȏ̴̥̘͂̔f̵͉̞̑͆̅ ̵̡͓͚̐̏y̸͈͚͊ő̵̧̙͎͆u̵͉̓̚,̸̮̜̆̑͠ ̴̝͋͛̀m̴͐̈̀ͅỷ̶͖͠ ̶͍̍̂̚ş̷̨̉͒̿t̷̺̦͠ư̷̩̌͗p̷̖̂͑̾ḯ̴̬̘̾̈d̶̢̲̲̓ ̵̛̟r̷̛̻̬͝ȅ̶̻͍̥͂͒f̴͖͙̉́̚l̷̙̈ę̶̞̭͋c̴̫͊t̴̢̞̹̄̈́͗i̶̻̞͐̾o̸̧̻̊̅n̵̗͑.̷̼̳̅̐.̴͔̟̜̔̔.̸̠̖͗͆̚

And those shifting faceless things are what join the chase of Lasalle too, running after him like rabid dogs nipping at the heels of their prey, the blades occasionally digging into some part or other... He had not known these things exist, and they seem damn near invincible.

By now they have crossed the great expanse of the field, Lasalle fighting and struggling to stay out of reach the whole way, his strength beginning to give way to a state of shock caused by the now numerous wounds given by these entities that are so clearly more powerful than he. Nothing seems to orient itself anymore, the things seeming to appear wherever he looked while the field fluctuated around him until he hardly recognised any of its locations, the last of his determination dedicated to simply staying on the horse and trying to make her go in any direction.

I̸̜͒t̴̻̩̹̊̈́̇ ̴̱̹̂w̸̩̏ḁ̶͍̈́̎͜s̸̹͝ ̸͈̖͘ͅa̴̡͙̾̈́͌l̷̥̓́͂l̶̥̾ ̸̛̪̞̳̓̊ạ̴̓ ̴͎̗̳͘ṯ̷͒r̸̫̮͉͊͝a̸̢̘͕̎̌p̶̥̱̥̍̈́̀.̵̪̬̥̓.̸̣̬͑̍̈́.̵͓͚͗

But the mare no longer wishes to obey him, and although her strength seems never to end despite the sweat lathering all over her, it is largely used to ignore all commands given by the reins, spurs or otherwise. At least with this she outstrips the figures of death like some sort of infinite source of speed and energy, her ears pinned flat to her head and her legs seeming to move faster than the eye can see them as she barrels towards a hill that seems... Blurred and unclear, to say the least. Lasalle continues to fight, trying to make her turn around and go back to confront the source of his misery, but man rarely wins a fight against a strong horse unwilling to cooperate, and so towards the hill they go.

A̷n̵d̶ ̵t̶h̸e̴n̸ ̷t̵h̸e̵r̴e̶ ̵i̶s̸ ̴s̵i̴l̸e̸n̵c̸e̸.̶

They are back in the fog, back in the silent abyss, his breathing becoming progressively heavier as he glances down: warm red spills onto the schabraque on his saddle and stains his gloves, while the rest of his uniform is stuck to him with sticky black. His sword, a regulation issue that he does not mind ruining with the corrosive blood of the entity, drips the usual acidic, fizzing black onto the invisible ground. His heart feels as if it is about to break out of his ribcage, each of his senses gradually replaced by only one sensation: angry pain.

W̴̥̕ȅ̷̤ ̴̹̿w̷͚̎a̷̰͋r̵̨̃n̶̘̿e̸̤͂d̷̡͛ ̵̫̍y̶̩͐ö̷͍́ů̶̖.̵̠̐.̷̀ͅ.̵̰̃

Be silent...! Marie... Please... Turn around... We need to... Find the others... Merde...

The brigade is not actually faring as badly as their commander, having noticed his absence and managed to rally around the two Colonels, and although it is still violent despite their numerical advantage, they are painstakingly cutting through the bloody ocean of the melee.

Also unlike their commander, they are not to be left to entirely fend for themselves; just as the combat reaches a peak of disorientation, the field seeming to spin and shift around them, the blaring of a trumpet manages to overpower the sound of steel on steel, followed by another and another, and all of a sudden the unlucky dozen, as they are known by all the lighter cavalrymen, are not the only steel-clad soldiers on the scene.

These new arrivals are led by an enthusiastic Colonel with his sword held high, armour gleaming under this domain's burning sun, a similarly armoured horde behind him charging straight into the fight with little regard for the intimidating nature of these creations to those who have never seen them. The original twelve cheer for their old comrades as they join in, and the creatures of death soon appear to realise the extent of how much they are outnumbered, scattering in various directions. As a final obstacle, they leave a trail of seething, fizzing soot behind them, so that no one can follow their path without risking themselves or their mount.

Berckheim intends to ask the lighter cavalry where they all are and where any sort of higher authority went, for he and his men simply appeared here with their horses galloping without any command, but he finds himself unable to communicate with any of them. It seems that they simply cannot hear him or understand him, but he manages to hand a hastily written note to Captain Fontaine expressing a desire to speak with their commanding officer. Fontaine can only nod for a reply, pointing at the paper as indication that it will be a letter.

Y̷o̵u̵ ̶g̶o̵t̴ ̶a̸w̵a̸y̸ ̵t̷h̴i̶s̶ ̵t̴i̸m̶e̴.̶.̴.̶ ̸N̶e̷x̶t̵ ̸t̴i̸m̶e̴ ̷w̵i̴l̷l̴ ̸n̵o̵t̷ ̴b̸e̴ ̸s̷o̴ ̶l̷u̶c̸k̸y̴.̴

Lasalle, meanwhile, barely consciously sits in the saddle as the mare continues to disobey and take him where she pleases, moving at a brisk but considerately smooth walk. A river appears beside them as they leave the fog, and then along the river appears a town. Now they come upon a house that seems strangely familiar, though he has certainly never been there before.

Here the mare halts and paws at the cobbled street to make noise. Lasalle in his current state cannot know where he is, or that he is among friends now, but the horse knows somehow, and she has delivered him here without any further injury.

[thehussargeneral]

Oftentimes one becomes lonely in an advance guard, where there is no time to stop and visit friends, nor any semblance of a reliable mail service...

But a worse feeling, perhaps, is that of knowing that one should be alone, but is not...

There is something out there, mark my words. The sentries see nothing and hear nothing, but I swear to all higher powers that s̵o̷m̴e̵t̵h̵i̶n̸g̶ ̸i̵s̷ ̵t̴h̷e̸r̷e̶.̸.̷.̷

[thehussargeneral]

✉️

To you, brave General, I give a speculation.

My theory is that you and your men are in some way too resplendent for your exit to be missed by the mist feeding on your regrets.

You may have noticed the small satchel enclosed with this letter. It contains the ash of rose-thorns picked during the last new moon of the year in a long-abandoned cemetery. Smear it in marks like tear-strokes down your cheeks, and perhaps it shall disguise you enough to pass through the mist as a nameless shadow. (Hopefully. To be honest, I haven't tested this enough.)

Beware, though, of keeping the disguise on longer than for two sunrises. It could possibly linger or have some other side effects.

~ Fairytale grandma (who is honestly a little new to her job) ~

Lasalle tries it, even if it is only out of curiosity. He summons the best of his hussars, writes formal orders for them to follow him in an attempt to convince the mist to keep them together, and lets them prepare as he takes the satchel. He leaves enough to do it again if this succeeds. They don't charge in as usual, but advance in a tighter version of skirmish order to accommodate for the total lack of visibility in this strange featureless limbo between the camp and whatever is outside of it. The usual attacks by the disembodied inhabitant begin, though they are well used to the taunts by now, and the advance continues in silence with musketoons at the ready. Lasalle carries one too but lets it hang from its belt, riding at the head of the formation as would be expected of a man like him. But while the war with the voice goes on in their heads, reality is silent. The mist dampens all noise, and besides the snow on the ground muffles the horses' hooves further. The air remains still, its vigil disturbed only by lone flakes of snow drifting downwards. Limbo does not usually have weather, but they do not notice. Trees begin to once again dot the landscape. They are the same pines that surround the camp. One of the hussars points out a peculiarity: the lower branches look as if they have been disturbed, free of snow that is instead in a pile at the foot of the affected trees. T̸h̸e̴y̷ ̷a̴r̸e̴ ̷n̵o̸t̴ ̷a̸l̷o̷n̵e̶.̸ The mist fades and noise begins to return, but now only one horse's footsteps and snorts are to be heard. The rest of the patrol has vanished, presumably taken off to see their deaths as usual, the orders ineffective on this occasion. Perhaps whatever magic got him here cancels out the will of the mist in a way that makes it disobey the destination orders. This place is both familiar and unfamiliar. Snow rests untouched across an open field that Lasalle would have recognised instantly if it was not covered in the symptoms of winter, for it is only the same place the mist has always brought him to before: W̴a̸g̴r̶a̸m̵. But instead of being forced to witness his final charge and its aftermath, today it is silent. One would not realise that anything ever happened here without prompting. Peaceful, almost abandoned. Almost, for Lasalle has found what caused the disturbance in the forest, and whoever is out there has spotted him. The figure is a man that, once again, appears both familiar and not. His horse and its harness betrays the light cavalry, but no uniform can be made out beneath the heavy riding cloak. The only indication at all of anything is the helmet, which is of the French style and should denote a dragoon. The man approaches until only a small gap separates them.

?̷?̸?̷ ̶:̷ ̶T̷e̴r̴r̵i̷b̷l̴y̸ ̴e̷a̴g̷e̷r̴ ̵t̵o̶ ̶l̸e̶a̷v̷e̵,̶ ̷a̵r̷e̴n̶'̷t̴ ̵y̵o̷u̸,̵ ̸G̷e̶n̷e̶r̸a̴l̸?̶

Cavalrymen are not meant to be confined in such a manner as I am. What did you do with my patrol?

?̶?̶?̸ ̴:̸ ̶I̷ ̸o̷n̶l̷y̷ ̵n̵e̸e̶d̵ ̸y̵o̴u̵.̶

The tone of that is threatening, and Lasalle's hand drifts towards the hilt of his sabre.

?̴?̴?̶ ̴:̴ ̷I̴ ̴w̴o̴u̷l̷d̸ ̶n̴o̵t̵ ̶r̵e̴c̵o̷m̶m̸e̸n̶d̶ ̷d̵o̴i̶n̷g̸ ̵t̴h̴a̶t̸,̴ ̴G̷e̷n̴e̶r̵a̸l̸.̸ ̸Y̴o̴u̸ ̸m̶i̷g̷h̷t̸ ̴h̴u̷r̶t̸ ̴y̶o̴u̸r̴s̴e̷l̷f̶.̸.̶.̷

Lasalle laughs sarcastically.

Please! Do you even know who I am?

?̷?̴?̷ ̵:̸ ̸I̵n̷t̶i̸m̷a̸t̸e̴l̸y̷.̶ ̸B̵u̴t̷ ̴i̷f̴ ̸y̶o̶u̵ ̶i̶n̷s̴i̷s̵t̸,̸ ̸t̶h̸e̸n̵ ̵y̴o̵u̶ ̴w̷i̸l̸l̴ ̵l̸e̶a̸r̷n̵ ̸t̸h̴e̶ ̴h̵a̶r̶d̷ ̸w̵a̵y̶.̶.̵.̶

Don't speak to me in riddles, man. Who are you and what do you want?

?̸?̷?̶ ̴:̶ ̸D̷o̶n̵'̸t̶ ̴y̵o̸u̵ ̷r̸e̶c̸o̵g̸n̴i̴s̸e̵ ̴m̶e̶?̸

I must admit I do not. Should I?

?̷?̶?̷ ̵:̴ ̴I̷ ̴a̷m̷ ̶y̵o̵u̶,̷ ̶b̸u̷t̵ ̴I̴ ̴d̸o̷ ̶n̸o̸t̸ ̵h̴a̵v̷e̸ ̷y̸o̵u̵r̸ ̶w̶e̶a̵k̷n̵e̶s̴s̵.̵

You cannot be me, otherwise you would not say I have weakness, my friend! I ought to be insulted by such a suggestion.

?̷?̵?̴ ̴:̷ ̸B̸u̵t̸ ̸y̵o̶u̴ ̸a̵r̶e̸ ̵n̸o̸t̸.̵ ̸Y̴o̵u̸ ̴k̸n̴o̶w̸ ̵i̷t̷ ̶t̶o̴ ̸b̷e̷ ̸t̴r̶u̴e̵.̵

Do you actually want something from me, or do you merely intend to stand here and simultaneously confuse and insult me?

?̵?̸?̴ ̶:̷ ̶Y̴o̷u̶ ̵w̸i̷l̶l̶ ̷s̷e̸e̷-̶-̵

The figure starts towards him, but Lasalle is quick to draw his sabre and land a blow to the arm that emerges from the cloak, only to recoil as a familiar sensation takes hold of his own arm in precisely the same place, a dark wet patch already spreading. He goes for another attack, but this one is parried.

?̶?̷?̶ ̸:̷ ̷I̸ ̶w̷a̴r̶n̴e̸d̸ ̷y̴o̸u̸.̶ ̵L̶e̴a̸v̴e̸,̸ ̸n̶o̸w̴,̴ ̴b̴u̷t̵ ̴w̵e̷ ̷w̶i̷l̵l̴ ̷m̴e̵e̷t̴ ̶a̵g̵a̶i̴n̶.̸

Lasalle needs no further prompting. Whatever this thing is, he does not want to spend any more time around it. To remain here would be foolish. He backs off without taking his eyes off the figure, and only when he reaches the edge of the mist does he turn his horse around and charge back into limbo at a gallop. His men, particularly those of the lost patrol who had been waiting for his return for some time now, whisper to each other as he dismounts and cradles his arm. They wonder what the hell happened, but know he will not tell them, not until some operation is launched against the source of that wound.

Good God, have you never seen a wound before? Find me the bloody surgeon and get about your duties!

The effect of his outburst is immediate, and the small crowd disperses instantly as Lasalle retreats to his tent. He is not used to being non-fatally wounded, to be true, and he finds it deeply embarrassing. The surgeon is sternly warned not to ask beyond what inflicted the wound, and Lasalle does not make a sound as it is cleaned and dressed. Then he puts on a fresh shirt, calls for the two Colonels and laughs as they come in with concerned expressions.

Well, gentlemen, we can still bleed here, it seems! Don't look at me as if I am dying, it is just my arm, he didn't even try to convince me not to ride. I've seen you two with worse. Especially you, Colbert.

Colbert twitches a little, remembering precisely what he was referencing.

Now, you are both sworn to secrecy on this matter, understand?