#ruinstarter

[eliseprouvaire-blog]

The air was crisp and only growing colder by the hour as it did as the sun sunk below the horizon. The dying glow from the sun illuminated the small area Elise had occupied for nearly half an hour now as she wiped off her tools with a wax coated cloth and read her worn down copy of Napoleon le Petit which laid flat on it’s spine on the table beside her. The girl took occasional sips from her canteen filled with coffee instead of water and soon noticed someone carrying quite a load of cargo. It was nearly an immediate reaction- her getting up from the table and quickly heading over. “Here, let me help-” Elise spoke with her French lilt.

[scotchmacfadden-blog]

Her feet had barely touched the Belarus soil for more than thirty second before long strides had quickly taken her back to the mechanics to critique the work that they had done in her absence. The suggestion of leave had been met with dragging feet and a clenched jaw with the brunette so unwilling to return home. Back in Glasgow it didn’t matter that dozens had turned to her when her father had been unwell or how dozens more had flocked to her when her brother had been called to war. Back home she was just a girl with a talent for cars but here she got to make a real difference and that was why she always had more time for the machines that she worked on rather than the people that made up the rest of the unit she was a part of.

The whisky that she always had on her person and her penchant for dishing it out every now and again meant that she was never short of company when she wanted it but right now the various tanks and trucks that she’d poured all her energy and effort into were calling out to her. So Len had taken the quickest route she could to the mechanics’ tent, immediately sliding herself under the nearest tank to start working again right way. Hearing footsteps approach not even mintues in, the brunette sighs before speaking without hesitation or a softening of tone. “Unless you’re bringing me more work or appeasing me with some scotch or even both, I don’t want to know.” There’s a little pause given as she tightens a bolt before she speaks again with her accent thick and harsh over her words. “If it’s not mechanics related go take yourself on a nice fucking long walk because otherwise I don’t want to know.”

[solocooper-blog]

“These aren’t yours, are they?”

[crowdurant]

His fingers thrummed idly against his thigh, eyes narrowing in thought. “If you were to take a guess, when do you think this,” he motioned at the landscape with his cigarette before looking in the other’s direction, “will all end?”

[apollovalenti]

The night had bled into dawn as Marco had worked, desperately trying to save those in his care from being another name on a death notice in a mother’s hands. It took it’s toll, seeing so many die under his emerald watch, but he would not let unnecessary numbers add to death’s legions - not while he could help him. Reprieve came only in the short breaks he permitted himself - to eat, to sleep a little, or, when there was no time to find an empty cot or a meal, to pray behind the tent for a moment.

The prayer fell from Marco’s lips in the quiet, familiar words of his mother tongue, barely audible even to his own ears amongst the ever bustling sounds of the base over the smooth clinking of his rosary beads between his blood-stained fingers. He did not need to hear the words for them to lift a weight off his soul, even if just for a moment, they were meant to be heard by a higher power anyone - one who Marco believed could hear him on his knees, above the deafening clamour of war.

❝ Signore, fa di me uno strumento della tua pace: Dove è odio, fa ch'io porti l'amore. Dove è offesa, ch'io porti il perdono. Dove è discordia, ch'io porti l'unione. Dove è dubbio, ch'io porti la fede. Dove è errore, ch'io porti la verità. Dove è disperazione, ch'io porti la speranza. Dove è tristezza, ch'io porti la gioia. Dove sono le tenebre, ch'io porti la lu- ❞

Footsteps fell, halting Marco’s interrupted prayer, rosary slipping back into his pocket as he turned his face towards unexpected, though not unwelcome (never unwelcome) company. “Chi va li? - uh, Who’s there?”  

[wraithmercuritte]

His hands held precision. The blade flipped upon his palm, deft digits curling lightly around its textured grip. Three of his knives were already lodged within the center ring, outlining the crimson mark which would receive his fourth. Index and thumb grasped the silver blade whilst his eyes honed in on the inanimate victim. His arm swept upward, dagger poised beside his ear before the swift backward wrench and forward release. The weapon struck home, its sharp point embedding itself within the core as commanded. Esca often chose luncheon to occupy camp outskirts, where the majority of camp settled among the mess hall-- or in this case, evaded the masses of ‘moving day’. Yet, an uninvited presence arrived to interrupt his ritual. His gaze failed to greet them, his attention instead plucking a fifth knife from the table.

[docxstone-blog]

Markus was starving. She meant to grab something to eat much earlier, but she had been busy getting things organized in the medic tent, sorting the supplies and making sure her ducks were in a row before she would leave anything or take a break. That ended up taking up most of her day and all she was running on at that point were fumes and caffeine. Not that she really stopped to get any coffee, but a mug would be placed on her desk and she would sip at it while she worked.

Now she was sitting outside her tent, tearing part of her biscuit and taking a bite. She glanced up just as someone approached the tent. “Over here,” she spoke up, leaning forward so she was seen past the entrance of the tent. “Need something?”

[ainoxlind-blog]

When Aino was just a child, visiting the neighbouring Sweden had been incredibly exciting to her. She remembers how she couldn’t fall asleep the night prior, how she could only lie in her bed and imagine the streets and people of Stockholm. Back then, she had been convinced everything would be different and exciting on the other side of the Gulf and wouldn’t listen to anyone trying to assure her it wasn’t all that different from Helsinki. No, Sweden represented something magical and exotic to the young girl who had never even dared to think about travelling. 

Now Aino stands on the outskirts of Rome and folds fresh bandages while her mind wanders elsewhere. It feels like centuries have passed since her childhood but she still finds herself relating to the fears and hopes of that little girl with relative ease. While the Aino of 1918 couldn’t possibly understand what war was, it was still a part of her reality. Sometimes she wonders whether the Civil War was the reason she found herself so drawn to nursing, whether the burning need to make herself useful to others stemmed from those early years of her childhood. 

Usually she thinks it’s best not to think about any of that and just concentrate on her work. 

Holding a neatly folded piece of cloth, Aino turns slightly the moment she realises she’s no longer alone. “Excuse me,” she speaks and her voice shakes slightly simply from not having been used for what feels like several hours by now. “I’m afraid I was lost in my thoughts and missed whatever you just said.” With that, she glances down at the table in front of her and nods as if approving the quality of her own work. “I was folding these, you see. It tends to get a little bit monotonous.”