Save the horse, ride the hussar

[A semi-serious RP blog for] Antoine-Charles-Louis de Lasalle, Général de Division, Comte de l'Empire

[thehussargeneral]

Antoine—Charles—Louis de Lasalle

𝐺𝑒́𝑛𝑒́𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑑𝑒 𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑡𝑒 𝑑𝑒 𝑙'𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒, 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑂𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑒 𝑙𝑎 𝐿𝑒́𝑔𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑑'𝐻𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑢𝑟, 𝐶ℎ𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑒 𝑙'𝑂𝑟𝑑𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑒 𝑙𝑎 𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑒 𝐹𝑒𝑟…

…𝑒𝑡 𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑢𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑑𝑒 𝑙'𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒.

⁘•————————⁘•⁘————————•⁘

Greetings, dear visitor, do make yourself comfortable. Might I offer you some wine, or perhaps tobacco for your pipe?

I suppose I ought to explain. This is my encampment, here you will find a great variety of men who served me in life. Where exactly we are, I cannot be certain, since the Afterlife appears not to be consistent with a normal map. Besides, that fog obscures any features of this place, and once you pass through it you can reach many different destinations... Often unpleasant ones.

I welcome any correspondence, of course, and though many would be eager to warn you of my brashness, I can assure you that I am capable of civility and sensitivity. And, as I am sure you are well aware, I am no stranger to parties, shenanigans and pranks...

Now, I do have some requests. Kindly remain civil in your correspondence and actions, otherwise those large men wearing armour outside might get a little antsy, and kindly refrain from using my full name. Charles Lasalle, General Lasalle and variations thereof are perfectly sufficient. The nobleman's son who took the full name has been dead much longer than the soldier, believe me.

⁘•————————⁘•⁘————————•⁘

The General is not alone in this corner of the Afterlife, and this platform may also be used to contact some of his family, friends and colleagues:

Pierre-Louis-Adolphe-Georges du Prel: The General's cousin and aide-de-camp. Largely competent, and tries to keep the others under control.

Charles-Yves-César-Cyr du Coëtlosquet: Another relative of the General, also his aide-de-camp and good friend. He is no stranger to shenanigans and parties, get him drunk at your own risk. Technically the senior aide-de-camp, but sure as hell doesn't act like it.

Joséphine d’Aiguillon: The Comtesse de Lasalle. No, she will not speak about her ex-husband, but she is said to be an excellent hostess and accomplished lady.

The Horde: The collective of Lasalle's men. Each of them died while under his command in one way or another, and remain with him at the encampment. They include men of the 5th, 7th and 10th Hussars, men of various regiments of Chasseurs á Cheval, and the unlucky dozen of the 1st Cuirassiers who died at his side at Wagram. Be warned, the cuirassiers are rather protective...

⁘•————————⁘•⁘————————•⁘

Notes sur l'Organisation:

#lasalle answers : Lasalle answers asks.

#lasalle correspondence : General Lasalle RP.

#ooc : Out of character posts, may include fun facts or reblogs of such.

#aides de chaos : Anything involving the aides-de-camp. They also have their own individual tags: #adc du prel, #adc du coetlosquet

#la comtesse de lasalle : Anything that the General's wife, Joséphine, is involved in.

#the horde appears : Anything that our wonderful Horde is involved in.

#lasalle reblogs : Anything that Lasalle reblogs in-character.

#lasalle lore : Loreposting about Lasalle's afterlife, such as his encampment and the strange happenings surrounding it.

#lasalle post : Lasalle posts things of his own accord. Sometimes chaos ensues.

An archive of all the roleplay threads that this blog has been involved in can be found here under 'Storylines/Events'. You can also find here a historical summary of Lasalle's life and some lore context.

⁘•————————⁘•⁘————————•⁘

Welcome to my comedic RP blog for General Lasalle! This mildly unhinged operation is run by @upbeatmeeting, who for immersion is sometimes referred to in-character as the adjutant.

I am not a historian on the General by any means, but I do aim to represent him in a manner befitting the daring and iconic figure that he was. My interpretation is rather more sarcastic and cocky, though he can also sometimes show part of the sensitivity he was noted to possess throughout his life. What I mean to say is that this isn't 100% accurate and I'm not sure it ever will be. I'm just here to have a bit of fun. Also check out this list of the other members of this wacky roleplay scene.

As above, correspondence (and with that, magic anons) is most welcome. However, do endeavour not to be a cunt, because you will find yourself blocked and yeeted into The Void. I reserve the right not to answer and I will not be answering anything egregiously NSFW or otherwise inappropriate, though a little suggestive is okay.

Have fun :)

Oh, and maybe one day people's names will stop getting autocorrected. Until then, please ignore spelling errors.

[thehussargeneral]

It's my birthday!

[le-dieu-mars]

@thehussargeneral

In truth, being sent around the Afterlife with messages and objectives is not a task Captain Fontaine is particularly fond of: he considers it a hussar's job, believing himself to have few of the qualities that make a good light cavalryman or a good candidate for such an assignment. But when General Lasalle insists, who is he to refuse a direct order? Even if he tried, he would find some reason or other. At least it is good exercise both for him and his mount, and he does at least have the company of one of the hussar officers he considers something close to a friend. He is a small, wiry man from the 5th Hussars with long black hair in the usual style and a well-groomed mustache, mounted on a lively chestnut with a bouncy trot.

Hussar: Do you think she's killed him yet?

Fontaine: I find it unlikely. She is fond of him, after all, despite the occasional poor decisions, and they have had some time apart now.

Hussar: Well, it won't be without consequence for him, I'm sure. That woman scares me.

Fontaine: Why?

The other man shrugs, having to look up slightly to see Fontaine's face, which is characteristically expressionless as always.

Hussar: Have you seen her? ... Right, nothing scares you because you're bulletproof, I knew that. Still, wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of her.

Fontaine rolls his eyes under the visor of his helmet as they pass into Kleber's domain at last.

Fontaine: I am only partially bulletproof, at range and in certain situations, and of course over a limited area. For protection against sabre blows and debris, however, the cuirass is greatly useful.

Hussar: Now, now, Captain Pedant. Better partially bulletproof than not, considering all the dents in it.

The conversation maintains the theme of gently teasing the cuirassier, which Fontaine has long accepted as an inevitability of existing among hussars, until they reach the house. At this point Fontaine dismounts, his companion holding onto his horse while he walks up to the door and knocks. He has learned to expect the unexpected in this Afterlife, even on mundane errands like this, and so wonders just what he will see this time.

General Damas answers the door, clad in a wrapper robe, red morocco slippers, breeches, a waistcoat and open-throat linen shirt, his hair undone, and under a floppy bonnet de police, very informal. "Well well, Capitaine Fontaine and... his companion. I do apologize, I am not Berthier and cannot remember everyone's name - what brings you here?"

From the distance, in the house, there is the sound of a cat yowling in absolute indignation, and Madame's voice, raised sharply. "YOU HAD WORMS! Take the damned pill, you hairy beast! I should have had you neutered when I had you at the vet's!"

[thehussargeneral]

Fontaine salutes at the sight of General Damas, recalling him faintly enough to be a general to remember to do so despite his state of undress.

Fontaine: I have been sent to see that Madame Kléber returned home safely—

He is interrupted by the cat noises and the shouting, which causes him to pause momentarily.

Fontaine: ...Which I suppose she has, and to ask how the General himself is following her return, Sir.

Given the relative absurdity of the assignment, he produces the written orders from his left glove, having no better place to put the piece of paper while en route.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay gives a shaky laugh, patting her mount on the neck. "You know, General, I don't think he ever did... look at those red heels! Who is he kidding! Still as handsome as ever though...."

Houchard looks at Grandjean, who looks at Lasalle and winks as if to say not as mad at him as she says she is, eh?

DuQuay turns in her saddle and looks at Fontaine and his horse, and smiles. "I knew a horse like that myself. His name was Blaze - ex-agent-de-police horse - they are trained properly and that is a VERY safe practice. When the tack is on, it is business mode. Tack off - snack on. It is an excellent training technique and one that can save both horse AND rider - for if a horse is treat motivated, or a glutton... " she looks at Philippe, who is still chewing thoughtfully on the stolen hat, eyes half-closed - "... dangerous things may occur - Capitaine Fontaine is not only an excellent rider, safe and sure, but an excellent horseman and caretaker of his horses. All of us should use him and his training as an example to live up to. If you cannot trust your mount, gentlemen, then all is lost. A rider is only as good as his horse. My mount in the living world was a "cheap horse" as well - and he and I are much like Fontaine and his mount. Caporal is a bit less trained, as he was a replacement I had - well, Delacroix had - purchased before the Russian campaign. He did, however, see him through all the way to Waterloo without much incident. Brave, but incredibly stupid, and his reincarnated self was.... well, he's the reason I limp. He was scared of rain drops - though I wonder how much of that was false in order to garner both attention and treats from me."

DuQuay looks at her troopers, at General Houchard, Demongin, and Grandjean, and catches the eye of Fontaine.

"Capitaine, a toast to you and your proper care and training of your mount. You are a paragon of proper, excellent horsemanship."

[thehussargeneral]

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

Lasalle, having acquired and drank another tankard, winks back at Grandjean with a knowing smirk: "Oh, of course not."

Fontaine, very much unprepared for such a sudden outpouring of praise, quickly glances away so that the visor of his helmet covers what comes dangerously close to a smile or some other acceptance of a compliment. After composing himself back into neutrality, he salutes again, lacking a drink to acknowledge the toast with.

Fontaine: You flatter me, Madame... With some considerable exaggeration... Although I would suggest that horse of yours was simply taking advantage of your affection...

Lasalle rolls his eyes sarcastically at such a predictable response from Fontaine, then turns to DuQuay.

Well, you almost made him show some sort of human emotion, so well done. I am inclined to agree about that horse, though, it cannot be possible for an animal that lives outside to be afraid of the rain. A horse scared of rain - how ridiculous, truly.

[levieuxchevalier]

"It was ridiculous, honestly. When I acquired a new mount, as the crop-eared one was not technically mine, but a loaner - he was jealous of the chestnut. I am glad neither of them were stallions, I cannot imagine the BS that they would have got up to."

DuQuay shifted in the saddle, watching the void-Kleber with soft eyes, trying not to sigh, and failing to hide that warm affection. Houchard rode up to Grandjean and elbowed him, grinning.

"Ach, tochter, General Lasalle, ve have tarried enough, it is time for us to move on and go home, ja?"

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle nods with a smile, giving the order for the column to move off again, urging Kugel on slightly ahead of the others in the hopes of avoiding yet more violence.

Yes, indeed, let us return Madame to the real version that can talk.

Then he turns to Houchard and speaks more quietly, but with just as much amusement.

...and that can face the music, eh?

The realms beyond Strasbourg lack much noteworthiness: Austerlitz, Eylau and Heilsberg come and go, though they are not as violent as they sometimes are and thus are relatively easy to pass through. Kugel, being a stubborn animal, still occasionally tries to turn and bite Caporal, but is swiftly corrected with an indignant snort.

Finally, after seemingly eternity, they pass into the fog one more time, and on the other end emerge into the familiar territory of Kléber's domain.

[levieuxchevalier]

The hills of Passy and Chaillot slowly come into focus, the hue and cry of the dockworkers in the air, the steady **thump-hiss-whirr** of the pumps a constant backdrop, along with the cries of the fishmongers who ply their wares.

"FRESH BURBOT! SMELT!"

"Sure does..." Grandjean muttered, wrinkling his nose, the men chuckling at the old joke. "Pfft, not as bad as Rue Mouffetard there in Saint-Marcel." Demongin grumbles, eyeing the to-ings and fro-ings of the freight barges along the riverbank, the cows on the Ile des Cygnes grazing among the trees. They stop at the Passy Water stop, to water the horses, and here is where DuQuay decides to leave the group.

"I'll ride on.. it's not far from here, a quarter mile if - I need some alone time to think...." she says, as she remounts, her cuirassiers looking at her with concern.

"Are you sure, daughter?" Houchard asks, leaning forward in his saddle, as his horse drinks deeply from the trough.

"Yeah... I have to do this last part alone, Papa... Soldiers - my tinned bastards - dismissed! Go about your tasks, see to your horses and selves, and then return to Buttes-Chaumont there, to General d'Hautpoul and his command."

The cuirassiers look at each other, and then at Grandjean - perhaps, hopefully, the fiasco didn't reach the big commander's ears... yet.

With a jingle of tack and the chulk-chulk-chulk of trotting male horses, the men ride out, Grandjean pausing to salute Lasalle, Houchard at the head of the group, leading them away.

"Until we meet again, General - let us hope in better circumstances." General Houchard says, his face serious. He watches DuQuay ride away, concern in his eyes. "I hope she doesn't eviscerate the old bastard."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle comes quite close to objecting and insisting on going with her the rest of the way, but considering the situation General Kleber is soon likely to find himself in, he decides against it. At least this domain is reasonably peaceful.

He returns Houchard's salute.

Better circumstances, indeed. Perhaps at Marshal Kellermann's - I am there quite often, although I think I will wait for the younger one to receive his justice first.

And perhaps someone should check that Kleber is still alive in a week or two.

A safe journey to you and your men, General.

[lepremiercoquillard]

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]

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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Espagne had an expression of sympathy on his swarthy face. "Aye, I understand that. Every May 21st, I suffer the same affliction. General d'Hautpoul here suffers it in Februrary for a good six days. Heard yours was much longer, Fontaine. Come, you can rest in our surgeon's tent until it passes. Those of us dead on the field of battle know of the crappy feeling. Do not concern yourself much with propriety or rank. Not even General Nansouty will chide you for this. Because, and you may know, if Madame DuQuay-Kleber found out, she'd have us doin' drill until our couilles fell off."

Demongin snorted at that; he had only just met Madame, and had seen her in the void; he wanted to say something, but Fontaine's state was more worrying to him than anything that had happened at Lasalle's camp.

General d'Hautpoul did not dismount, but nodded in agreement.

"Ouais, Madame... she'd give me hell. I don't want her to see me like this... opened up one a them magic letters and POUF, here I am pint-sized. It's not... not funny. I hate it. Nothing fits, and these gosses are takin the piss outta me because of it. I dunno how those little guys do it, bein' so small and such."

[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?

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Hautpoul frowned, and shook his head.

"Non, Capitaine, it did not... only mentioned the Rule of Three and for the life of me, I can't remember what that means!"

General d'Espagne coughed for a moment, and locked eyes with Demongin, who tried not to smirk.

"Ah, General d'Hautpoul, sir? I believe I know what that may be. Captaine Fontaine ... go rest. That's an order." Demongin murmured, waiting for Fontaine to leave before dismounting, handing his horse to a trooper. "Be careful with him. He... he's a bit special."

"I know, Squadron Commander, he... he had wandered in here not too long ago, eating General Nansouty's dress plume."

"Oh, that's.... wonderful. Those things are not cheap. So... the Rule of Three, General d'Hautpoul, is a rite of passage for cavalry officers... usually just us coquillards, though I've heard the Chasseurs and Hussars have their own."

[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.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"HWHAET?!! Treis femnas, tres cavals, tres botelhas de champanha e tres lieus en tres oras? Siás devenut foll??"*

Ange's voice rings out, a loud voice for such a little (snerk) man and his eyes bulge out of his head comically.

".... do the women have to... you know... arrive?" he whispered, leaning towards Demongin.

"Uh... well... that depends... sir. I mean... probably for this challenge and for you to return to normal, yes." Demongin scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish as he mumbled the reply.

"Merda."

"First we gotta FIND three willing women... General d'Hautpoul. I mean. never was hard when you was a coquillard, but... the women that run with hussars are a bit different." General Montbrun added, shrugging.

"I am still a goddamned coquillard! Just... "

"Une coquillette... perhaps."

"TA YEULE, NANSOUTY!"

It was rather hard for the big cuirassiers not to snicker behind their hands at their (formerly) giant commander's predicament. It would indeed be difficult to procure three women that were willing to sport with the smaller version of d'Hautpoul; which in and of itself was emasculating to the big man.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert finds the group just as Montbrun mentions this difficulty, and he smirks as he offers his superiors a salute, then approaches Montbrun and speaks to him.

Maubert: If I may offer some assistance, Sir, you may recall my regiment was quite briefly commanded by General Lasalle, and I did make acquaintance with a few hussars afterwards, who I am certain would be willing to help this... Predicament. I'm sure they would be happy to help with... Other aspects, too.

Maubert: Perhaps it would be worth me going to find them, Sir?

[lepremiercoquillard]

Ange looks down from his horse that he refuses to dismount from; being a tall guy before this--- unfortunate event, he prefers to remain in the saddle because dismounting would put him at a serious height disadvantage.

"Chef d'Escadron Maubert, your assistance would be very helpful. Brunettes, of the dark auburn variety, well-rounded are my preference. They need to keep this... shrinkage secret... and assure them that my blade has not suffered any ill-effects of this... curse."

Nansouty spit-takes, d'Espagne groans and Demongin has to turn away not to chuckle.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert: Of course, Sir.

Maubert salutes with a chuckle, going off to find his horse.

And a little while later, Maubert returns with a small group of hussars on horseback, and sure enough holding on to them are the three "willing ladies", as the ritual terms them.

The hussars have clearly been briefed not to laugh when first seeing the predicament, and to their credit they manage that relatively well. It is, after all, rather absurd.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"General Nansouty, why did General d'Hautpoul specify stacked brunettes?"

Demongin whispers, eyeing the women as they dismount and approach the hussar-sized cuirasser, as d'Espagne leads over two more horses, and Lepic arrives with three bottles of champagne and his pocket-watch. Nansouty, still in his powdered wig, his queue still too short for his liking, blushes, and compresses his lips tight before whispering out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes on d'Hautpoul.

"You ever meet Madame DuQuay-Kleber?"

"Donnerwetter.... you mean... ah... that small woman who leads the 3rd as their commander- the one that shape-shifts?"

Nansouty nods as one of the girls, a bottle of champagne and Ange saunter off to a remote tent, the three horses tethered to the hitching post as the men argue about the logistics of the ride - was it going to be the same short course, there and back for a 20 league total or...

"The very same. General d'Hautpoul and her were... briefly together... before General Kleber showed up."

Demongin grimaced and shook his head. "Ach, now that's awkward. Do they still... well... are they still?"

'Friends? Of course. Though poor Joseph... it was a blow that he nearly did not recover from.... well.... that and the murder mare."

"Murder mare?? Is that how you... ah... ended up with that new hairstyle? I thought you finally caved to regulations, General, sir!"

Nansouty bristles, looking like he's smelled a particularly nasty smell.

"Absolutely NOT, Chef d'Escadron Demongin! I was proud of my queue, and the tradition, and that damned mare had it in her TEETH - I was almost out of her grasp, and Joseph just... HACKED IT OFF! Agh!"

General d'Hautpoul's tent opens up, and one of the women staggers out, grinning, disheveled, holding the empty bottle of champagne. d'Hautpoul swaggers out, a bit taller, smoking a cigar, and mounts up on one of the horses, taking off at a path General Lepic points him towards.

"6.5 lieus - 3 there and 3 back - to the edge of the encampment through the woods and around, to the opposite side! Then back for round two while we figure out the next third of the trail!"

"Jesu - that didn't take him long."

d'Espagne shrugged - "it's not the size of the man, it's the size of the..."

"Maudit!.. I get it.. I GET it, BRIDGET!! No need to ...."

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert tilts his head at that conversation, having never met DuQuay himself, and also having never heard of the murder mare incident.

Maubert: A shapeshifter in command of a regiment? And a homicidal mare? A strange Afterlife this is. Who is she? The woman, not the horse. The horse is only mildly unusual.

Then he watches as d'Hautpoul returns from the tent and makes for the designated course, one of the hussars following at a distance both for his own entertainment and so that there can be no allegations of foul play.

Maubert: Gen'ral Nansouty, sir, ever met a certain Fontaine of ours? If you and him looked a little more similar, one wouldn't be faulted for thinking you're the same person. Just curious, I haven't been here terribly long... But I think if you've met him you'd know why I'm asking.

[lepremiercoquillard]

Nansouty nods, brushing at his uniform sleeve with a face that can be best described as "weaned on a pickle" -

"Indeed, Maubert- this world is... strange, to say the least. Madame... she's no shapeshifter... well... you know - you may be correct with that assumption. She is, as a living being, in possession of certain... abilities... it's a hard thing to describe to those of us of the Catholic faith, being told that we have but one body, and that body will be resurrected when Christ ascends... "

Nansouty trails off and looks at his hands for a moment, flexing them in his gauntlet-gloves, then scanning the environment, his face milder, but none the less well-composed; a momentary flicker of something crossing his face before he turns to Maubert again.

"Yes.. I've met Capitaine Fontaine. He is a very good soldier, very upright, very proper, very much a man whose attention to detail makes him all the better for the regiment. My father knew his father, a hard man if there ever was one. My father found Monseigneur Fontaine often too harsh, too disciplined, if such a thing can exist. He said there was a reason for his hardness, his froideur, but he never did explain it to me, for I was a young man yet, and not privy to such to-ings and fro-ings in Versailles. And I was not to fraternize with the stable hands, either - even if one of them eventually did become a great General. I am speaking of our former General Hoche, of course."

Nansouty didn't think too much of Hoche as a person - far too coarse, far too Republican, too ready to denounce someone as a viper or as unpatriotic - the memory of him and d'Hautpoul nearly getting the shave during that turbulent time enough to bring a sort of pallor to his cheeks before he composed himself. Nansouty was the kind of man who would be sarcastic, but he often kept a LOT of things to himself, especially if it was not polite, and moreso if it was in the presence of a junior officer. Standards had to be kept.

General d'Hautpoul returns at a trot, and dismounts before his horse has even halted, grabbing the proffered bottle of champagne, downing it, throwing the bottle aside. He grins crookedly, that missing bicuspid showing, his frame a bit taller. "Ah! A good ride, and now for an even better ride!..."

The orderly takes his casque and cuirass, and sets them aside as the (not so big) man jerks his head at one of the ladies, and then the tent.

"Viens, cheri... dis ol' troupier'll give you a good ride, hein?"

Nansouty tries NOT to roll his eyes, but the blush across his cheeks is evident, even if he turns away from the junior officers to hide it.

"Mòstra-li cossí un senhor de Tarn monta sas cavalas, Joseph!! Dona-li aquò al galop!" D'Espagne shouts, laughing, slapping his thigh as the tent flap closes.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert listens with curiosity as Nansouty speaks of DuQuay, not that his explanation makes him any less confused. Clearly he has some things to catch up on around here.

When Nansouty mentions the old man Fontaine, he freezes up somewhat: he had forgotten for a while about his Captain's earlier career, the peculiarity of which should have been more memorable but was probably pushed out of sight and out of mind. Yes, if only a certain officer was here to recount personally just how deranged that old man could be, but at least to hear a man such as Nansouty praise Fontaine pleases him.

He, too, keeps certain judgements and feelings to himself as he replies. In reality, if anyone in his usual group ever met Monseigneur Fontaine, it would be unlikely to end well.

Maubert: I am pleased that his efforts are appreciated; perhaps it is because I am his commanding officer, but I do believe his men are consistently the best turned out in this regiment by a margin.

Maubert: I am afraid, though, sir, that there is indeed such a thing as too harsh and disciplined, particularly when it comes to raising children. Monseigneur Fontaine was certainly adept in raising soldiers, but children, not so much. It is sometimes inconceivable to some, sir, that the way Captain Fontaine is now is, in fact, rather a lot more relaxed than he used to be.

Maubert sighs as he remembers the young Fontaine, somehow even stiffer and more externally unfeeling than his present counterpart, his voice lowering to something barely audible, quite unsure whether it should be heard or not.

Maubert: I do hope there is some exceptional reason for his father to be so; a boy of sixteen has precious little need to be expert in the business of a soldier without ever setting foot in a garrison. We had effectively nothing further to teach him about it, so we tried to teach him to be... more human instead. We also gave him some of our problematic horses to try to train out of their habits. He was rather good at that.

Before he can say any more, d'Hautpoul returns from the first stage, and Maubert tactfully glances away as Nansouty tries to hide his expression.

Fontaine himself, meanwhile, is now asleep in the surgeon's tent, though it can hardly be called restful or sound sleep. Still better than full consciousness, he supposes.

[lepremiercoquillard]

Nansouty nods briskly. "Madame would say something about that, having experienced individuals such as that - her father's side. She says - some people are... ahem... assholes and should not have children. Madame is rather blunt in her vocabulary, despite her last name. I do think it has something to do with her upbringing."

Lepic caught the conversation, and walked over, resting a hand on Nansouty's shoulder. "A father like that is no father. As a father to several sons, it does one no good to raise them without warmth, Maubert. I know you did your best in breaking Fontaine of the habits his father instilled in him, but some things you may never be able to break him from."

The thunder of returning hooves, and d'Hautpoul dismounts, nearly his full height again, the uniform changing with each stage of the trial.

"One more! ONE MORE - I feel nearly my old self again, sacres rosses! Come, my pretty little bird - forget those hussars- save a horse, ride a Cuirassier!" Ange booms, grabbing the champagne and the girl. "If the tent's a rockin, don't come a knockin!" he booms, sticking his head out between the flaps before popping it back in.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert sighs subtly at Lepic's comment, knowing full well that he is right. The young Fontaine's comrades, himself included, had had to come to accept that truth back then too, that he was unlikely to ever be entirely "usual".

Maubert: Indeed, sir, there were many that we never managed to make him grow out of... Also some that went away for a time, but came back.

Maubert: Perhaps the worst is that we never managed to make him believe us that there is anything at all unusual or wrong about the way he was treated, and he still fiercely defends the man and anything he does. It is one of the only things he will argue about rather than simply saying what the other wants to hear.

He is prevented from saying any more by, once again, the return of d'Hautpoul and his increasing enthusiasm. In the meantime, the hussars who had brought the ladies have gotten their hands on some wine too, and drink amongst themselves as the ritual goes on.

Hussar: Well, looks like he's rather enthusiastic, ain't he?

[lepremiercoquillard]

Lepic sighs, and shakes his head: "Rather like Madame - Joseph is high-born, but coarse as they come... As for that particular habit - well, sometimes, the training is so.. rigorous that the individual cannot escape it, no matter what. Rather like a horse that is ruined by a poor rider - you could get some habits out, but there will always be that undercurrent - and if the horse encounters the man that ruined him- well, that could go either of two ways."

The further discussion is broken by Angie bursting out of the tent, fully his size once more, grinning, bare-chested, a horse blanket around his lower half. Thank god.

"AH!!! Now... I'd almost WANT another one a them magic letters - that was... a good bon temps, sacres rosses! AH, yes... give me that cognac - I have worked up a thirst!" "Where's the third maid, Joseph, ya bastard!" d'Espagne shouts, laughing.

"Still abed, recovering! I gave her a GOOD ride, me!"

Nansouty facepalms, Montbrun chuckles, and Demongin just shakes his head, with a wry grin. "With commanders like him, how can you not want to charge into the very mouth of hell itself, eh?"

[thehussargeneral]

The hussars laugh, providing him with the cognac and raising their own bottles to him in a somewhat disorderly toast. Maubert, meanwhile, looks away slightly, even his relatively limited sense of propriety mildly offended by seeing a senior officer in that state.

Maubert: That's the General quite back to normal now, it seems. In all ways. Whatever would we do without "commanders like him", eh, Demongin?

Hussar: But do be careful what you wish for, mon général, those letters can get curious indeed! Haven't you heard the Emperor is presently a horse?

Maubert looks over, surprised.

Maubert: And can he still talk and complain, or is he forced to paw at the ground restlessly in hopes of getting attention? What are they feeding him?

The hussar has no answers to those questions, not knowing himself, but just laughs again, his friends holding onto him.

A short distance away, Fontaine's ingrained inability to rest has forced him up. He does look somewhat better, though still with a slight limp and an expression reminiscent of a horse pushing itself to exhaustion to please a handler, even though there is no handler to please. Maubert spots him and rolls his eyes, then turns back to Lepic with a shrug.

[lepremiercoquillard]

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]

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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Espagne had an expression of sympathy on his swarthy face. "Aye, I understand that. Every May 21st, I suffer the same affliction. General d'Hautpoul here suffers it in Februrary for a good six days. Heard yours was much longer, Fontaine. Come, you can rest in our surgeon's tent until it passes. Those of us dead on the field of battle know of the crappy feeling. Do not concern yourself much with propriety or rank. Not even General Nansouty will chide you for this. Because, and you may know, if Madame DuQuay-Kleber found out, she'd have us doin' drill until our couilles fell off."

Demongin snorted at that; he had only just met Madame, and had seen her in the void; he wanted to say something, but Fontaine's state was more worrying to him than anything that had happened at Lasalle's camp.

General d'Hautpoul did not dismount, but nodded in agreement.

"Ouais, Madame... she'd give me hell. I don't want her to see me like this... opened up one a them magic letters and POUF, here I am pint-sized. It's not... not funny. I hate it. Nothing fits, and these gosses are takin the piss outta me because of it. I dunno how those little guys do it, bein' so small and such."

[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?

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Hautpoul frowned, and shook his head.

"Non, Capitaine, it did not... only mentioned the Rule of Three and for the life of me, I can't remember what that means!"

General d'Espagne coughed for a moment, and locked eyes with Demongin, who tried not to smirk.

"Ah, General d'Hautpoul, sir? I believe I know what that may be. Captaine Fontaine ... go rest. That's an order." Demongin murmured, waiting for Fontaine to leave before dismounting, handing his horse to a trooper. "Be careful with him. He... he's a bit special."

"I know, Squadron Commander, he... he had wandered in here not too long ago, eating General Nansouty's dress plume."

"Oh, that's.... wonderful. Those things are not cheap. So... the Rule of Three, General d'Hautpoul, is a rite of passage for cavalry officers... usually just us coquillards, though I've heard the Chasseurs and Hussars have their own."

[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.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"HWHAET?!! Treis femnas, tres cavals, tres botelhas de champanha e tres lieus en tres oras? Siás devenut foll??"*

Ange's voice rings out, a loud voice for such a little (snerk) man and his eyes bulge out of his head comically.

".... do the women have to... you know... arrive?" he whispered, leaning towards Demongin.

"Uh... well... that depends... sir. I mean... probably for this challenge and for you to return to normal, yes." Demongin scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish as he mumbled the reply.

"Merda."

"First we gotta FIND three willing women... General d'Hautpoul. I mean. never was hard when you was a coquillard, but... the women that run with hussars are a bit different." General Montbrun added, shrugging.

"I am still a goddamned coquillard! Just... "

"Une coquillette... perhaps."

"TA YEULE, NANSOUTY!"

It was rather hard for the big cuirassiers not to snicker behind their hands at their (formerly) giant commander's predicament. It would indeed be difficult to procure three women that were willing to sport with the smaller version of d'Hautpoul; which in and of itself was emasculating to the big man.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert finds the group just as Montbrun mentions this difficulty, and he smirks as he offers his superiors a salute, then approaches Montbrun and speaks to him.

Maubert: If I may offer some assistance, Sir, you may recall my regiment was quite briefly commanded by General Lasalle, and I did make acquaintance with a few hussars afterwards, who I am certain would be willing to help this... Predicament. I'm sure they would be happy to help with... Other aspects, too.

Maubert: Perhaps it would be worth me going to find them, Sir?

[lepremiercoquillard]

Ange looks down from his horse that he refuses to dismount from; being a tall guy before this--- unfortunate event, he prefers to remain in the saddle because dismounting would put him at a serious height disadvantage.

"Chef d'Escadron Maubert, your assistance would be very helpful. Brunettes, of the dark auburn variety, well-rounded are my preference. They need to keep this... shrinkage secret... and assure them that my blade has not suffered any ill-effects of this... curse."

Nansouty spit-takes, d'Espagne groans and Demongin has to turn away not to chuckle.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert: Of course, Sir.

Maubert salutes with a chuckle, going off to find his horse.

And a little while later, Maubert returns with a small group of hussars on horseback, and sure enough holding on to them are the three "willing ladies", as the ritual terms them.

The hussars have clearly been briefed not to laugh when first seeing the predicament, and to their credit they manage that relatively well. It is, after all, rather absurd.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"General Nansouty, why did General d'Hautpoul specify stacked brunettes?"

Demongin whispers, eyeing the women as they dismount and approach the hussar-sized cuirasser, as d'Espagne leads over two more horses, and Lepic arrives with three bottles of champagne and his pocket-watch. Nansouty, still in his powdered wig, his queue still too short for his liking, blushes, and compresses his lips tight before whispering out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes on d'Hautpoul.

"You ever meet Madame DuQuay-Kleber?"

"Donnerwetter.... you mean... ah... that small woman who leads the 3rd as their commander- the one that shape-shifts?"

Nansouty nods as one of the girls, a bottle of champagne and Ange saunter off to a remote tent, the three horses tethered to the hitching post as the men argue about the logistics of the ride - was it going to be the same short course, there and back for a 20 league total or...

"The very same. General d'Hautpoul and her were... briefly together... before General Kleber showed up."

Demongin grimaced and shook his head. "Ach, now that's awkward. Do they still... well... are they still?"

'Friends? Of course. Though poor Joseph... it was a blow that he nearly did not recover from.... well.... that and the murder mare."

"Murder mare?? Is that how you... ah... ended up with that new hairstyle? I thought you finally caved to regulations, General, sir!"

Nansouty bristles, looking like he's smelled a particularly nasty smell.

"Absolutely NOT, Chef d'Escadron Demongin! I was proud of my queue, and the tradition, and that damned mare had it in her TEETH - I was almost out of her grasp, and Joseph just... HACKED IT OFF! Agh!"

General d'Hautpoul's tent opens up, and one of the women staggers out, grinning, disheveled, holding the empty bottle of champagne. d'Hautpoul swaggers out, a bit taller, smoking a cigar, and mounts up on one of the horses, taking off at a path General Lepic points him towards.

"6.5 lieus - 3 there and 3 back - to the edge of the encampment through the woods and around, to the opposite side! Then back for round two while we figure out the next third of the trail!"

"Jesu - that didn't take him long."

d'Espagne shrugged - "it's not the size of the man, it's the size of the..."

"Maudit!.. I get it.. I GET it, BRIDGET!! No need to ...."

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert tilts his head at that conversation, having never met DuQuay himself, and also having never heard of the murder mare incident.

Maubert: A shapeshifter in command of a regiment? And a homicidal mare? A strange Afterlife this is. Who is she? The woman, not the horse. The horse is only mildly unusual.

Then he watches as d'Hautpoul returns from the tent and makes for the designated course, one of the hussars following at a distance both for his own entertainment and so that there can be no allegations of foul play.

Maubert: Gen'ral Nansouty, sir, ever met a certain Fontaine of ours? If you and him looked a little more similar, one wouldn't be faulted for thinking you're the same person. Just curious, I haven't been here terribly long... But I think if you've met him you'd know why I'm asking.

[lepremiercoquillard]

Nansouty nods, brushing at his uniform sleeve with a face that can be best described as "weaned on a pickle" -

"Indeed, Maubert- this world is... strange, to say the least. Madame... she's no shapeshifter... well... you know - you may be correct with that assumption. She is, as a living being, in possession of certain... abilities... it's a hard thing to describe to those of us of the Catholic faith, being told that we have but one body, and that body will be resurrected when Christ ascends... "

Nansouty trails off and looks at his hands for a moment, flexing them in his gauntlet-gloves, then scanning the environment, his face milder, but none the less well-composed; a momentary flicker of something crossing his face before he turns to Maubert again.

"Yes.. I've met Capitaine Fontaine. He is a very good soldier, very upright, very proper, very much a man whose attention to detail makes him all the better for the regiment. My father knew his father, a hard man if there ever was one. My father found Monseigneur Fontaine often too harsh, too disciplined, if such a thing can exist. He said there was a reason for his hardness, his froideur, but he never did explain it to me, for I was a young man yet, and not privy to such to-ings and fro-ings in Versailles. And I was not to fraternize with the stable hands, either - even if one of them eventually did become a great General. I am speaking of our former General Hoche, of course."

Nansouty didn't think too much of Hoche as a person - far too coarse, far too Republican, too ready to denounce someone as a viper or as unpatriotic - the memory of him and d'Hautpoul nearly getting the shave during that turbulent time enough to bring a sort of pallor to his cheeks before he composed himself. Nansouty was the kind of man who would be sarcastic, but he often kept a LOT of things to himself, especially if it was not polite, and moreso if it was in the presence of a junior officer. Standards had to be kept.

General d'Hautpoul returns at a trot, and dismounts before his horse has even halted, grabbing the proffered bottle of champagne, downing it, throwing the bottle aside. He grins crookedly, that missing bicuspid showing, his frame a bit taller. "Ah! A good ride, and now for an even better ride!..."

The orderly takes his casque and cuirass, and sets them aside as the (not so big) man jerks his head at one of the ladies, and then the tent.

"Viens, cheri... dis ol' troupier'll give you a good ride, hein?"

Nansouty tries NOT to roll his eyes, but the blush across his cheeks is evident, even if he turns away from the junior officers to hide it.

"Mòstra-li cossí un senhor de Tarn monta sas cavalas, Joseph!! Dona-li aquò al galop!" D'Espagne shouts, laughing, slapping his thigh as the tent flap closes.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert listens with curiosity as Nansouty speaks of DuQuay, not that his explanation makes him any less confused. Clearly he has some things to catch up on around here.

When Nansouty mentions the old man Fontaine, he freezes up somewhat: he had forgotten for a while about his Captain's earlier career, the peculiarity of which should have been more memorable but was probably pushed out of sight and out of mind. Yes, if only a certain officer was here to recount personally just how deranged that old man could be, but at least to hear a man such as Nansouty praise Fontaine pleases him.

He, too, keeps certain judgements and feelings to himself as he replies. In reality, if anyone in his usual group ever met Monseigneur Fontaine, it would be unlikely to end well.

Maubert: I am pleased that his efforts are appreciated; perhaps it is because I am his commanding officer, but I do believe his men are consistently the best turned out in this regiment by a margin.

Maubert: I am afraid, though, sir, that there is indeed such a thing as too harsh and disciplined, particularly when it comes to raising children. Monseigneur Fontaine was certainly adept in raising soldiers, but children, not so much. It is sometimes inconceivable to some, sir, that the way Captain Fontaine is now is, in fact, rather a lot more relaxed than he used to be.

Maubert sighs as he remembers the young Fontaine, somehow even stiffer and more externally unfeeling than his present counterpart, his voice lowering to something barely audible, quite unsure whether it should be heard or not.

Maubert: I do hope there is some exceptional reason for his father to be so; a boy of sixteen has precious little need to be expert in the business of a soldier without ever setting foot in a garrison. We had effectively nothing further to teach him about it, so we tried to teach him to be... more human instead. We also gave him some of our problematic horses to try to train out of their habits. He was rather good at that.

Before he can say any more, d'Hautpoul returns from the first stage, and Maubert tactfully glances away as Nansouty tries to hide his expression.

Fontaine himself, meanwhile, is now asleep in the surgeon's tent, though it can hardly be called restful or sound sleep. Still better than full consciousness, he supposes.

[lepremiercoquillard]

Nansouty nods briskly. "Madame would say something about that, having experienced individuals such as that - her father's side. She says - some people are... ahem... assholes and should not have children. Madame is rather blunt in her vocabulary, despite her last name. I do think it has something to do with her upbringing."

Lepic caught the conversation, and walked over, resting a hand on Nansouty's shoulder. "A father like that is no father. As a father to several sons, it does one no good to raise them without warmth, Maubert. I know you did your best in breaking Fontaine of the habits his father instilled in him, but some things you may never be able to break him from."

The thunder of returning hooves, and d'Hautpoul dismounts, nearly his full height again, the uniform changing with each stage of the trial.

"One more! ONE MORE - I feel nearly my old self again, sacres rosses! Come, my pretty little bird - forget those hussars- save a horse, ride a Cuirassier!" Ange booms, grabbing the champagne and the girl. "If the tent's a rockin, don't come a knockin!" he booms, sticking his head out between the flaps before popping it back in.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert sighs subtly at Lepic's comment, knowing full well that he is right. The young Fontaine's comrades, himself included, had had to come to accept that truth back then too, that he was unlikely to ever be entirely "usual".

Maubert: Indeed, sir, there were many that we never managed to make him grow out of... Also some that went away for a time, but came back.

Maubert: Perhaps the worst is that we never managed to make him believe us that there is anything at all unusual or wrong about the way he was treated, and he still fiercely defends the man and anything he does. It is one of the only things he will argue about rather than simply saying what the other wants to hear.

He is prevented from saying any more by, once again, the return of d'Hautpoul and his increasing enthusiasm. In the meantime, the hussars who had brought the ladies have gotten their hands on some wine too, and drink amongst themselves as the ritual goes on.

Hussar: Well, looks like he's rather enthusiastic, ain't he?

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay gives a shaky laugh, patting her mount on the neck. "You know, General, I don't think he ever did... look at those red heels! Who is he kidding! Still as handsome as ever though...."

Houchard looks at Grandjean, who looks at Lasalle and winks as if to say not as mad at him as she says she is, eh?

DuQuay turns in her saddle and looks at Fontaine and his horse, and smiles. "I knew a horse like that myself. His name was Blaze - ex-agent-de-police horse - they are trained properly and that is a VERY safe practice. When the tack is on, it is business mode. Tack off - snack on. It is an excellent training technique and one that can save both horse AND rider - for if a horse is treat motivated, or a glutton... " she looks at Philippe, who is still chewing thoughtfully on the stolen hat, eyes half-closed - "... dangerous things may occur - Capitaine Fontaine is not only an excellent rider, safe and sure, but an excellent horseman and caretaker of his horses. All of us should use him and his training as an example to live up to. If you cannot trust your mount, gentlemen, then all is lost. A rider is only as good as his horse. My mount in the living world was a "cheap horse" as well - and he and I are much like Fontaine and his mount. Caporal is a bit less trained, as he was a replacement I had - well, Delacroix had - purchased before the Russian campaign. He did, however, see him through all the way to Waterloo without much incident. Brave, but incredibly stupid, and his reincarnated self was.... well, he's the reason I limp. He was scared of rain drops - though I wonder how much of that was false in order to garner both attention and treats from me."

DuQuay looks at her troopers, at General Houchard, Demongin, and Grandjean, and catches the eye of Fontaine.

"Capitaine, a toast to you and your proper care and training of your mount. You are a paragon of proper, excellent horsemanship."

[thehussargeneral]

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

Lasalle, having acquired and drank another tankard, winks back at Grandjean with a knowing smirk: "Oh, of course not."

Fontaine, very much unprepared for such a sudden outpouring of praise, quickly glances away so that the visor of his helmet covers what comes dangerously close to a smile or some other acceptance of a compliment. After composing himself back into neutrality, he salutes again, lacking a drink to acknowledge the toast with.

Fontaine: You flatter me, Madame... With some considerable exaggeration... Although I would suggest that horse of yours was simply taking advantage of your affection...

Lasalle rolls his eyes sarcastically at such a predictable response from Fontaine, then turns to DuQuay.

Well, you almost made him show some sort of human emotion, so well done. I am inclined to agree about that horse, though, it cannot be possible for an animal that lives outside to be afraid of the rain. A horse scared of rain - how ridiculous, truly.

[levieuxchevalier]

"It was ridiculous, honestly. When I acquired a new mount, as the crop-eared one was not technically mine, but a loaner - he was jealous of the chestnut. I am glad neither of them were stallions, I cannot imagine the BS that they would have got up to."

DuQuay shifted in the saddle, watching the void-Kleber with soft eyes, trying not to sigh, and failing to hide that warm affection. Houchard rode up to Grandjean and elbowed him, grinning.

"Ach, tochter, General Lasalle, ve have tarried enough, it is time for us to move on and go home, ja?"

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle nods with a smile, giving the order for the column to move off again, urging Kugel on slightly ahead of the others in the hopes of avoiding yet more violence.

Yes, indeed, let us return Madame to the real version that can talk.

Then he turns to Houchard and speaks more quietly, but with just as much amusement.

...and that can face the music, eh?

The realms beyond Strasbourg lack much noteworthiness: Austerlitz, Eylau and Heilsberg come and go, though they are not as violent as they sometimes are and thus are relatively easy to pass through. Kugel, being a stubborn animal, still occasionally tries to turn and bite Caporal, but is swiftly corrected with an indignant snort.

Finally, after seemingly eternity, they pass into the fog one more time, and on the other end emerge into the familiar territory of Kléber's domain.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay gives a shaky laugh, patting her mount on the neck. "You know, General, I don't think he ever did... look at those red heels! Who is he kidding! Still as handsome as ever though...."

Houchard looks at Grandjean, who looks at Lasalle and winks as if to say not as mad at him as she says she is, eh?

DuQuay turns in her saddle and looks at Fontaine and his horse, and smiles. "I knew a horse like that myself. His name was Blaze - ex-agent-de-police horse - they are trained properly and that is a VERY safe practice. When the tack is on, it is business mode. Tack off - snack on. It is an excellent training technique and one that can save both horse AND rider - for if a horse is treat motivated, or a glutton... " she looks at Philippe, who is still chewing thoughtfully on the stolen hat, eyes half-closed - "... dangerous things may occur - Capitaine Fontaine is not only an excellent rider, safe and sure, but an excellent horseman and caretaker of his horses. All of us should use him and his training as an example to live up to. If you cannot trust your mount, gentlemen, then all is lost. A rider is only as good as his horse. My mount in the living world was a "cheap horse" as well - and he and I are much like Fontaine and his mount. Caporal is a bit less trained, as he was a replacement I had - well, Delacroix had - purchased before the Russian campaign. He did, however, see him through all the way to Waterloo without much incident. Brave, but incredibly stupid, and his reincarnated self was.... well, he's the reason I limp. He was scared of rain drops - though I wonder how much of that was false in order to garner both attention and treats from me."

DuQuay looks at her troopers, at General Houchard, Demongin, and Grandjean, and catches the eye of Fontaine.

"Capitaine, a toast to you and your proper care and training of your mount. You are a paragon of proper, excellent horsemanship."

[thehussargeneral]

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

Lasalle, having acquired and drank another tankard, winks back at Grandjean with a knowing smirk: "Oh, of course not."

Fontaine, very much unprepared for such a sudden outpouring of praise, quickly glances away so that the visor of his helmet covers what comes dangerously close to a smile or some other acceptance of a compliment. After composing himself back into neutrality, he salutes again, lacking a drink to acknowledge the toast with.

Fontaine: You flatter me, Madame... With some considerable exaggeration... Although I would suggest that horse of yours was simply taking advantage of your affection...

Lasalle rolls his eyes sarcastically at such a predictable response from Fontaine, then turns to DuQuay.

Well, you almost made him show some sort of human emotion, so well done. I am inclined to agree about that horse, though, it cannot be possible for an animal that lives outside to be afraid of the rain. A horse scared of rain - how ridiculous, truly.

[lepremiercoquillard]

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]

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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Espagne had an expression of sympathy on his swarthy face. "Aye, I understand that. Every May 21st, I suffer the same affliction. General d'Hautpoul here suffers it in Februrary for a good six days. Heard yours was much longer, Fontaine. Come, you can rest in our surgeon's tent until it passes. Those of us dead on the field of battle know of the crappy feeling. Do not concern yourself much with propriety or rank. Not even General Nansouty will chide you for this. Because, and you may know, if Madame DuQuay-Kleber found out, she'd have us doin' drill until our couilles fell off."

Demongin snorted at that; he had only just met Madame, and had seen her in the void; he wanted to say something, but Fontaine's state was more worrying to him than anything that had happened at Lasalle's camp.

General d'Hautpoul did not dismount, but nodded in agreement.

"Ouais, Madame... she'd give me hell. I don't want her to see me like this... opened up one a them magic letters and POUF, here I am pint-sized. It's not... not funny. I hate it. Nothing fits, and these gosses are takin the piss outta me because of it. I dunno how those little guys do it, bein' so small and such."

[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?

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Hautpoul frowned, and shook his head.

"Non, Capitaine, it did not... only mentioned the Rule of Three and for the life of me, I can't remember what that means!"

General d'Espagne coughed for a moment, and locked eyes with Demongin, who tried not to smirk.

"Ah, General d'Hautpoul, sir? I believe I know what that may be. Captaine Fontaine ... go rest. That's an order." Demongin murmured, waiting for Fontaine to leave before dismounting, handing his horse to a trooper. "Be careful with him. He... he's a bit special."

"I know, Squadron Commander, he... he had wandered in here not too long ago, eating General Nansouty's dress plume."

"Oh, that's.... wonderful. Those things are not cheap. So... the Rule of Three, General d'Hautpoul, is a rite of passage for cavalry officers... usually just us coquillards, though I've heard the Chasseurs and Hussars have their own."

[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.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"HWHAET?!! Treis femnas, tres cavals, tres botelhas de champanha e tres lieus en tres oras? Siás devenut foll??"*

Ange's voice rings out, a loud voice for such a little (snerk) man and his eyes bulge out of his head comically.

".... do the women have to... you know... arrive?" he whispered, leaning towards Demongin.

"Uh... well... that depends... sir. I mean... probably for this challenge and for you to return to normal, yes." Demongin scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish as he mumbled the reply.

"Merda."

"First we gotta FIND three willing women... General d'Hautpoul. I mean. never was hard when you was a coquillard, but... the women that run with hussars are a bit different." General Montbrun added, shrugging.

"I am still a goddamned coquillard! Just... "

"Une coquillette... perhaps."

"TA YEULE, NANSOUTY!"

It was rather hard for the big cuirassiers not to snicker behind their hands at their (formerly) giant commander's predicament. It would indeed be difficult to procure three women that were willing to sport with the smaller version of d'Hautpoul; which in and of itself was emasculating to the big man.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert finds the group just as Montbrun mentions this difficulty, and he smirks as he offers his superiors a salute, then approaches Montbrun and speaks to him.

Maubert: If I may offer some assistance, Sir, you may recall my regiment was quite briefly commanded by General Lasalle, and I did make acquaintance with a few hussars afterwards, who I am certain would be willing to help this... Predicament. I'm sure they would be happy to help with... Other aspects, too.

Maubert: Perhaps it would be worth me going to find them, Sir?

[lepremiercoquillard]

Ange looks down from his horse that he refuses to dismount from; being a tall guy before this--- unfortunate event, he prefers to remain in the saddle because dismounting would put him at a serious height disadvantage.

"Chef d'Escadron Maubert, your assistance would be very helpful. Brunettes, of the dark auburn variety, well-rounded are my preference. They need to keep this... shrinkage secret... and assure them that my blade has not suffered any ill-effects of this... curse."

Nansouty spit-takes, d'Espagne groans and Demongin has to turn away not to chuckle.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert: Of course, Sir.

Maubert salutes with a chuckle, going off to find his horse.

And a little while later, Maubert returns with a small group of hussars on horseback, and sure enough holding on to them are the three "willing ladies", as the ritual terms them.

The hussars have clearly been briefed not to laugh when first seeing the predicament, and to their credit they manage that relatively well. It is, after all, rather absurd.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"General Nansouty, why did General d'Hautpoul specify stacked brunettes?"

Demongin whispers, eyeing the women as they dismount and approach the hussar-sized cuirasser, as d'Espagne leads over two more horses, and Lepic arrives with three bottles of champagne and his pocket-watch. Nansouty, still in his powdered wig, his queue still too short for his liking, blushes, and compresses his lips tight before whispering out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes on d'Hautpoul.

"You ever meet Madame DuQuay-Kleber?"

"Donnerwetter.... you mean... ah... that small woman who leads the 3rd as their commander- the one that shape-shifts?"

Nansouty nods as one of the girls, a bottle of champagne and Ange saunter off to a remote tent, the three horses tethered to the hitching post as the men argue about the logistics of the ride - was it going to be the same short course, there and back for a 20 league total or...

"The very same. General d'Hautpoul and her were... briefly together... before General Kleber showed up."

Demongin grimaced and shook his head. "Ach, now that's awkward. Do they still... well... are they still?"

'Friends? Of course. Though poor Joseph... it was a blow that he nearly did not recover from.... well.... that and the murder mare."

"Murder mare?? Is that how you... ah... ended up with that new hairstyle? I thought you finally caved to regulations, General, sir!"

Nansouty bristles, looking like he's smelled a particularly nasty smell.

"Absolutely NOT, Chef d'Escadron Demongin! I was proud of my queue, and the tradition, and that damned mare had it in her TEETH - I was almost out of her grasp, and Joseph just... HACKED IT OFF! Agh!"

General d'Hautpoul's tent opens up, and one of the women staggers out, grinning, disheveled, holding the empty bottle of champagne. d'Hautpoul swaggers out, a bit taller, smoking a cigar, and mounts up on one of the horses, taking off at a path General Lepic points him towards.

"6.5 lieus - 3 there and 3 back - to the edge of the encampment through the woods and around, to the opposite side! Then back for round two while we figure out the next third of the trail!"

"Jesu - that didn't take him long."

d'Espagne shrugged - "it's not the size of the man, it's the size of the..."

"Maudit!.. I get it.. I GET it, BRIDGET!! No need to ...."

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert tilts his head at that conversation, having never met DuQuay himself, and also having never heard of the murder mare incident.

Maubert: A shapeshifter in command of a regiment? And a homicidal mare? A strange Afterlife this is. Who is she? The woman, not the horse. The horse is only mildly unusual.

Then he watches as d'Hautpoul returns from the tent and makes for the designated course, one of the hussars following at a distance both for his own entertainment and so that there can be no allegations of foul play.

Maubert: Gen'ral Nansouty, sir, ever met a certain Fontaine of ours? If you and him looked a little more similar, one wouldn't be faulted for thinking you're the same person. Just curious, I haven't been here terribly long... But I think if you've met him you'd know why I'm asking.

[lepremiercoquillard]

Nansouty nods, brushing at his uniform sleeve with a face that can be best described as "weaned on a pickle" -

"Indeed, Maubert- this world is... strange, to say the least. Madame... she's no shapeshifter... well... you know - you may be correct with that assumption. She is, as a living being, in possession of certain... abilities... it's a hard thing to describe to those of us of the Catholic faith, being told that we have but one body, and that body will be resurrected when Christ ascends... "

Nansouty trails off and looks at his hands for a moment, flexing them in his gauntlet-gloves, then scanning the environment, his face milder, but none the less well-composed; a momentary flicker of something crossing his face before he turns to Maubert again.

"Yes.. I've met Capitaine Fontaine. He is a very good soldier, very upright, very proper, very much a man whose attention to detail makes him all the better for the regiment. My father knew his father, a hard man if there ever was one. My father found Monseigneur Fontaine often too harsh, too disciplined, if such a thing can exist. He said there was a reason for his hardness, his froideur, but he never did explain it to me, for I was a young man yet, and not privy to such to-ings and fro-ings in Versailles. And I was not to fraternize with the stable hands, either - even if one of them eventually did become a great General. I am speaking of our former General Hoche, of course."

Nansouty didn't think too much of Hoche as a person - far too coarse, far too Republican, too ready to denounce someone as a viper or as unpatriotic - the memory of him and d'Hautpoul nearly getting the shave during that turbulent time enough to bring a sort of pallor to his cheeks before he composed himself. Nansouty was the kind of man who would be sarcastic, but he often kept a LOT of things to himself, especially if it was not polite, and moreso if it was in the presence of a junior officer. Standards had to be kept.

General d'Hautpoul returns at a trot, and dismounts before his horse has even halted, grabbing the proffered bottle of champagne, downing it, throwing the bottle aside. He grins crookedly, that missing bicuspid showing, his frame a bit taller. "Ah! A good ride, and now for an even better ride!..."

The orderly takes his casque and cuirass, and sets them aside as the (not so big) man jerks his head at one of the ladies, and then the tent.

"Viens, cheri... dis ol' troupier'll give you a good ride, hein?"

Nansouty tries NOT to roll his eyes, but the blush across his cheeks is evident, even if he turns away from the junior officers to hide it.

"Mòstra-li cossí un senhor de Tarn monta sas cavalas, Joseph!! Dona-li aquò al galop!" D'Espagne shouts, laughing, slapping his thigh as the tent flap closes.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert listens with curiosity as Nansouty speaks of DuQuay, not that his explanation makes him any less confused. Clearly he has some things to catch up on around here.

When Nansouty mentions the old man Fontaine, he freezes up somewhat: he had forgotten for a while about his Captain's earlier career, the peculiarity of which should have been more memorable but was probably pushed out of sight and out of mind. Yes, if only a certain officer was here to recount personally just how deranged that old man could be, but at least to hear a man such as Nansouty praise Fontaine pleases him.

He, too, keeps certain judgements and feelings to himself as he replies. In reality, if anyone in his usual group ever met Monseigneur Fontaine, it would be unlikely to end well.

Maubert: I am pleased that his efforts are appreciated; perhaps it is because I am his commanding officer, but I do believe his men are consistently the best turned out in this regiment by a margin.

Maubert: I am afraid, though, sir, that there is indeed such a thing as too harsh and disciplined, particularly when it comes to raising children. Monseigneur Fontaine was certainly adept in raising soldiers, but children, not so much. It is sometimes inconceivable to some, sir, that the way Captain Fontaine is now is, in fact, rather a lot more relaxed than he used to be.

Maubert sighs as he remembers the young Fontaine, somehow even stiffer and more externally unfeeling than his present counterpart, his voice lowering to something barely audible, quite unsure whether it should be heard or not.

Maubert: I do hope there is some exceptional reason for his father to be so; a boy of sixteen has precious little need to be expert in the business of a soldier without ever setting foot in a garrison. We had effectively nothing further to teach him about it, so we tried to teach him to be... more human instead. We also gave him some of our problematic horses to try to train out of their habits. He was rather good at that.

Before he can say any more, d'Hautpoul returns from the first stage, and Maubert tactfully glances away as Nansouty tries to hide his expression.

Fontaine himself, meanwhile, is now asleep in the surgeon's tent, though it can hardly be called restful or sound sleep. Still better than full consciousness, he supposes.

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard paused for a moment, considering Lasalle's words. He looked at Grandjean, who was nodding his head emphatically, looking hang-dog guilty.

Houchard ran a shaking hand through his hair, and replied in his horrific jargon of half-German, half-French, all Lorrain.

"Ah... General Lasalle.... my apologies....you are correct, I forgot myself in my worry to reach my daughter.... she is headstrong, as all cavalry are, you know? I wish to know how bad she is.. .and I am sure you will be angry with her as well for her impulsive decision; but I beg you, General, to go easy on her; she is, after all, still my little girl, even if she also contains two past lives in her that were most definitely not female."

Houchard allowed Grandjean to lead him away, his limping gait making it a slower affair than it would have been had he been a younger man; in his worry for DuQuay, Houchard looked aged even older than his 55 years.

"General, I really wish you'd stayed at home, sir. I can handle this..."

"Ach, ja, you handledt it vell, so vell, in fact, dat my girl's hurt now... how bad is it?"

Grandjean winced at Houchard's sharp tone, and replied verrrrryyy carefully...

"Uh... well... um... not as bad as General Kellermann junior but..."

"....but?"

Grandjean nodded to the two cuirassiers playing euchre in front of the tent as they stood, cards falling off their laps, and saluted General Houchard.

Inside the tent, DuQuay slept, the borrowed shirt billowed, except for where it was stuck to the bandage across her chest, which was itself stained dark. She tossed and turned, caught in a nightmare brought on by the black substance.

Houchard staggered, a string of religious curses falling from his lips, and one of the cuirassiers hurried to get him a chair and a strong drink.

"Himmeldonnerwetter... my girl... that does NOT look mild, Colonel!"

Houchard's hand trembled as he brought the glass of schnapps to his lips, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"What is that substance?"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

DuQuay.. no... Delacroix.. found themselves in the blinding blizzard again. He lamented the cuirass; though it protected him from the majority of the cold air, it also had frozen to him, and the bearskin rug he had found was now torn into strips, wrapped around his boots. He couldn't feel his feet, or his hands, his mustache embellished with icicles made of his mucus and his breath, the hoar-frost on his unshaven face aging him. What ever clothing he could find, he wore in layers, the heat causing the lice to bite, the eternal itching maddening. His horse stumbled, and he lurched forward in the saddle, the stirrups long discarded; his boots no longer fit in them. He raised his good arm, broken spear in hand and slapped at an infantryman who had tried to make a cut in his horse's neck to suck the blood out while still riding, the piece of leather in his mouth flapping; it was disgusting, the leather, but the salt from it and the meager protein in it gave him enough energy to continue; until the next encampment. He had tried to get thatch off of the roof of a burning house for his horse before it had gone up completely, the men preferring the scorching heat of the flames to the shelter itself. He swore he'd seen them roasting a leg of some sort, not sure that it was the deer or animal they claimed it was; he had not bothered to check. The bodies were stacked like cordwood as wind-breaks, stripped of every available scrap of fabric. The wind, the incessant, blowing wind, the blinding snow that felt like needles of glass driven into his face; and when the sun would come out in rare moments, the snow-blindness was not worth the meager warmth it gave.

The cold... the cold seemed to penetrate his very being, right to his heart. The fear, the worry, the terror - the cossacks at first like hordes. When Delacroix looked at them next, his eyes widened in fear; these had no faces, black as the depths of hell, relentlessly attacking, a never ending wave of darkness. The snow billowed and blew, reducing his visibility to the frozen tips of his horse's ears, making the appearance and disappearance of the faceless horde all that more terrifying. Delacroix struck left and right, gripping with frozen thighs to the mount he rode, who slipped and skid on the surface, the ice calks in their shoes only providing minimal traction.

Outside of this fever-dream, in the tent, DuQuay groaned, flailing, her breath coming in odd foggy puffs of air, the black stain spreading on her chest.

Houchard rested a trembling hand on his daughter's forehead and exclaimed at the chill he felt. Why was she... freezing?

"Grandjean - fetch blankets! She is like ice!"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

Delacroix gasps in pain, falling from his horse, the darkness following him down, down, down... down... no impact on the snow, just perpetual falling into a black pit of despair, his cuirass melting away, his old wounds opening up, a roaring in his ears and the pain of utter despair and desolation. He tries to grab at the lance, but it burns him, and he hisses in pain. He grips it harder, gritting his teeth, and tries to pull it out or crawl up it. "Be done with me, then! I'm already dead, you foul thing!"

"̸̖͒B̸͚͌́̕ͅǘ̶̦͒͝t̸̖͔͆ ̷̣́̑̇ÿ̷̡̡͎o̴̱͛ù̷͖̳͓̏r̶̲̩̃̅ ̴̧̹̓̈́h̷̝̱̀͒ͅo̵̰̲͑͝s̵̭̹̔̐t̶̨̨̄ ̵̭̮́̈́͜į̴̛̦̎͗s̷̛̼̍̈́ ̶͙̐̚ǹ̶̙̝̀ȏ̸̳͍̭́͘t̸̻̔͛!̷͉̠̄̽͝ͅ ̴̗̈̕͝I̴͊͝͝ͅͅs̶͖̱̼̊͗ ̴̻̼̿͜t̴̡̞̱͑̾h̸͎̆̑a̴̢̜̮͂̋ṱ̴̳̀ ̴̡͌w̶̻̌̚ḩ̴̛͇͌̊a̴̳̅͗ͅt̵̢͓̀ ̶̖̔̒y̶̗̹͉̚o̵̙̠̎u̸̪͌̈́͝ͅ ̴̰̠͘w̷̤͕͎̐i̴̪̓̿͝s̵̙̓̎͋h̶͖̅̄?̴̯͖̈́ ̶͈͂̂H̷̫͇̎͊m̸̦̅m̷͚̝͊̓m̸̤̞͑?̸̳̠̂ ̷͓͋F̷͉́ọ̵̯̖͊̿̅r̷͓̓̄ ̸̟̈́͋Ḩ̶̱͚̒͊E̶̬̍͝R̷͔̽̑͘ ̸͈̓́͂ţ̴̾́ó̵̘͘ ̷̲̝͌̏d̴͓̔í̷͙̖̂͝e̷̱̒̈́͗ ̴̰̥̳͒̒ȁ̵̧̳s̷͇̖̠͝ ̴̞̓̉w̵̘̰͠͠e̴̢̦̎l̴̺̤͗l̶̺͚̅?̴͇̯̈͝ ̷͈̟͖̃͛͝S̷̡̘͠͝u̷͍̞͐̃͊ͅc̴̭̅͠h̶̦̀͝.̵͚̔̄͜.̴̨̈́̄.̷̖͓̬́̕ ̶̲̟̻̈́ḋ̴̯͕͇̈́̀e̷̬͚̓͝͝l̶͓̣̖̍͌͘ï̴̥̹͉ć̷̼͉͝i̴̖͘o̶̮͠u̵͇̪͈̓̐s̵̛̹͗͝ ̴̞̗̣͂̅e̵̘̻̭̎n̷̠͓͉͗ē̴̡̖r̸̩͐͋͜g̴̘̊ͅy̶̬̯͎̾͘.̸̺̖͛.̷͎̣̙̈́̌.̴̛̭.̸̥̗͋ ̶̐͜s̷̮͗̿͜o̴̡̝͉͛͑ ̴̤̃̇̇ĥ̶̡̩ű̸̧͖̱͌͆n̷̙̺̈́̽g̶̘̑ȓ̶̖̰y̷̗̻̱͗͊̿.̷̟̘̃̐͐.̸͈̥̠̀.̷̰̱͇̌́̕ ̷͉́ŝ̸͉̯ô̴̫͖.̴̬͕̆̚.̴̧̂̔͌.̴̧̣̊̔͠ ̶͈̣̈́̾͘h̸̡͔́̈̅u̷̖͓̓̽ņ̴̧̲̈́̈͗ğ̶̯̳̂r̷̗̫͔͋y̵̱̍̉.̵̡͇̜̐͝.̸̡̫͆͆.̴̧͉̦̈́͝"̵̫͓̦̈́̓̓

DuQuay sits bolt upright, screaming, the black substance sticking to her hand through the bandage, Houchard immediately drawing her to him, holding her as Grandjean scurries in with more blankets.

"Silver... silver!" she manages to cough out.

Houchard looks down at his Saint-Louis medal, at the color of it, and makes a decision then and there. He rips it off of his uniform and presses it to the blackened wound, the black substance seething and boiling, turning into soot where the medal touches it, the rest retreating back, the medal sticking to the fabric outside the wound before it, too, dissipates.

"But your host is not! Is that what you wish? Hmmm? For HER to die as well? Such… delicious energy…. so hungry… so… hungry

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods briskly at DuPrel before turning back to his daughter.

"I need to know what this is, Adjutant... I can see by your uniform you are an Aide de Camp; so perhaps you might brief this old general on what this substance is and why it is affecting my daughter so. I need to know. I wish to bring her to my home to recuperate, where her husband might visit, and make his long-delayed amends for his caddish behavior."

Houchard was calm, his tone measured. No more the wild-eyed hussar of his youth, obviously, he understood the gravity of the situation at hand. He brushed back DuQuay's damp hair, with a look of tenderness and concern.

"... It... ate my medal. 'tis only a bauble come the revolution, to be sure, but it was of pure silver. If I had a hundred such medals I would readily sacrifice them again to see my girl restored to her health."

DuQuay's eyes were closed, and she was too weak to respond, but the nightmare - for now- was over. Houchard laid her back on the surgical cot and motioned for Grandjean to cover her with the blankets. He stood up, joints creaking, hunched over in the low tent and turned to DuPrel.

"Walk with me, Adjutant.... I find I am in need of a constitutional and a smoke; perhaps we may find your commander and Marshal Kellermann; I think it is time we discussed matters."

[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?

[levieuxchevalier]

(convo's in that Lorrain German from Houchard)

Houchard nodded, bending down to pick up a burning stick from one of the nearby cooking fires, lighting his pipe, the rich vanilla-cherrywood scent of American Burley curling around him in the blue smoke.

"Ach, ja... I did, perhaps. In my worry for my girl, I may have overstepped my boundaries. Ah but 'tis normal - we were generals long time before he was - you earlier than me by dint of your noble birth, Christophe; I'd have been content remaining a simple chef d'escadron, I didn't need much to be happy; with Catherine and my children; a retirement would have been sufficient for this old scarred body. But, France called and I had to answer; as I assume many of our men did as well. La Patrie en Danger.."

The two men continued along, walking until they found a place to sit, one of the cuirassiers of Delacroix's regiment dragging over a set of chairs under the shade of a tree, motioning for DesJardins to bring over a small camp table, two glasses and some more schnapps.

"Oh, thank you, trooper.. a place for two old men to rest their bones, share some schnapps and smoke in the shade is a good thing."

Houchard turned to Kellermann and sighed, his bushy eyebrows knitted together. He gestured with the hand that held his pipe, shrugging, brows going up and the only working side of his mouth giving a little downwards pout.

"My daughter - well, let us be frank, she is an adopted daughter, but a daughter none the less - she is headstrong. The two past lives within her do not help that one bit. Delacroix is somewhat more tractable, as he knows us and respects us.. most of the time. The other one... what is his name... Beaune... de Beaune.. he's a bit more... pompous, I would say. Brash, rude. Looks at us with starry eyes, yet always going on how he sacrificed himself and the regiment did to save France."

Houchard rolled his eyes at that, and spat on the ground.

"Zut, so many more have done that and more before him. He is nothing special. I may need to remind him, should he have the temerity to appear... the date of his own death arrives soon, and... that affliction which my girl suffers from at Waterloo is magnified; yet it only lasts a day instead of a damned fortnight. How bad off is your son, Christophe? My girl's got this.... black wound in her chest... it took my Saint-Louis medal. She was so cold... like she was freezing, muttering in her sleep about Cossacks... faceless hordes.. the blackness, the void... that substance ebbing and pulsing.. I saw it. Never seen anything like it... I think it would take a man smarter than I to understand what it was."

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

Retirement never quite managed to catch up to me, either... Well, at least the Senate was a marginally more peaceful existence than the army.

I think it is important for us old men to remember that those junior to us in years are still perfectly capable... 23 years of service in 34 years of life is nothing to scoff at, after all. If everyone blindly deferred to age, nothing would ever get done in any area of society.

Besides, someone like Lasalle is too viciously independent for that anyways... One cannot expect anything different from someone who joined the army at 11 years old.

Kellermann also sits down, his knees cracking as he does so.

Ach, children... You have it rather difficult, having three in the body of one. De Beaune may need some adjustment, perhaps he is simply trying to prove himself to people he respects. Mine... I never quite know what to do with him, I fear. I locked him in his apartments, and yet he got out anyways. He's in a very bad way now, can't stay awake for very long and seems to be in a lot of pain. At least they managed to get all of that substance off him, it looks painful...

[levieuxchevalier]

"Eleven? Gott in Himmel... that is entirely too young for a boy to... ach, I suppose it was for a reason? General Kleber, he was sent off to school at seven for the simple fact that he was such a gamin of the streets, running about in gangs and not learning anything that his step-father convinced his mother to send him away. Or so he tells us; one can never know if what he says is the truth or an exaggeration, you know."

Houchard reclined back in his chair and puffed on his pipe for a few moments, seeming to digest what his peer had said, his free hand tapping an old drum cadence on the armrest.

"So... a long service record in such a young one; and yes, perhaps I had been a bit too.. . ancien regime with him. I should rectify that, but my main concern is most definitely my girl -you say they got that substance off of your boy? She still has it on her, it seems to be from a deep wound; she is having nightmares, it seems. I do hope that young Adjutant who scurried off is bringing Lasalle here, I wish to know if there is a way to attract the rest of that substance out of her, so she can recover."

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard sucks on his pipe, and realizes it's gone out, and he sets it down on the side table, pouring Kellermann and he a last glass of the schnapps.

"Apologize? Ja, could do that. It does not speak well of a gentleman such as myself not to acknowledge when he's made a mistake; and the Lord knows I've made many... though Madame's suggestion of shooting Representative Hentz when he came to fetch me after Menin to arrest me would have been... rather harsh. I heard he's still looking for his other eye, you know... That REMf had the audacity to show up to my home, as I was with my wife and children, to make amends. He encountered Madame, and well.... "

Houchard shrugs, giving Kellermann a wink.

"They say hell hath no fury... and let me tell you... there are times I'm scared for General Kleber, if he ever pisses her off."

When DuPrel showed up, Houchard stood and tugged down his vest and sash, and picked up his plume-bedecked tricorne.

"My thanks, Adjutant, for your work in convincing your General to speak to me... Marechal Kellermann... it is good to catch up with an old friend. When this is all settled, do stop by with your son; I would like for him to meet my son, Jean-Nic - he became a man of letters after my death. A prouder father I could not be."

Houchard followed DuPrel to Lasalle's tent, thinking of how he could make amends to the younger General for overstepping his bounds.

Meanwhile, in the tent guarded by two troopers of the 3eme Cuirassiers, DuQuay groaned and sat up; rubbing her chest. It was near the anniversary of Woerth, and she knew that none of the surgeons would be able to fix what was going on with her. The entity's substance bubbled, burned, and she felt horrible that her father had sacrificed his Saint-Louis medal in an attempt to save her. She quietly slipped into her boots, grabbed a spare habit-veste, clapped on her mirloton, and snuck out of the back of the tent, keeping low and out of sight until she reached her horse, the crop-eared Caporal, saddling it up, leading it to a nearby rock and mounting up, going at the walk to the edge of the encampment, into the fog.

All right, you... whatever you are... it's time you and I had a little talk... and I will not rest until I get my goddamned answers...

[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...

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods, understanding, at Lasalle, his mouth working as it always does, that tremor never ceasing.

"I understand, General Lasalle... my concern is my daughter still has the substance on her person... you may not know - but she was having nightmares, and was cold as ice... she was mumbling about Cossacks, and when she rose up, that black tar was reaching out, like tendrils. She called for silver, and... the only thing I could think of was my Saint-Louis medal--it means nothing now, in this time; just a bauble I earned by these scars upon my body... it...it ATE the silver, General. How can I get this off of her, so I can bring her home to my house in Sarrebourg so she can continue to heal?"

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

Meanwhile, in the liminal space that DuQuay is occupying, she is having a helluva time keeping her mount from bolting, as the crop-eared bastard rears and whirls, his former life as a reining champion on full display. She clings like a monkey to his back, mirolton gone (again, dammit!), the horse groaning, trembling, rolling his eyes so that the whites were showing.

"Dammit! Caporal! Ho! HO!!"

The fog begins to shift, and the smell of iron, mud, gunpowder and death begins to become more prominent.... DuQuay's left arm goes numb, wooden, and with a gasp, the large Cuirassier colonel Adrien de Beaune finds himself in possession of his own body again, his bay frothing underneath him, surrounded by his 9th cuirassiers, as Woerth again comes into view.

"NO! NO!!! It's a TRAP! Soldats! A trap!! Wheel right! Wheel RIGHT!"

Puffs of smoke waft out from windows, the rattle of gun carriages and shouted Prussian orders, garbled among the screams of both horse and man. They are trapped, again. The 9th Cuirassiers, the pride of France.... about to sacrifice themselves again on the Altar of the Empire; the Goddess of War a bloodthirsty bitch....

[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.̴̋ͅ.̸̣́.̶̟̾

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard settles into the chair opposite Lasalle's little campaign desk and sighs, running his hand over his face.

"She was under the guard of a pair of 3eme Cuirassiers.. I found myself in need of some air.."

When the elder Kellermann bursts in with the news, Houchard stands up, nearly upending the tent with his great height and consternation.

"HIMMELHERRGOTT WHAT?"

Houchard roars, his face terrific in his rage.

"I'll give those two lâches something to think about!!"

The three men go over to the tent that once held DuQuay, where Grosjean is already berating the two troopers in his strong Lorrain german, absolutely laying into them, his mustache flecked with foam, his sabre drawn, striking them alternatively with the flat of it.

"I'll flay yer goddamned cuirasses off and then yer thrice-damned sorry hides! How did you miss her? Dereliction of duty! I'll have you mucking out the stables with your fucking TEASPOONS you sorry sacks of shit in tin cans! Regarde-moi dans les yeux quand je te parle ! Qu'est-ce que tu glandes, espèce de lavette ?! Espèce de bougre de petit salopard!"

"Sir! Sir! OW! SIR! She... she... she didn't go out the front! She... the back flap was open, sir! OW OW!! OW!!"

Houchard turned to Lasalle, worry warring with exasperation on his features.

"My daughter is headstrong, and protective.... she more than likely rode off to get answers... I... I want to charge in there and bring her back by her damned stubborn queue... However, I am not a stupid man, whatever the CSP said about me... you know this... this void better than any of us, General. Je vous en prie, bring her back... I'll handle these two, before Grandjean turns them into paté... just... be careful."

_________________________--

In Woerth, de Beaune tries valiantly to get his men to listen, to see him, but he is helpless; his heart is in his throat, and he weeps.

"No... no.... we.... we.... this sacrifice.... it saved the French Army.... allowed them to retreat while we bled... while we all died... and still, the battle was lost... WHAT WAS OUR SACRIFICE FOR? WHAT DID I BLEED AND DIE FOR? NO!! NO!!! WE DIED FOR FRANCE! NOT FOR KINGS, NOT FOR EMPERORS!! THIS WAS OUR LOYALTY, TO DIE FOR OUR COUNTRY!!!"

[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!

[levieuxchevalier]

Grandjean pants, arm exhausted, and salutes Lasalle

"These bastards are the 3rd's boys... her own regiment. Well, er... Delacroix's regiment.... I ordered them... sir. I'll handle them. Go find her, please... "

Houchard glares at the two troopers, who cringe, knowing that the old man was by far the scarier of DuQuay's guardians, and the look Marshal Kellermann was giving them was no less severe.

-------------------- WOERTH--------------

De Beaune, overcome, roars with furious grief, drawing his sabre and slashing left and right to no avail. He spots a white flash and turns his bloodshot eyes in the direction, and his mouth falls open as he sees a legend from the era before him. General Lasalle. He swipes across his eyes with his right gloved hand, and turns his horse, rotating his upper body and shifting in his saddle, using his leg pressure to turn his mount.

"GENERAL LASALLE??? THE GENERAL??"

The entity is Not Having That, and surges forward, trying to block De Beaune from reaching Lasalle, and nearly knocks him out of the saddle, now the canister shot hammering at him, punching through his armor, melting it, the sucking wound on his chest pulsing and bubbling, the black ichor beginning to trail outwards like a tattered banner.

*Agh, fuck... FUCK... Adrien, can you hear me? Go! GO! Before you get us BOTH killed... follow General Lasalle!*

De Beaune gasps, pitching forward, his head aching, his body aching. That voice again, female. Hadn't he seen her... yes... the woman in the uniform.. his... counterpart. He trusted her... and he spurred his horse towards Lasalle with a shout, his sabre now a melted mass, only the hilt left. One of the void creatures surged forward, and De Beaune heard the woman's voice again.

*HIT IT IN THE FACE WITH THAT HILT! BRASS KNUCKLES, ADRIEN!! PUNCH IT!*

What an ODD thing to do... de Beaune followed the orders, though, and struck out, temporarily stunning the creature long enough to reach Lasalle, De Beaune beginning to slowly fall apart, the helmet gone, the cuirass hanging off and eventually falling to the ground, his bay's ears shortening, the last tendrils of the sucking chest wound leaving as de Beaune turned back into DuQuay.

"Yell at me later... get me out of here... I wanted to... Look, I'll tell you when we're safe..." DuQuay panted, her mirolton gone (again!), her hair nearly white now, with a few silver streaks; all her auburn hair had changed. "Can't even morph into Delacroix.. and I think I lost De Beaune just now too.... "

[thehussargeneral]

As De Beaune punches the creature with his hilt, Lasalle shoots at it, the thing disintegrating behind the cuirassier before it can recover. When De-Beaune-turned-DuQuay finally reaches his position, he stares her up and down before being reminded of their precarious situation by having to shoot down yet another creature with the last of his loaded pistols. Right, time to get out.

I damn well will, on both counts!

Now move and keep the fuck up!

Caporal may be fast, but Lasalle's strange little Arabian mare is just a little faster, still seemingly unfatigued from the run here. She takes a few steps at a walk, then shoots into a canter, winding back through the maze of streets that had led Lasalle to this place, the man looking back on occasion to make sure that DuQuay is actually keeping up.

The roar of battle gets quieter and duller, until eventually they are free of the town, and Lasalle's horse breaks into a flat-out gallop into the silence of the fog, almost painful now in contrast to the noise of Woerth, his ears still ringing.

It takes what seems to be an eternity of galloping, the mare not faltering once, but at last they enter something. Lasalle pulls her up into a walk, wiping the remnants of the liquid from his sword before returning it to its scabbard and continuing the walk through the streets of Strasbourg. It is populated, but the people go on with their days seemingly without noticing their presence, and no one says anything as he stops by a water trough and dismounts. It can be a bit strange, really, seeing people he once knew apparently unable to even see him.

He pays DuQuay little attention besides ordering her to do the same and let her horse drink, his focus on his mount and on observing the residents as if from behind glass. He does not want to yell at her yet, though his eyes and expression are already hard, and in his anger the primary way to prevent that is to simply ignore her.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay slides off of Caporal, panting, not able to meet Lasalle's hard expression at the moment. She knows what she did was both foolish and dangerous... but... the sucking chest wound is gone. She can faintly feel Delacroix and DeBeaune, the pulse of their souls alongside the hammering of her own heart, yet they are faint, as if in a slumber or a suspension.

She doesn't say a word, yet checks her tack and her horse, almost on autopilot. She is exhausted, and when she sees her face in the reflection of the window, she gasps.

"My hair... oh god... I look... " she murmured, carding through it with shaking fingers.

"I know this place... Strasbourg.. .Kleber's home... gods, I miss him... "

A single tear worked it's way down her cheek before she buried her face in Caporal's neck, shoulders shaking as she let her emotions run while the horses drank.

Pulling up, she swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her pelisse, reached into her pistol-holster and pulled out a small flask and a handkerchief. She blew her nose and then uncorked the flask, the strong scent of kirsch floating in the air as she drank half the bottle, holding it out then to Lasalle with red-tinged embarrassment on her cheeks.

"Je vous remercie, General, pour me sauver."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens to her speak while continuing to pay attention to his horse, also instinctively checking the body and the tack, not looking up when she mentions Strasbourg but replying.

So it is. It was my home for a while, too, when I was young. Sometimes my younger self wanders these streets, too, not that he would recognise most of those I know now, and not that anyone would likely recognise him either.

It is one of the few safer places in this domain.

His voice was a little softer as he spoke about the town, but it hardens again and Lasalle rolls his eyes as she cries into Caporal's neck.

Don't get worked up yet, we still have a while to go, and most of the places we will pass now are ones that require a clear mind. I say you have had quite enough clouded judgement already today, have you not?

And as he takes the flask and drinks a little from it, certainly not the amount one would expect from Lasalle, he gives her a stare clearly learnt in the non-commissioned ranks.

Ne pensez pas que cela soit sans conséquence. Venez.

True to his word, the next few spaces they pass through are not the emptiness of before. They are battlefields, often directly through the middle: the Pyramids, Rivoli, Golymin, an interlude through the slippery streets of rainy Salamanca conducted at a gallop nonetheless. Then comes Medellin, and at last Torquemada, or at least what remains of it. While most of these places are hostile, at the very least they do not target them, and their primary task is therefore simply to evade being shot or charged over.

[levieuxchevalier]

She tries not to look amazed as they go through the battlefields - some she remembers as Delacroix, others she had only dreamed of - seeing the Pyramids was her dream, but it was not wise to stop - she thought she saw Kleber there, in a fleeting glimpse of one of the desert scenes, but she knew it only to be the void replaying, like an old film.

She understood the consequences of her actions, and wondered if it would be Lasalle or Houchard to deliver them, and if she'd be allowed to explain first, why she had gone out in the first place.

It was not a clouded judgement, but a curiosity - know thy enemy - would he understand? She was bone tired, the wound free of the black substance, Delacroix and De Beaune nothing but murmurs in her mind, in her soul - she was worried she'd never see those aspects of herself again.

They began to approach the edge of a pine forest as they went through Rivoli, DuQuay seeing Massena atop Sultan, or what appeared to be Massena - with both his eyes. That was... disturbing. Massena had an eagle's gaze, quite literally - his farsightedness was legendary... probably why he hated to read - couldn't see the words, probably.

"Is this the edge of the... are we nearly home?" she wondered, sticking close to Lasalle, head bent over her horse's neck.

[thehussargeneral]

Indeed they are, and as they ride back into camp Lasalle's first question is nothing to do with DuQuay, but rather the present state of General Kellermann. Only upon being reassured that he is fast asleep does his attention switch back to the wayward rider he has brought back with him.

You have five minutes to think of how to defend yourself. Then we will see if it holds up. I will also expect you to defend the incompetence and negligence of your men.

And with that, he walks back to his tent, finding Houchard and the others still there. Du Prel is told to time five minutes, and Lasalle turns to the others as he replaces the sword he took to the void with the usual one.

She is to defend herself, I do not expect nor will I consider any excuses any of you have to make for her. If this will be a problem, I suggest you find alternative preoccupations for a while.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay dismounts, shaking, caught by Grandjean, who is trying NOT to explode at his comrade and friend, the two 3eme Cuirassiers trembling, wringing their forage caps.

Houchard, however, wastes no time, stalking forward and grabbing his "daughter" by her ear and dragging her off, giving DuPrel a look that says "you will allow me to chew her out first before you start timing ANYTHING"

"Ow ow ow ow ow! Papa! OW!" DuQuay squawks as she's dragged off, heels trying for purchase, spurs furrowing the ground.

"I do not care dat you are fifty, ja? You are damned well old enough to know better den to ride off like dat - sneaking past your men, embarrassing me and your entire regiment with dis foolishness! Explain dis breach of conduct to me, now - I am far less lenient than I tink Gen'ral Lasalle be! Vere is Delacroix in you, hunh? He put you up to dis? De Beaune put you up to dis? Vere are doze manner you claim vere inside you as past lifes? I chew dem out too!" Houchard was towering in his anger- more fear at losing her than true fury. The fury of a father who scolds his child for running out naked into the street as a toddler, who has to be frightening to get a point across.

"I...I... I wanted to know WHY it was doing this.. .why it was hurting men, tormenting my friends, going after Lasalle - I wanted to see WHAT it was... for real... where it came from... it would not answer me."

"Ov COURSE it not ansver you! You tink you can use dat kopf of yours, to siko-psyko-- ah... vat is de vord - CHARM it into tellings you? Get into it's headt and den komm to paix und verstanding? Wrap it all up in pretty bowz und gib it to Lasalle like prresent? Become heroine? Sauvez tous de cet' ombre? Haf you gone touched in de headt? Dis ting - is General Lasalle's to deal mit! You do not interfere! His land, his law, HIS problem! Verstand mich? Hmm? Now, you in big trouble, missy - gotta explain to Lasalle vy you do stupid ting like dis! Gib me heart crisis you did! Scare Gen'ral - Marshal Kellermann! If Kleber know, he put you over knee - I should put you over my knee! Paddle you good! Now, clean up, and you musst take responsibilite for all dis kerfluffle! Marsch! Hop! Hop!"

Houchard WAS livid - his Lorrain accent got thicker and thicker, and Grandjean winced - he'd heard THAT before.

"Old Hatchetface really giving her the goods, DuPrel. Might have to wait a few minutes for her to reattach her arse before Lasalle can chew it off again."

[thehussargeneral]

Du Prel nods, looking back at his pocket watch to try ten minutes instead.

Du Prel: I might suggest, Sir, that those two of your men keep themselves more out of sight.

Lasalle waits until Houchard is done, finally lighting his pipe again as he does so, though he is still clearly very displeased and ready to chew her out again at any stupid excuse.

And when Du Prel's count has finished, he sits up in his chair and exhales. He does like DuQuay, and doesn't particularly want to be doing this, but it is necessary.

What have you to say for yourself?

And perhaps more pertinently, what would you do with you in my position?

[levieuxchevalier]

"Oh... do not worry, DuPrel - I'll have 'em polishing d'Hautpoul's new bottes-fortes - and mine - for their punishment." Grandjean nods, the two cuirassiers groaning.

DuQuay comes out of the tent looking thoroughly chagrined, Houchard behind her, his mouth working in agitation, as it always does, his arms folded across his chest, boot tapping on the dusty ground.

"You ver asked a qvuestion, tochter. I suggest you answer."

DuQuay swallowed hard, looked down at the ground and then, with a deep sigh, raised her head up to meet Lasalle's steady gaze, her face steady, no emotion showing.

"If I tell you I was trying to find out what it wanted... it would matter not - because it did not answer me, and only tormented me further. I should have listened to you in the first place - no living person should go into that fog. I was doing my duty to save General Kellermann at first, as I had charged alongside him at Waterloo. I felt obligated to follow him, as Delacroix. I did not - or rather - thought that the Void would leave me be; that my past life would distract it - it did not - it drew on my life force, and that of my prior lives. It is hungry - and my men suffered for it. I went back to confront it, to do my penance for my mistakes, and made a larger mistake, putting you all at risk. Had I been in your place, General Lasalle - and it was you...I'd have busted you down a rank - yet I hold no rank. I no longer have the ability to shift into either Delacroix or De Beaune. I'd have you polish and repair the tack of the entire regiment, or at least a good portion of it, and bar you from riding with the regiment for a period of time. It would only be fair. I shall retire to Chaillot, and you please send any broken or dirty tack there, and I shall do my best to repair it and send it back in better condition. I shall be responsible for my men, and only my men."

DuQuay then fell silent, standing straight and tall (as she could, that is) - and awaited Lasalle's verdict.

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle considers this response with little visible emotion, and perhaps waits to reply for a little longer than necessary, mostly for effect.

In '04 you may remember that I caused a commotion at the prefect of Agen's ball. For this I was placed under arrest for thirty days, while the prefect was dismissed from his post. I am quite sure he did not find the decision fair, but since I never heard anything of the man again I can assume that he took it with some sort of grace. The Emperor has no need to justify his decisions to others, but he certainly has reasons.

Just as you were to remain here after you returned for good reason. Yet you know my reasons, and were still insubordinate, reckless and rather stupid for a normally smart woman like yourself. You also did your men a disservice by placing them in a situation in which they must be negligent or fear conflict of interest, for they are guarding their own Colonel and must decide whose orders to follow.

Since you say you shall be responsible for them, I will tell you that the correct answer was mine, therefore they have been negligent in a manner entirely incompatible with their duty, themselves have been insubordinate as well, and I question just who has allowed the several smaller slip ups that usually lead to such failures. Tell me, who am I to deem responsible: yourself, as Colonel, your subalterns, or your non-commissioned officers?

If you have not forgotten yourself entirely, then you know which answer is correct, and I hope that I do not need to make you state it like a child. Did Delacroix not spend enough time in the light cavalry to know that such blunders and negligence are what wastes men on campaign and loses battles that did not need to be lost?

His voice is largely cold and unattached, but at the last sentence it sharpens and raises, almost as if the thought comes dangerously close to something personal.

It is something I expect any soldier to understand, but you in particular! I understood by the time I was twelve, it is no great mystery!

Truthfully, I am not satisifed with your explanation, but that is likely because there is no satisfactory answer for such conduct. I likely also will not be satisfied by anything you have to say to me regarding your men, but nonetheless I will demand that you explain to me how such negligence and derelict of duty was permitted to happen, and what you will do to prevent it from happening again, if only so that it is forced to remain in your mind for a time, and because I asked for it in the first place and you failed to answer.

In some ways, Lasalle has taken remarkably after the older Kellermann when it comes to lectures and reprimands, but in others he takes after the Alsatians who raised him, likely with much of the same methods. But the primary difference is that Lasalle is not a physically violent man, rather preferring to force his victims to explain their failures in detail.

The intent is, of course, to force one to reflect on it to prevent it in the future, but it also happens to be embarrassing at times.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay stands there and listens to the tirade, well, half-listens because she knows where this is going - in her living world, she had experienced this time and time again - it was a catch-22 - and no answer would satisfy Lasalle - just like a rather famous - or infamous - drill sergeant in the Marines - or at least in the film he had been hired to consult on and then became the star. Full Metal Jacket, hussar style, she thought to herself.

She swallowed hard, trying to rein in her sarcasm, and kept her voice even when she replied.

"General Lasalle, since no answer I can give you will satisfy you, I shall take my men and my regiments, and leave your presence post-haste. Marechal Kellermann - Monsieur le Duc - I am wholly certain that nothing I will say to your son, whom I followed to my death in 1815 and nearly just did again - will be as succinct or... tadelsüchtig as that of either you or General Lasalle. Know that I did my duty, and I alone am responsible for my men's conduct or lack of - I was remiss in keeping the discipline tight as I did back in 1815. That fault falls fully on my shoulders. Grandjean - as Colonel of the 2nd Cuirassiers, I tender my resignation to you, and give you command of the 3rd as well - to do as you see fit. I will be retiring to Chaillot to ride no more I am unfit to be the commander of the 3eme Cuirassiers and therefore shall be no longer."

Grandjean sputtered, Houchard made a funny little noise in his throat and looked at Lasalle and Marshal Kellermann, his eyes wide and wild.

"Tochter, you cannot.." Houchard whispered, his hand on her shoulder.

"Vater, ich musst. Ich habe meine Pflicht mir selbst, Frankreich und meinen Leuten gegenüber vernachlässigt. Ich kann im guten Glauben nicht länger ihr Kommandant sein. Mein letzter Befehl soll sein: 'Botte-Selle, Jungs, es ist Zeit nach Hause zu gehen.'

("Father, I must. I have neglected my duty to myself, to France, and to my people. I can no longer be their commander in good conscience. My final order shall be: 'Botte-Selle, boys, it's time to go home.')

DuQuay shrank into herself then, just deflating, before she wiped her eyes, straightened up and saluted Lasalle and Kellermann, eyes shining. "Gentlemen, it's been an honour to ride with you. If you would point me in the direction of home...."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens with little more than a raised eyebrow at the suggestion of resignation, then stands. He takes a glass from one of the side tables, fills it with brandy, but sets it in front of DuQuay rather than drinking it himself.

I would also strongly suggest that you reconsider, but for now, that is for you. It is a serious failing indeed, but would you rather be remembered as the one who resigned in disgrace, or one who took a lesson from it and persevered? The advantage of the Afterlife is that there is no pressuring government or CSP to make the latter impossible.

By the way, General Kléber has been despondent since you first left, did you know that?

At some point, Du Prel had already vanished unnoticed to have the horses brought over. When he returns, he whispers something into Lasalle's ear that makes him chuckle.

What, because he's ever a bastion of calm? He'll be fine.

Outside, both Kugel and DuQuay's mount wait, though Kugel appears to have taken a spontaneous dislike to the other horse and keeps his ears back but not quite pinned in protest. Captain Fontaine, meanwhile, has a perfect mirror in the horse that stands waiting next to him, the animal alert and observant at all times much like its owner.

Now, I don't suppose you have anything to say to our wayward General Kellermann before we go? I doubt he will remember much of it, however.

[levieuxchevalier]

It was DuQuay's turn to look astonished for a moment, schooling her face into a mask of indifference.

"Despondent? I think you mean guilty and remorseful, General Lasalle. Jeannot was corresponding with a former mistress - I assumed he had tired of me and wanted something new; or he was reconsidering our upcoming wedding." Duquay rubbed absently at the mostly-healed wound left by the Void - the black substance gone, but the cold burn of the injury remaining.

"Tochter - General Lasalle is correct... you should not resign, not at a time like this - you are not in control of your emotions at the time; remember, there is no CSP now to harm either you or myself - I doubt Hentz or any of his cronies will wish to show up to censure or arrest you - this is between comrades in arms. Did you not tell me you, as Delacroix, were present with most of these men and the General himself in several cavalry charges?" Houchard asked gently, resting his large hand on her shoulder.

"Certe, and these men shall not follow another, not even General de Donop, who has tried time and time again to bring the 3eme back under his command... and I cannot see a better commander for our cuirassiers than you, regardless of whether or not Delacroix returns. I am certain that General Kleber is merely.... experiencing cold feet. He will come around." Grandjean murmured, adding to the general consensus that DuQuay remain in command.

"We'll drill, and perhaps some time spent repairing our tack, and perhaps less wine - will work wonders."

The troopers groaned, but they knew it to be true - they had been remiss in following orders, in behaving as Cuirassiers should - and knew they'd catch hell from General d'Hautpoul and General Nansouty, among others, once they returned to base camp.

There was a squeal of protest from Caporal as he flattened what was left of his ears at Kugel, and sidestepped, waving a warning hoof. There was definitely no pleasantries to be had between the two stallions, and DuQuay looked at her horse, and then at Kugel. "Boys... enough." she chided Caporal gently, going over to guide him away from the other horse, shaking her finger at Kugel. "And you, sir, behave. Bad pony."

She looked at Fontaine, and his horse, who seemed to be rolling his eyes, and tried to stifle a wan smile. "Christ, it's Great Value Nansouty. Captiaine Fontaine - do your farts squeak?"

Chef d'Escadron Demongin rode up on his plodding half-draft, the mustache on the horse waxed into a perfect curl, and DuQuay looked once, twice and then burst into raucous laughter, not able to control it at the ridiculous sight. "Well, it's summer, so he can have that, but tell me, Demongin, do you shave it off in the winter as per regulations?"

Demongin raised the only eyebrow that worked, and shook his head with a wry grin, showing a set of irregular teeth. "Madame le Colonel, I do... I actually do. Shall I have Desjardins give the call for botte-selle?"

"Make it so, Demongin... General Lasalle, if you would be so kind as to lead us the hell out of here, we'll be out of your hair and your domain in a thrice."

Houchard helped DuQuay into the saddle, and mounted up himself, settling his lanky frame onto his mount with a grunt, the liver chestnut Dutch stallion with a silver mane and tail, a thin blaze of white down his nose, four white socks. He looked at DuQuay, who nodded, and after the last note of A cheval rang in the air, he gave the order for the men to form in ranks. "Cavalerie - Formez en Rang!"

[thehussargeneral]

Kugel immediately and violently moves to bite at the conveniently snack-shaped finger, but Lasalle gets there first, having grabbed a riding crop from someone and popping him on the nose with it with an "Enough, damn it!".

Kugel recoils and freezes, thinking about something even if it is not something productive, and Lasalle mounts once he calms and lowers his head. His eyes soften and ears relax a little whenever he glances back at his rider, but then upon spotting Caporal again tenses up once more.

What has he ever done to you, hm? Is it because he has no ears to pin back at you?

Then Lasalle turns to look at DuQuay, a little more serious but still amused.

Rule one: Don't hold up things that look edible unless you want them eaten.

Meanwhile, Fontaine only returns a confused stare at DuQuay's comment, mounting his solid dark bay and positioning himself a small distance behind the group as usual. His aids are barely perceptible, an untrained eye unable to be blamed for thinking that the pair operate purely on thoughts and vibes. Well, the horse is likely sensitive enough, but Fontaine is too illegible.

Right, anyone else at risk of equine murder? No? Good.

He draws his sword, still the strange dragoon one that warded off the Entity's creatures, raising it above his head in signal to those behind and beginning to walk, though Kugel now utterly refuses to stay in line with Caporal, insisting on being slightly ahead.

This time the fog will have some consideration for them, not plunging them into the more violent of the battlefields, though they must still avoid some rogue cannonfire, and after some time of that they emerge in a familiar place: Strasbourg once again, though this time it looks different.

The street is lined with stalls peddling all sorts of things small and large, largely devoted to the theme of Christmas: food, mulled wine, gifts, and so on, candles, lanterns and light coming from windows dimly illuminating everything against the pitch black of the night.

And there is snow, the horse hooves' crunching in it where it is fresh, turning to a sloshing noise where it has already been walked all over.

Even in total darkness Lasalle still recognises the landmarks that defined much of his childhood, touching his hat to the sentries at the gate of the garrison, their uniforms that of the Alsace Foreign Infantry; it should be mentioned that this version of Strasbourg is seemingly permanently in the state it was in at the time of the General's residence there.

Well, no one warned me to bring winter clothes for the middle of June.

[levieuxchevalier]

She laughs at Kugel's antics, shaking her head.

"Ah a REAL warhorse he is. Caporal is no less snippy, but the frostbite he had as a foal left him without an effective means of communication, ear-wise, but if you pay attention, you can still see he's calling your mount every name in the equine book of swears."

True to her words, the bay with the white star on his forehead and cropped ears had them pinned, the whites of his eyes showing, his nose squared, nostrils pinched, his neck arched and his body posture tense. The two stallions did not like each other at ALL.

DuQuay watches Fontaine and his mount, and catching his eye, gives him a nod of approval. She herself has mounted from the off-side, and sits nearly still on her 16.3 hh Appendix QH, the horse dancing from side to side, bobbing his head, her hands not even moving. She sits deep into the saddle, and as they ride, she keeps her horse behind Kugel, even though she knows that Caporal prefers to lead.

"Be glad it isn't my living world mount, General Lasalle - he and your stallion would have words as to who's in the lead. He's a chestnut, enough said."

As they ride into Strasbourg, DuQuay's eyes go wide, and she pauses for a moment, taking in the sights.

"My god... what the hell? At least it's not cold, at least for someone of my ancestry, General."

Looking around, seeing the people and stalls, she catches glimpse of of a tall, burly man, dressed in fine clothing, a woman on his arm, his wig perfectly coiffed, yet no sideburns - the eyebrows and build give him away instantly, and she pales.

"Jean-Baptiste..." She stiffens in the saddle, and looks at General Lasalle, her eyes wide.

"What year has the void thrown us into? Can't be more than 1785.. given what... what he's wearing... and the lack of sideburns... can these shades see us?" she asks.

[thehussargeneral]

Kugel has calmed down somewhat after being allowed to lead, but that hardly means that he is calm; he is only slightly less tense, and still tries to reach out to kick or bite occasionally, though Lasalle firmly corrects him each time.

Yes, he understands the war and fighting part quite well. I am sure you can see, though, hardly a parade mount. I have calmer horses for that. I hear Fontaine trained his own horse; I am curious whether or not it is true, considering how well-behaved it is.

But my Kugel... When he has words, it usually involves teeth and hooves.

Captain Fontaine acknowledges DuQuay with a quick salute with his sword. He did notice the strange manner of mounting, and the fact her horse seems rather particular just like his own, however he does not question his betters. Not after many, many lessons on the subject. Fontaine's horse, a very dark solid bay often mistaken for black, is a strongly-built creature, its frame enhanced by fit muscling and meticulous care. It is certainly a fine horse for a mere captain to own, moving proudly under its rider, focus split between Fontaine's directions and alertness of the surroundings.

As they pass through Strasbourg, Lasalle contemplates the questions put to him before answering.

Yes, I do forget that time is liable to meddling here. Cold, no, but a cloak would not go amiss in case it begins snowing.

When? Mm... I first arrived in Strasbourg in 1786, and I stayed until 1791. We will be somewhere in that range, since this particular realm is based on my childhood. One can also go to Nancy, but that contains a few different periods of time, and knowing just which one has entered can be rather confusing.

He raises an eyebrow suspiciously at DuQuay's reaction to seeing something.

Are you alright, Madame?

But no, they cannot see us here. This version of Strasbourg is static; they go about their lives as if we were not here, and they cannot be interfered with in return. It is simply a still place one can pass through or rest in safely. There are other versions where it is not so, but this is not one of them.

Oh. You can, however...

Lasalle trots off briefly towards one of the stalls surrounding them, returning promptly with a tankard of steaming mulled wine, emptying it, then dropping the empty vessel, watching it simply disappear as it falls.

Now that is nice stuff. You and your mount can be served food and drink here, but that is the only acknowledgement you will receive.

[le-dieu-mars]

DuQuay shakes her head, and points at the tall man in fine clothing, red-heeled shoes, younger, thinner, a woman on his arm, a tankard of wine in the other. "That, sirs, is a young General Kleber - after his Austrian service, before his French service - and his infamous sideburns. Look at that perruque... my god, he is dressed like a dandy..."

Houchard squints, and then chuckles. "By the gods, it is... look at that young rake. He's got one on his arm, yet he's eyeing all the other pretty skirts.. that's our Kleber... ah... tochter... he was like that before.. yes.."

DuQuay rolls her eyes. "I'm aware of his tendencies, obviously. We should not pause for too long; I do not trust this void. It and I are at odds and I cannot guarantee it will try to hurt me in some other fashion."

Demongin groans as his horse plods over to a gingerbread stand, burying his face into a bucket of the spicy bread, munching away, Demongin pulling at the reins to no effect. "Come on, you mule-eared walking stomach... Oh gottverdammi not the WINE... "

Some of the troopers snicker, but Demongin's glare is enough to settle them straight as he dismounts, and physically DRAGS his draft away from the wine, the horse's mustache stained red, the mount somehow having acquired yet another hat, silently chewing on the felt.

DuQuay loses it at that, leaning over Caporal's neck as she allows her mount to nibble at a suspended gingerbread heart, with the iced engraving "Ìm Kopf, bìsch noch jung" (in your head, you are still young).

She allows the troopers to have one tankard of vin chaud each, and then nods to Lasalle. "We should be off, before Philippe is too drunk to continue... did I ever tell you of the time I asked an Agent de police if I would be arrested for drunk and disorderly if both me AND the horse were drunk?"

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle squints also, now with a lit pipe in his right hand, and laughs.

Kléber, you say? Now that I was not expecting... Dressed like a spectacle, to be sure! And just when did he grow out of this dandy phase?

And when he notices Demongin's struggle, he only laughs more, though he does try not to let it be noticed by the men or Demongin himself.

Good God, has that stupid creature of Demongin's ever charged at anything inedible? I have never seen it do much else but eat things it should not. I am impressed by the way it simply ignores any and all direction in any manner.

In contrast, Fontaine's mount dutifully ignores all of the sources of food and drink around them, only glancing back at his rider occasionally as if to check he is still there in the noise and bustle of the market crowd. Fontaine does decide to treat the animal to an apple from one of the stalls, removing his bridle while still mounted and walking, then giving the verbal command to allow him to eat it out of his hand, the horse refusing to touch it or even look too hard at it until then. Fontaine had trained him to do so with the purpose of preventing him from being fed anything questionable or becoming distracted by grassy verges while on campaign, but this is a rather inevitable side effect. The bridle is put back on soon after, and the horse now walks along seeming a little happier with himself than before.

If you look behind you, Madame, notice that the Captain likely has the cheapest but the best-behaved horse in this detachment... Even if said horse can be a little strange.

Now, I agree that we should resume our travels before Demongin's mount can ingest any more alcohol.

But he raises an eyebrow in amusement at the question, remembering quite the perfect answer.

I believe the law is only intended to apply to the man, seeing as no one said anything when I fed my mount cake and punch in a ballroom. Well, they were all rather too stunned to say much of anything, but I think it counts.

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard paused for a moment, considering Lasalle's words. He looked at Grandjean, who was nodding his head emphatically, looking hang-dog guilty.

Houchard ran a shaking hand through his hair, and replied in his horrific jargon of half-German, half-French, all Lorrain.

"Ah... General Lasalle.... my apologies....you are correct, I forgot myself in my worry to reach my daughter.... she is headstrong, as all cavalry are, you know? I wish to know how bad she is.. .and I am sure you will be angry with her as well for her impulsive decision; but I beg you, General, to go easy on her; she is, after all, still my little girl, even if she also contains two past lives in her that were most definitely not female."

Houchard allowed Grandjean to lead him away, his limping gait making it a slower affair than it would have been had he been a younger man; in his worry for DuQuay, Houchard looked aged even older than his 55 years.

"General, I really wish you'd stayed at home, sir. I can handle this..."

"Ach, ja, you handledt it vell, so vell, in fact, dat my girl's hurt now... how bad is it?"

Grandjean winced at Houchard's sharp tone, and replied verrrrryyy carefully...

"Uh... well... um... not as bad as General Kellermann junior but..."

"....but?"

Grandjean nodded to the two cuirassiers playing euchre in front of the tent as they stood, cards falling off their laps, and saluted General Houchard.

Inside the tent, DuQuay slept, the borrowed shirt billowed, except for where it was stuck to the bandage across her chest, which was itself stained dark. She tossed and turned, caught in a nightmare brought on by the black substance.

Houchard staggered, a string of religious curses falling from his lips, and one of the cuirassiers hurried to get him a chair and a strong drink.

"Himmeldonnerwetter... my girl... that does NOT look mild, Colonel!"

Houchard's hand trembled as he brought the glass of schnapps to his lips, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"What is that substance?"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

DuQuay.. no... Delacroix.. found themselves in the blinding blizzard again. He lamented the cuirass; though it protected him from the majority of the cold air, it also had frozen to him, and the bearskin rug he had found was now torn into strips, wrapped around his boots. He couldn't feel his feet, or his hands, his mustache embellished with icicles made of his mucus and his breath, the hoar-frost on his unshaven face aging him. What ever clothing he could find, he wore in layers, the heat causing the lice to bite, the eternal itching maddening. His horse stumbled, and he lurched forward in the saddle, the stirrups long discarded; his boots no longer fit in them. He raised his good arm, broken spear in hand and slapped at an infantryman who had tried to make a cut in his horse's neck to suck the blood out while still riding, the piece of leather in his mouth flapping; it was disgusting, the leather, but the salt from it and the meager protein in it gave him enough energy to continue; until the next encampment. He had tried to get thatch off of the roof of a burning house for his horse before it had gone up completely, the men preferring the scorching heat of the flames to the shelter itself. He swore he'd seen them roasting a leg of some sort, not sure that it was the deer or animal they claimed it was; he had not bothered to check. The bodies were stacked like cordwood as wind-breaks, stripped of every available scrap of fabric. The wind, the incessant, blowing wind, the blinding snow that felt like needles of glass driven into his face; and when the sun would come out in rare moments, the snow-blindness was not worth the meager warmth it gave.

The cold... the cold seemed to penetrate his very being, right to his heart. The fear, the worry, the terror - the cossacks at first like hordes. When Delacroix looked at them next, his eyes widened in fear; these had no faces, black as the depths of hell, relentlessly attacking, a never ending wave of darkness. The snow billowed and blew, reducing his visibility to the frozen tips of his horse's ears, making the appearance and disappearance of the faceless horde all that more terrifying. Delacroix struck left and right, gripping with frozen thighs to the mount he rode, who slipped and skid on the surface, the ice calks in their shoes only providing minimal traction.

Outside of this fever-dream, in the tent, DuQuay groaned, flailing, her breath coming in odd foggy puffs of air, the black stain spreading on her chest.

Houchard rested a trembling hand on his daughter's forehead and exclaimed at the chill he felt. Why was she... freezing?

"Grandjean - fetch blankets! She is like ice!"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

Delacroix gasps in pain, falling from his horse, the darkness following him down, down, down... down... no impact on the snow, just perpetual falling into a black pit of despair, his cuirass melting away, his old wounds opening up, a roaring in his ears and the pain of utter despair and desolation. He tries to grab at the lance, but it burns him, and he hisses in pain. He grips it harder, gritting his teeth, and tries to pull it out or crawl up it. "Be done with me, then! I'm already dead, you foul thing!"

"̸̖͒B̸͚͌́̕ͅǘ̶̦͒͝t̸̖͔͆ ̷̣́̑̇ÿ̷̡̡͎o̴̱͛ù̷͖̳͓̏r̶̲̩̃̅ ̴̧̹̓̈́h̷̝̱̀͒ͅo̵̰̲͑͝s̵̭̹̔̐t̶̨̨̄ ̵̭̮́̈́͜į̴̛̦̎͗s̷̛̼̍̈́ ̶͙̐̚ǹ̶̙̝̀ȏ̸̳͍̭́͘t̸̻̔͛!̷͉̠̄̽͝ͅ ̴̗̈̕͝I̴͊͝͝ͅͅs̶͖̱̼̊͗ ̴̻̼̿͜t̴̡̞̱͑̾h̸͎̆̑a̴̢̜̮͂̋ṱ̴̳̀ ̴̡͌w̶̻̌̚ḩ̴̛͇͌̊a̴̳̅͗ͅt̵̢͓̀ ̶̖̔̒y̶̗̹͉̚o̵̙̠̎u̸̪͌̈́͝ͅ ̴̰̠͘w̷̤͕͎̐i̴̪̓̿͝s̵̙̓̎͋h̶͖̅̄?̴̯͖̈́ ̶͈͂̂H̷̫͇̎͊m̸̦̅m̷͚̝͊̓m̸̤̞͑?̸̳̠̂ ̷͓͋F̷͉́ọ̵̯̖͊̿̅r̷͓̓̄ ̸̟̈́͋Ḩ̶̱͚̒͊E̶̬̍͝R̷͔̽̑͘ ̸͈̓́͂ţ̴̾́ó̵̘͘ ̷̲̝͌̏d̴͓̔í̷͙̖̂͝e̷̱̒̈́͗ ̴̰̥̳͒̒ȁ̵̧̳s̷͇̖̠͝ ̴̞̓̉w̵̘̰͠͠e̴̢̦̎l̴̺̤͗l̶̺͚̅?̴͇̯̈͝ ̷͈̟͖̃͛͝S̷̡̘͠͝u̷͍̞͐̃͊ͅc̴̭̅͠h̶̦̀͝.̵͚̔̄͜.̴̨̈́̄.̷̖͓̬́̕ ̶̲̟̻̈́ḋ̴̯͕͇̈́̀e̷̬͚̓͝͝l̶͓̣̖̍͌͘ï̴̥̹͉ć̷̼͉͝i̴̖͘o̶̮͠u̵͇̪͈̓̐s̵̛̹͗͝ ̴̞̗̣͂̅e̵̘̻̭̎n̷̠͓͉͗ē̴̡̖r̸̩͐͋͜g̴̘̊ͅy̶̬̯͎̾͘.̸̺̖͛.̷͎̣̙̈́̌.̴̛̭.̸̥̗͋ ̶̐͜s̷̮͗̿͜o̴̡̝͉͛͑ ̴̤̃̇̇ĥ̶̡̩ű̸̧͖̱͌͆n̷̙̺̈́̽g̶̘̑ȓ̶̖̰y̷̗̻̱͗͊̿.̷̟̘̃̐͐.̸͈̥̠̀.̷̰̱͇̌́̕ ̷͉́ŝ̸͉̯ô̴̫͖.̴̬͕̆̚.̴̧̂̔͌.̴̧̣̊̔͠ ̶͈̣̈́̾͘h̸̡͔́̈̅u̷̖͓̓̽ņ̴̧̲̈́̈͗ğ̶̯̳̂r̷̗̫͔͋y̵̱̍̉.̵̡͇̜̐͝.̸̡̫͆͆.̴̧͉̦̈́͝"̵̫͓̦̈́̓̓

DuQuay sits bolt upright, screaming, the black substance sticking to her hand through the bandage, Houchard immediately drawing her to him, holding her as Grandjean scurries in with more blankets.

"Silver... silver!" she manages to cough out.

Houchard looks down at his Saint-Louis medal, at the color of it, and makes a decision then and there. He rips it off of his uniform and presses it to the blackened wound, the black substance seething and boiling, turning into soot where the medal touches it, the rest retreating back, the medal sticking to the fabric outside the wound before it, too, dissipates.

"But your host is not! Is that what you wish? Hmmm? For HER to die as well? Such… delicious energy…. so hungry… so… hungry

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods briskly at DuPrel before turning back to his daughter.

"I need to know what this is, Adjutant... I can see by your uniform you are an Aide de Camp; so perhaps you might brief this old general on what this substance is and why it is affecting my daughter so. I need to know. I wish to bring her to my home to recuperate, where her husband might visit, and make his long-delayed amends for his caddish behavior."

Houchard was calm, his tone measured. No more the wild-eyed hussar of his youth, obviously, he understood the gravity of the situation at hand. He brushed back DuQuay's damp hair, with a look of tenderness and concern.

"... It... ate my medal. 'tis only a bauble come the revolution, to be sure, but it was of pure silver. If I had a hundred such medals I would readily sacrifice them again to see my girl restored to her health."

DuQuay's eyes were closed, and she was too weak to respond, but the nightmare - for now- was over. Houchard laid her back on the surgical cot and motioned for Grandjean to cover her with the blankets. He stood up, joints creaking, hunched over in the low tent and turned to DuPrel.

"Walk with me, Adjutant.... I find I am in need of a constitutional and a smoke; perhaps we may find your commander and Marshal Kellermann; I think it is time we discussed matters."

[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?

[levieuxchevalier]

(convo's in that Lorrain German from Houchard)

Houchard nodded, bending down to pick up a burning stick from one of the nearby cooking fires, lighting his pipe, the rich vanilla-cherrywood scent of American Burley curling around him in the blue smoke.

"Ach, ja... I did, perhaps. In my worry for my girl, I may have overstepped my boundaries. Ah but 'tis normal - we were generals long time before he was - you earlier than me by dint of your noble birth, Christophe; I'd have been content remaining a simple chef d'escadron, I didn't need much to be happy; with Catherine and my children; a retirement would have been sufficient for this old scarred body. But, France called and I had to answer; as I assume many of our men did as well. La Patrie en Danger.."

The two men continued along, walking until they found a place to sit, one of the cuirassiers of Delacroix's regiment dragging over a set of chairs under the shade of a tree, motioning for DesJardins to bring over a small camp table, two glasses and some more schnapps.

"Oh, thank you, trooper.. a place for two old men to rest their bones, share some schnapps and smoke in the shade is a good thing."

Houchard turned to Kellermann and sighed, his bushy eyebrows knitted together. He gestured with the hand that held his pipe, shrugging, brows going up and the only working side of his mouth giving a little downwards pout.

"My daughter - well, let us be frank, she is an adopted daughter, but a daughter none the less - she is headstrong. The two past lives within her do not help that one bit. Delacroix is somewhat more tractable, as he knows us and respects us.. most of the time. The other one... what is his name... Beaune... de Beaune.. he's a bit more... pompous, I would say. Brash, rude. Looks at us with starry eyes, yet always going on how he sacrificed himself and the regiment did to save France."

Houchard rolled his eyes at that, and spat on the ground.

"Zut, so many more have done that and more before him. He is nothing special. I may need to remind him, should he have the temerity to appear... the date of his own death arrives soon, and... that affliction which my girl suffers from at Waterloo is magnified; yet it only lasts a day instead of a damned fortnight. How bad off is your son, Christophe? My girl's got this.... black wound in her chest... it took my Saint-Louis medal. She was so cold... like she was freezing, muttering in her sleep about Cossacks... faceless hordes.. the blackness, the void... that substance ebbing and pulsing.. I saw it. Never seen anything like it... I think it would take a man smarter than I to understand what it was."

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

Retirement never quite managed to catch up to me, either... Well, at least the Senate was a marginally more peaceful existence than the army.

I think it is important for us old men to remember that those junior to us in years are still perfectly capable... 23 years of service in 34 years of life is nothing to scoff at, after all. If everyone blindly deferred to age, nothing would ever get done in any area of society.

Besides, someone like Lasalle is too viciously independent for that anyways... One cannot expect anything different from someone who joined the army at 11 years old.

Kellermann also sits down, his knees cracking as he does so.

Ach, children... You have it rather difficult, having three in the body of one. De Beaune may need some adjustment, perhaps he is simply trying to prove himself to people he respects. Mine... I never quite know what to do with him, I fear. I locked him in his apartments, and yet he got out anyways. He's in a very bad way now, can't stay awake for very long and seems to be in a lot of pain. At least they managed to get all of that substance off him, it looks painful...

[levieuxchevalier]

"Eleven? Gott in Himmel... that is entirely too young for a boy to... ach, I suppose it was for a reason? General Kleber, he was sent off to school at seven for the simple fact that he was such a gamin of the streets, running about in gangs and not learning anything that his step-father convinced his mother to send him away. Or so he tells us; one can never know if what he says is the truth or an exaggeration, you know."

Houchard reclined back in his chair and puffed on his pipe for a few moments, seeming to digest what his peer had said, his free hand tapping an old drum cadence on the armrest.

"So... a long service record in such a young one; and yes, perhaps I had been a bit too.. . ancien regime with him. I should rectify that, but my main concern is most definitely my girl -you say they got that substance off of your boy? She still has it on her, it seems to be from a deep wound; she is having nightmares, it seems. I do hope that young Adjutant who scurried off is bringing Lasalle here, I wish to know if there is a way to attract the rest of that substance out of her, so she can recover."

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard sucks on his pipe, and realizes it's gone out, and he sets it down on the side table, pouring Kellermann and he a last glass of the schnapps.

"Apologize? Ja, could do that. It does not speak well of a gentleman such as myself not to acknowledge when he's made a mistake; and the Lord knows I've made many... though Madame's suggestion of shooting Representative Hentz when he came to fetch me after Menin to arrest me would have been... rather harsh. I heard he's still looking for his other eye, you know... That REMf had the audacity to show up to my home, as I was with my wife and children, to make amends. He encountered Madame, and well.... "

Houchard shrugs, giving Kellermann a wink.

"They say hell hath no fury... and let me tell you... there are times I'm scared for General Kleber, if he ever pisses her off."

When DuPrel showed up, Houchard stood and tugged down his vest and sash, and picked up his plume-bedecked tricorne.

"My thanks, Adjutant, for your work in convincing your General to speak to me... Marechal Kellermann... it is good to catch up with an old friend. When this is all settled, do stop by with your son; I would like for him to meet my son, Jean-Nic - he became a man of letters after my death. A prouder father I could not be."

Houchard followed DuPrel to Lasalle's tent, thinking of how he could make amends to the younger General for overstepping his bounds.

Meanwhile, in the tent guarded by two troopers of the 3eme Cuirassiers, DuQuay groaned and sat up; rubbing her chest. It was near the anniversary of Woerth, and she knew that none of the surgeons would be able to fix what was going on with her. The entity's substance bubbled, burned, and she felt horrible that her father had sacrificed his Saint-Louis medal in an attempt to save her. She quietly slipped into her boots, grabbed a spare habit-veste, clapped on her mirloton, and snuck out of the back of the tent, keeping low and out of sight until she reached her horse, the crop-eared Caporal, saddling it up, leading it to a nearby rock and mounting up, going at the walk to the edge of the encampment, into the fog.

All right, you... whatever you are... it's time you and I had a little talk... and I will not rest until I get my goddamned answers...

[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...

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods, understanding, at Lasalle, his mouth working as it always does, that tremor never ceasing.

"I understand, General Lasalle... my concern is my daughter still has the substance on her person... you may not know - but she was having nightmares, and was cold as ice... she was mumbling about Cossacks, and when she rose up, that black tar was reaching out, like tendrils. She called for silver, and... the only thing I could think of was my Saint-Louis medal--it means nothing now, in this time; just a bauble I earned by these scars upon my body... it...it ATE the silver, General. How can I get this off of her, so I can bring her home to my house in Sarrebourg so she can continue to heal?"

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

Meanwhile, in the liminal space that DuQuay is occupying, she is having a helluva time keeping her mount from bolting, as the crop-eared bastard rears and whirls, his former life as a reining champion on full display. She clings like a monkey to his back, mirolton gone (again, dammit!), the horse groaning, trembling, rolling his eyes so that the whites were showing.

"Dammit! Caporal! Ho! HO!!"

The fog begins to shift, and the smell of iron, mud, gunpowder and death begins to become more prominent.... DuQuay's left arm goes numb, wooden, and with a gasp, the large Cuirassier colonel Adrien de Beaune finds himself in possession of his own body again, his bay frothing underneath him, surrounded by his 9th cuirassiers, as Woerth again comes into view.

"NO! NO!!! It's a TRAP! Soldats! A trap!! Wheel right! Wheel RIGHT!"

Puffs of smoke waft out from windows, the rattle of gun carriages and shouted Prussian orders, garbled among the screams of both horse and man. They are trapped, again. The 9th Cuirassiers, the pride of France.... about to sacrifice themselves again on the Altar of the Empire; the Goddess of War a bloodthirsty bitch....

[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.̴̋ͅ.̸̣́.̶̟̾

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard settles into the chair opposite Lasalle's little campaign desk and sighs, running his hand over his face.

"She was under the guard of a pair of 3eme Cuirassiers.. I found myself in need of some air.."

When the elder Kellermann bursts in with the news, Houchard stands up, nearly upending the tent with his great height and consternation.

"HIMMELHERRGOTT WHAT?"

Houchard roars, his face terrific in his rage.

"I'll give those two lâches something to think about!!"

The three men go over to the tent that once held DuQuay, where Grosjean is already berating the two troopers in his strong Lorrain german, absolutely laying into them, his mustache flecked with foam, his sabre drawn, striking them alternatively with the flat of it.

"I'll flay yer goddamned cuirasses off and then yer thrice-damned sorry hides! How did you miss her? Dereliction of duty! I'll have you mucking out the stables with your fucking TEASPOONS you sorry sacks of shit in tin cans! Regarde-moi dans les yeux quand je te parle ! Qu'est-ce que tu glandes, espèce de lavette ?! Espèce de bougre de petit salopard!"

"Sir! Sir! OW! SIR! She... she... she didn't go out the front! She... the back flap was open, sir! OW OW!! OW!!"

Houchard turned to Lasalle, worry warring with exasperation on his features.

"My daughter is headstrong, and protective.... she more than likely rode off to get answers... I... I want to charge in there and bring her back by her damned stubborn queue... However, I am not a stupid man, whatever the CSP said about me... you know this... this void better than any of us, General. Je vous en prie, bring her back... I'll handle these two, before Grandjean turns them into paté... just... be careful."

_________________________--

In Woerth, de Beaune tries valiantly to get his men to listen, to see him, but he is helpless; his heart is in his throat, and he weeps.

"No... no.... we.... we.... this sacrifice.... it saved the French Army.... allowed them to retreat while we bled... while we all died... and still, the battle was lost... WHAT WAS OUR SACRIFICE FOR? WHAT DID I BLEED AND DIE FOR? NO!! NO!!! WE DIED FOR FRANCE! NOT FOR KINGS, NOT FOR EMPERORS!! THIS WAS OUR LOYALTY, TO DIE FOR OUR COUNTRY!!!"

[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!

[levieuxchevalier]

Grandjean pants, arm exhausted, and salutes Lasalle

"These bastards are the 3rd's boys... her own regiment. Well, er... Delacroix's regiment.... I ordered them... sir. I'll handle them. Go find her, please... "

Houchard glares at the two troopers, who cringe, knowing that the old man was by far the scarier of DuQuay's guardians, and the look Marshal Kellermann was giving them was no less severe.

-------------------- WOERTH--------------

De Beaune, overcome, roars with furious grief, drawing his sabre and slashing left and right to no avail. He spots a white flash and turns his bloodshot eyes in the direction, and his mouth falls open as he sees a legend from the era before him. General Lasalle. He swipes across his eyes with his right gloved hand, and turns his horse, rotating his upper body and shifting in his saddle, using his leg pressure to turn his mount.

"GENERAL LASALLE??? THE GENERAL??"

The entity is Not Having That, and surges forward, trying to block De Beaune from reaching Lasalle, and nearly knocks him out of the saddle, now the canister shot hammering at him, punching through his armor, melting it, the sucking wound on his chest pulsing and bubbling, the black ichor beginning to trail outwards like a tattered banner.

*Agh, fuck... FUCK... Adrien, can you hear me? Go! GO! Before you get us BOTH killed... follow General Lasalle!*

De Beaune gasps, pitching forward, his head aching, his body aching. That voice again, female. Hadn't he seen her... yes... the woman in the uniform.. his... counterpart. He trusted her... and he spurred his horse towards Lasalle with a shout, his sabre now a melted mass, only the hilt left. One of the void creatures surged forward, and De Beaune heard the woman's voice again.

*HIT IT IN THE FACE WITH THAT HILT! BRASS KNUCKLES, ADRIEN!! PUNCH IT!*

What an ODD thing to do... de Beaune followed the orders, though, and struck out, temporarily stunning the creature long enough to reach Lasalle, De Beaune beginning to slowly fall apart, the helmet gone, the cuirass hanging off and eventually falling to the ground, his bay's ears shortening, the last tendrils of the sucking chest wound leaving as de Beaune turned back into DuQuay.

"Yell at me later... get me out of here... I wanted to... Look, I'll tell you when we're safe..." DuQuay panted, her mirolton gone (again!), her hair nearly white now, with a few silver streaks; all her auburn hair had changed. "Can't even morph into Delacroix.. and I think I lost De Beaune just now too.... "

[thehussargeneral]

As De Beaune punches the creature with his hilt, Lasalle shoots at it, the thing disintegrating behind the cuirassier before it can recover. When De-Beaune-turned-DuQuay finally reaches his position, he stares her up and down before being reminded of their precarious situation by having to shoot down yet another creature with the last of his loaded pistols. Right, time to get out.

I damn well will, on both counts!

Now move and keep the fuck up!

Caporal may be fast, but Lasalle's strange little Arabian mare is just a little faster, still seemingly unfatigued from the run here. She takes a few steps at a walk, then shoots into a canter, winding back through the maze of streets that had led Lasalle to this place, the man looking back on occasion to make sure that DuQuay is actually keeping up.

The roar of battle gets quieter and duller, until eventually they are free of the town, and Lasalle's horse breaks into a flat-out gallop into the silence of the fog, almost painful now in contrast to the noise of Woerth, his ears still ringing.

It takes what seems to be an eternity of galloping, the mare not faltering once, but at last they enter something. Lasalle pulls her up into a walk, wiping the remnants of the liquid from his sword before returning it to its scabbard and continuing the walk through the streets of Strasbourg. It is populated, but the people go on with their days seemingly without noticing their presence, and no one says anything as he stops by a water trough and dismounts. It can be a bit strange, really, seeing people he once knew apparently unable to even see him.

He pays DuQuay little attention besides ordering her to do the same and let her horse drink, his focus on his mount and on observing the residents as if from behind glass. He does not want to yell at her yet, though his eyes and expression are already hard, and in his anger the primary way to prevent that is to simply ignore her.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay slides off of Caporal, panting, not able to meet Lasalle's hard expression at the moment. She knows what she did was both foolish and dangerous... but... the sucking chest wound is gone. She can faintly feel Delacroix and DeBeaune, the pulse of their souls alongside the hammering of her own heart, yet they are faint, as if in a slumber or a suspension.

She doesn't say a word, yet checks her tack and her horse, almost on autopilot. She is exhausted, and when she sees her face in the reflection of the window, she gasps.

"My hair... oh god... I look... " she murmured, carding through it with shaking fingers.

"I know this place... Strasbourg.. .Kleber's home... gods, I miss him... "

A single tear worked it's way down her cheek before she buried her face in Caporal's neck, shoulders shaking as she let her emotions run while the horses drank.

Pulling up, she swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her pelisse, reached into her pistol-holster and pulled out a small flask and a handkerchief. She blew her nose and then uncorked the flask, the strong scent of kirsch floating in the air as she drank half the bottle, holding it out then to Lasalle with red-tinged embarrassment on her cheeks.

"Je vous remercie, General, pour me sauver."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens to her speak while continuing to pay attention to his horse, also instinctively checking the body and the tack, not looking up when she mentions Strasbourg but replying.

So it is. It was my home for a while, too, when I was young. Sometimes my younger self wanders these streets, too, not that he would recognise most of those I know now, and not that anyone would likely recognise him either.

It is one of the few safer places in this domain.

His voice was a little softer as he spoke about the town, but it hardens again and Lasalle rolls his eyes as she cries into Caporal's neck.

Don't get worked up yet, we still have a while to go, and most of the places we will pass now are ones that require a clear mind. I say you have had quite enough clouded judgement already today, have you not?

And as he takes the flask and drinks a little from it, certainly not the amount one would expect from Lasalle, he gives her a stare clearly learnt in the non-commissioned ranks.

Ne pensez pas que cela soit sans conséquence. Venez.

True to his word, the next few spaces they pass through are not the emptiness of before. They are battlefields, often directly through the middle: the Pyramids, Rivoli, Golymin, an interlude through the slippery streets of rainy Salamanca conducted at a gallop nonetheless. Then comes Medellin, and at last Torquemada, or at least what remains of it. While most of these places are hostile, at the very least they do not target them, and their primary task is therefore simply to evade being shot or charged over.

[levieuxchevalier]

She tries not to look amazed as they go through the battlefields - some she remembers as Delacroix, others she had only dreamed of - seeing the Pyramids was her dream, but it was not wise to stop - she thought she saw Kleber there, in a fleeting glimpse of one of the desert scenes, but she knew it only to be the void replaying, like an old film.

She understood the consequences of her actions, and wondered if it would be Lasalle or Houchard to deliver them, and if she'd be allowed to explain first, why she had gone out in the first place.

It was not a clouded judgement, but a curiosity - know thy enemy - would he understand? She was bone tired, the wound free of the black substance, Delacroix and De Beaune nothing but murmurs in her mind, in her soul - she was worried she'd never see those aspects of herself again.

They began to approach the edge of a pine forest as they went through Rivoli, DuQuay seeing Massena atop Sultan, or what appeared to be Massena - with both his eyes. That was... disturbing. Massena had an eagle's gaze, quite literally - his farsightedness was legendary... probably why he hated to read - couldn't see the words, probably.

"Is this the edge of the... are we nearly home?" she wondered, sticking close to Lasalle, head bent over her horse's neck.

[thehussargeneral]

Indeed they are, and as they ride back into camp Lasalle's first question is nothing to do with DuQuay, but rather the present state of General Kellermann. Only upon being reassured that he is fast asleep does his attention switch back to the wayward rider he has brought back with him.

You have five minutes to think of how to defend yourself. Then we will see if it holds up. I will also expect you to defend the incompetence and negligence of your men.

And with that, he walks back to his tent, finding Houchard and the others still there. Du Prel is told to time five minutes, and Lasalle turns to the others as he replaces the sword he took to the void with the usual one.

She is to defend herself, I do not expect nor will I consider any excuses any of you have to make for her. If this will be a problem, I suggest you find alternative preoccupations for a while.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay dismounts, shaking, caught by Grandjean, who is trying NOT to explode at his comrade and friend, the two 3eme Cuirassiers trembling, wringing their forage caps.

Houchard, however, wastes no time, stalking forward and grabbing his "daughter" by her ear and dragging her off, giving DuPrel a look that says "you will allow me to chew her out first before you start timing ANYTHING"

"Ow ow ow ow ow! Papa! OW!" DuQuay squawks as she's dragged off, heels trying for purchase, spurs furrowing the ground.

"I do not care dat you are fifty, ja? You are damned well old enough to know better den to ride off like dat - sneaking past your men, embarrassing me and your entire regiment with dis foolishness! Explain dis breach of conduct to me, now - I am far less lenient than I tink Gen'ral Lasalle be! Vere is Delacroix in you, hunh? He put you up to dis? De Beaune put you up to dis? Vere are doze manner you claim vere inside you as past lifes? I chew dem out too!" Houchard was towering in his anger- more fear at losing her than true fury. The fury of a father who scolds his child for running out naked into the street as a toddler, who has to be frightening to get a point across.

"I...I... I wanted to know WHY it was doing this.. .why it was hurting men, tormenting my friends, going after Lasalle - I wanted to see WHAT it was... for real... where it came from... it would not answer me."

"Ov COURSE it not ansver you! You tink you can use dat kopf of yours, to siko-psyko-- ah... vat is de vord - CHARM it into tellings you? Get into it's headt and den komm to paix und verstanding? Wrap it all up in pretty bowz und gib it to Lasalle like prresent? Become heroine? Sauvez tous de cet' ombre? Haf you gone touched in de headt? Dis ting - is General Lasalle's to deal mit! You do not interfere! His land, his law, HIS problem! Verstand mich? Hmm? Now, you in big trouble, missy - gotta explain to Lasalle vy you do stupid ting like dis! Gib me heart crisis you did! Scare Gen'ral - Marshal Kellermann! If Kleber know, he put you over knee - I should put you over my knee! Paddle you good! Now, clean up, and you musst take responsibilite for all dis kerfluffle! Marsch! Hop! Hop!"

Houchard WAS livid - his Lorrain accent got thicker and thicker, and Grandjean winced - he'd heard THAT before.

"Old Hatchetface really giving her the goods, DuPrel. Might have to wait a few minutes for her to reattach her arse before Lasalle can chew it off again."

[thehussargeneral]

Du Prel nods, looking back at his pocket watch to try ten minutes instead.

Du Prel: I might suggest, Sir, that those two of your men keep themselves more out of sight.

Lasalle waits until Houchard is done, finally lighting his pipe again as he does so, though he is still clearly very displeased and ready to chew her out again at any stupid excuse.

And when Du Prel's count has finished, he sits up in his chair and exhales. He does like DuQuay, and doesn't particularly want to be doing this, but it is necessary.

What have you to say for yourself?

And perhaps more pertinently, what would you do with you in my position?

[levieuxchevalier]

"Oh... do not worry, DuPrel - I'll have 'em polishing d'Hautpoul's new bottes-fortes - and mine - for their punishment." Grandjean nods, the two cuirassiers groaning.

DuQuay comes out of the tent looking thoroughly chagrined, Houchard behind her, his mouth working in agitation, as it always does, his arms folded across his chest, boot tapping on the dusty ground.

"You ver asked a qvuestion, tochter. I suggest you answer."

DuQuay swallowed hard, looked down at the ground and then, with a deep sigh, raised her head up to meet Lasalle's steady gaze, her face steady, no emotion showing.

"If I tell you I was trying to find out what it wanted... it would matter not - because it did not answer me, and only tormented me further. I should have listened to you in the first place - no living person should go into that fog. I was doing my duty to save General Kellermann at first, as I had charged alongside him at Waterloo. I felt obligated to follow him, as Delacroix. I did not - or rather - thought that the Void would leave me be; that my past life would distract it - it did not - it drew on my life force, and that of my prior lives. It is hungry - and my men suffered for it. I went back to confront it, to do my penance for my mistakes, and made a larger mistake, putting you all at risk. Had I been in your place, General Lasalle - and it was you...I'd have busted you down a rank - yet I hold no rank. I no longer have the ability to shift into either Delacroix or De Beaune. I'd have you polish and repair the tack of the entire regiment, or at least a good portion of it, and bar you from riding with the regiment for a period of time. It would only be fair. I shall retire to Chaillot, and you please send any broken or dirty tack there, and I shall do my best to repair it and send it back in better condition. I shall be responsible for my men, and only my men."

DuQuay then fell silent, standing straight and tall (as she could, that is) - and awaited Lasalle's verdict.

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle considers this response with little visible emotion, and perhaps waits to reply for a little longer than necessary, mostly for effect.

In '04 you may remember that I caused a commotion at the prefect of Agen's ball. For this I was placed under arrest for thirty days, while the prefect was dismissed from his post. I am quite sure he did not find the decision fair, but since I never heard anything of the man again I can assume that he took it with some sort of grace. The Emperor has no need to justify his decisions to others, but he certainly has reasons.

Just as you were to remain here after you returned for good reason. Yet you know my reasons, and were still insubordinate, reckless and rather stupid for a normally smart woman like yourself. You also did your men a disservice by placing them in a situation in which they must be negligent or fear conflict of interest, for they are guarding their own Colonel and must decide whose orders to follow.

Since you say you shall be responsible for them, I will tell you that the correct answer was mine, therefore they have been negligent in a manner entirely incompatible with their duty, themselves have been insubordinate as well, and I question just who has allowed the several smaller slip ups that usually lead to such failures. Tell me, who am I to deem responsible: yourself, as Colonel, your subalterns, or your non-commissioned officers?

If you have not forgotten yourself entirely, then you know which answer is correct, and I hope that I do not need to make you state it like a child. Did Delacroix not spend enough time in the light cavalry to know that such blunders and negligence are what wastes men on campaign and loses battles that did not need to be lost?

His voice is largely cold and unattached, but at the last sentence it sharpens and raises, almost as if the thought comes dangerously close to something personal.

It is something I expect any soldier to understand, but you in particular! I understood by the time I was twelve, it is no great mystery!

Truthfully, I am not satisifed with your explanation, but that is likely because there is no satisfactory answer for such conduct. I likely also will not be satisfied by anything you have to say to me regarding your men, but nonetheless I will demand that you explain to me how such negligence and derelict of duty was permitted to happen, and what you will do to prevent it from happening again, if only so that it is forced to remain in your mind for a time, and because I asked for it in the first place and you failed to answer.

In some ways, Lasalle has taken remarkably after the older Kellermann when it comes to lectures and reprimands, but in others he takes after the Alsatians who raised him, likely with much of the same methods. But the primary difference is that Lasalle is not a physically violent man, rather preferring to force his victims to explain their failures in detail.

The intent is, of course, to force one to reflect on it to prevent it in the future, but it also happens to be embarrassing at times.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay stands there and listens to the tirade, well, half-listens because she knows where this is going - in her living world, she had experienced this time and time again - it was a catch-22 - and no answer would satisfy Lasalle - just like a rather famous - or infamous - drill sergeant in the Marines - or at least in the film he had been hired to consult on and then became the star. Full Metal Jacket, hussar style, she thought to herself.

She swallowed hard, trying to rein in her sarcasm, and kept her voice even when she replied.

"General Lasalle, since no answer I can give you will satisfy you, I shall take my men and my regiments, and leave your presence post-haste. Marechal Kellermann - Monsieur le Duc - I am wholly certain that nothing I will say to your son, whom I followed to my death in 1815 and nearly just did again - will be as succinct or... tadelsüchtig as that of either you or General Lasalle. Know that I did my duty, and I alone am responsible for my men's conduct or lack of - I was remiss in keeping the discipline tight as I did back in 1815. That fault falls fully on my shoulders. Grandjean - as Colonel of the 2nd Cuirassiers, I tender my resignation to you, and give you command of the 3rd as well - to do as you see fit. I will be retiring to Chaillot to ride no more I am unfit to be the commander of the 3eme Cuirassiers and therefore shall be no longer."

Grandjean sputtered, Houchard made a funny little noise in his throat and looked at Lasalle and Marshal Kellermann, his eyes wide and wild.

"Tochter, you cannot.." Houchard whispered, his hand on her shoulder.

"Vater, ich musst. Ich habe meine Pflicht mir selbst, Frankreich und meinen Leuten gegenüber vernachlässigt. Ich kann im guten Glauben nicht länger ihr Kommandant sein. Mein letzter Befehl soll sein: 'Botte-Selle, Jungs, es ist Zeit nach Hause zu gehen.'

("Father, I must. I have neglected my duty to myself, to France, and to my people. I can no longer be their commander in good conscience. My final order shall be: 'Botte-Selle, boys, it's time to go home.')

DuQuay shrank into herself then, just deflating, before she wiped her eyes, straightened up and saluted Lasalle and Kellermann, eyes shining. "Gentlemen, it's been an honour to ride with you. If you would point me in the direction of home...."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens with little more than a raised eyebrow at the suggestion of resignation, then stands. He takes a glass from one of the side tables, fills it with brandy, but sets it in front of DuQuay rather than drinking it himself.

I would also strongly suggest that you reconsider, but for now, that is for you. It is a serious failing indeed, but would you rather be remembered as the one who resigned in disgrace, or one who took a lesson from it and persevered? The advantage of the Afterlife is that there is no pressuring government or CSP to make the latter impossible.

By the way, General Kléber has been despondent since you first left, did you know that?

At some point, Du Prel had already vanished unnoticed to have the horses brought over. When he returns, he whispers something into Lasalle's ear that makes him chuckle.

What, because he's ever a bastion of calm? He'll be fine.

Outside, both Kugel and DuQuay's mount wait, though Kugel appears to have taken a spontaneous dislike to the other horse and keeps his ears back but not quite pinned in protest. Captain Fontaine, meanwhile, has a perfect mirror in the horse that stands waiting next to him, the animal alert and observant at all times much like its owner.

Now, I don't suppose you have anything to say to our wayward General Kellermann before we go? I doubt he will remember much of it, however.

[levieuxchevalier]

It was DuQuay's turn to look astonished for a moment, schooling her face into a mask of indifference.

"Despondent? I think you mean guilty and remorseful, General Lasalle. Jeannot was corresponding with a former mistress - I assumed he had tired of me and wanted something new; or he was reconsidering our upcoming wedding." Duquay rubbed absently at the mostly-healed wound left by the Void - the black substance gone, but the cold burn of the injury remaining.

"Tochter - General Lasalle is correct... you should not resign, not at a time like this - you are not in control of your emotions at the time; remember, there is no CSP now to harm either you or myself - I doubt Hentz or any of his cronies will wish to show up to censure or arrest you - this is between comrades in arms. Did you not tell me you, as Delacroix, were present with most of these men and the General himself in several cavalry charges?" Houchard asked gently, resting his large hand on her shoulder.

"Certe, and these men shall not follow another, not even General de Donop, who has tried time and time again to bring the 3eme back under his command... and I cannot see a better commander for our cuirassiers than you, regardless of whether or not Delacroix returns. I am certain that General Kleber is merely.... experiencing cold feet. He will come around." Grandjean murmured, adding to the general consensus that DuQuay remain in command.

"We'll drill, and perhaps some time spent repairing our tack, and perhaps less wine - will work wonders."

The troopers groaned, but they knew it to be true - they had been remiss in following orders, in behaving as Cuirassiers should - and knew they'd catch hell from General d'Hautpoul and General Nansouty, among others, once they returned to base camp.

There was a squeal of protest from Caporal as he flattened what was left of his ears at Kugel, and sidestepped, waving a warning hoof. There was definitely no pleasantries to be had between the two stallions, and DuQuay looked at her horse, and then at Kugel. "Boys... enough." she chided Caporal gently, going over to guide him away from the other horse, shaking her finger at Kugel. "And you, sir, behave. Bad pony."

She looked at Fontaine, and his horse, who seemed to be rolling his eyes, and tried to stifle a wan smile. "Christ, it's Great Value Nansouty. Captiaine Fontaine - do your farts squeak?"

Chef d'Escadron Demongin rode up on his plodding half-draft, the mustache on the horse waxed into a perfect curl, and DuQuay looked once, twice and then burst into raucous laughter, not able to control it at the ridiculous sight. "Well, it's summer, so he can have that, but tell me, Demongin, do you shave it off in the winter as per regulations?"

Demongin raised the only eyebrow that worked, and shook his head with a wry grin, showing a set of irregular teeth. "Madame le Colonel, I do... I actually do. Shall I have Desjardins give the call for botte-selle?"

"Make it so, Demongin... General Lasalle, if you would be so kind as to lead us the hell out of here, we'll be out of your hair and your domain in a thrice."

Houchard helped DuQuay into the saddle, and mounted up himself, settling his lanky frame onto his mount with a grunt, the liver chestnut Dutch stallion with a silver mane and tail, a thin blaze of white down his nose, four white socks. He looked at DuQuay, who nodded, and after the last note of A cheval rang in the air, he gave the order for the men to form in ranks. "Cavalerie - Formez en Rang!"

[thehussargeneral]

Kugel immediately and violently moves to bite at the conveniently snack-shaped finger, but Lasalle gets there first, having grabbed a riding crop from someone and popping him on the nose with it with an "Enough, damn it!".

Kugel recoils and freezes, thinking about something even if it is not something productive, and Lasalle mounts once he calms and lowers his head. His eyes soften and ears relax a little whenever he glances back at his rider, but then upon spotting Caporal again tenses up once more.

What has he ever done to you, hm? Is it because he has no ears to pin back at you?

Then Lasalle turns to look at DuQuay, a little more serious but still amused.

Rule one: Don't hold up things that look edible unless you want them eaten.

Meanwhile, Fontaine only returns a confused stare at DuQuay's comment, mounting his solid dark bay and positioning himself a small distance behind the group as usual. His aids are barely perceptible, an untrained eye unable to be blamed for thinking that the pair operate purely on thoughts and vibes. Well, the horse is likely sensitive enough, but Fontaine is too illegible.

Right, anyone else at risk of equine murder? No? Good.

He draws his sword, still the strange dragoon one that warded off the Entity's creatures, raising it above his head in signal to those behind and beginning to walk, though Kugel now utterly refuses to stay in line with Caporal, insisting on being slightly ahead.

This time the fog will have some consideration for them, not plunging them into the more violent of the battlefields, though they must still avoid some rogue cannonfire, and after some time of that they emerge in a familiar place: Strasbourg once again, though this time it looks different.

The street is lined with stalls peddling all sorts of things small and large, largely devoted to the theme of Christmas: food, mulled wine, gifts, and so on, candles, lanterns and light coming from windows dimly illuminating everything against the pitch black of the night.

And there is snow, the horse hooves' crunching in it where it is fresh, turning to a sloshing noise where it has already been walked all over.

Even in total darkness Lasalle still recognises the landmarks that defined much of his childhood, touching his hat to the sentries at the gate of the garrison, their uniforms that of the Alsace Foreign Infantry; it should be mentioned that this version of Strasbourg is seemingly permanently in the state it was in at the time of the General's residence there.

Well, no one warned me to bring winter clothes for the middle of June.

[levieuxchevalier]

She laughs at Kugel's antics, shaking her head.

"Ah a REAL warhorse he is. Caporal is no less snippy, but the frostbite he had as a foal left him without an effective means of communication, ear-wise, but if you pay attention, you can still see he's calling your mount every name in the equine book of swears."

True to her words, the bay with the white star on his forehead and cropped ears had them pinned, the whites of his eyes showing, his nose squared, nostrils pinched, his neck arched and his body posture tense. The two stallions did not like each other at ALL.

DuQuay watches Fontaine and his mount, and catching his eye, gives him a nod of approval. She herself has mounted from the off-side, and sits nearly still on her 16.3 hh Appendix QH, the horse dancing from side to side, bobbing his head, her hands not even moving. She sits deep into the saddle, and as they ride, she keeps her horse behind Kugel, even though she knows that Caporal prefers to lead.

"Be glad it isn't my living world mount, General Lasalle - he and your stallion would have words as to who's in the lead. He's a chestnut, enough said."

As they ride into Strasbourg, DuQuay's eyes go wide, and she pauses for a moment, taking in the sights.

"My god... what the hell? At least it's not cold, at least for someone of my ancestry, General."

Looking around, seeing the people and stalls, she catches glimpse of of a tall, burly man, dressed in fine clothing, a woman on his arm, his wig perfectly coiffed, yet no sideburns - the eyebrows and build give him away instantly, and she pales.

"Jean-Baptiste..." She stiffens in the saddle, and looks at General Lasalle, her eyes wide.

"What year has the void thrown us into? Can't be more than 1785.. given what... what he's wearing... and the lack of sideburns... can these shades see us?" she asks.

[thehussargeneral]

Kugel has calmed down somewhat after being allowed to lead, but that hardly means that he is calm; he is only slightly less tense, and still tries to reach out to kick or bite occasionally, though Lasalle firmly corrects him each time.

Yes, he understands the war and fighting part quite well. I am sure you can see, though, hardly a parade mount. I have calmer horses for that. I hear Fontaine trained his own horse; I am curious whether or not it is true, considering how well-behaved it is.

But my Kugel... When he has words, it usually involves teeth and hooves.

Captain Fontaine acknowledges DuQuay with a quick salute with his sword. He did notice the strange manner of mounting, and the fact her horse seems rather particular just like his own, however he does not question his betters. Not after many, many lessons on the subject. Fontaine's horse, a very dark solid bay often mistaken for black, is a strongly-built creature, its frame enhanced by fit muscling and meticulous care. It is certainly a fine horse for a mere captain to own, moving proudly under its rider, focus split between Fontaine's directions and alertness of the surroundings.

As they pass through Strasbourg, Lasalle contemplates the questions put to him before answering.

Yes, I do forget that time is liable to meddling here. Cold, no, but a cloak would not go amiss in case it begins snowing.

When? Mm... I first arrived in Strasbourg in 1786, and I stayed until 1791. We will be somewhere in that range, since this particular realm is based on my childhood. One can also go to Nancy, but that contains a few different periods of time, and knowing just which one has entered can be rather confusing.

He raises an eyebrow suspiciously at DuQuay's reaction to seeing something.

Are you alright, Madame?

But no, they cannot see us here. This version of Strasbourg is static; they go about their lives as if we were not here, and they cannot be interfered with in return. It is simply a still place one can pass through or rest in safely. There are other versions where it is not so, but this is not one of them.

Oh. You can, however...

Lasalle trots off briefly towards one of the stalls surrounding them, returning promptly with a tankard of steaming mulled wine, emptying it, then dropping the empty vessel, watching it simply disappear as it falls.

Now that is nice stuff. You and your mount can be served food and drink here, but that is the only acknowledgement you will receive.

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard paused for a moment, considering Lasalle's words. He looked at Grandjean, who was nodding his head emphatically, looking hang-dog guilty.

Houchard ran a shaking hand through his hair, and replied in his horrific jargon of half-German, half-French, all Lorrain.

"Ah... General Lasalle.... my apologies....you are correct, I forgot myself in my worry to reach my daughter.... she is headstrong, as all cavalry are, you know? I wish to know how bad she is.. .and I am sure you will be angry with her as well for her impulsive decision; but I beg you, General, to go easy on her; she is, after all, still my little girl, even if she also contains two past lives in her that were most definitely not female."

Houchard allowed Grandjean to lead him away, his limping gait making it a slower affair than it would have been had he been a younger man; in his worry for DuQuay, Houchard looked aged even older than his 55 years.

"General, I really wish you'd stayed at home, sir. I can handle this..."

"Ach, ja, you handledt it vell, so vell, in fact, dat my girl's hurt now... how bad is it?"

Grandjean winced at Houchard's sharp tone, and replied verrrrryyy carefully...

"Uh... well... um... not as bad as General Kellermann junior but..."

"....but?"

Grandjean nodded to the two cuirassiers playing euchre in front of the tent as they stood, cards falling off their laps, and saluted General Houchard.

Inside the tent, DuQuay slept, the borrowed shirt billowed, except for where it was stuck to the bandage across her chest, which was itself stained dark. She tossed and turned, caught in a nightmare brought on by the black substance.

Houchard staggered, a string of religious curses falling from his lips, and one of the cuirassiers hurried to get him a chair and a strong drink.

"Himmeldonnerwetter... my girl... that does NOT look mild, Colonel!"

Houchard's hand trembled as he brought the glass of schnapps to his lips, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"What is that substance?"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

DuQuay.. no... Delacroix.. found themselves in the blinding blizzard again. He lamented the cuirass; though it protected him from the majority of the cold air, it also had frozen to him, and the bearskin rug he had found was now torn into strips, wrapped around his boots. He couldn't feel his feet, or his hands, his mustache embellished with icicles made of his mucus and his breath, the hoar-frost on his unshaven face aging him. What ever clothing he could find, he wore in layers, the heat causing the lice to bite, the eternal itching maddening. His horse stumbled, and he lurched forward in the saddle, the stirrups long discarded; his boots no longer fit in them. He raised his good arm, broken spear in hand and slapped at an infantryman who had tried to make a cut in his horse's neck to suck the blood out while still riding, the piece of leather in his mouth flapping; it was disgusting, the leather, but the salt from it and the meager protein in it gave him enough energy to continue; until the next encampment. He had tried to get thatch off of the roof of a burning house for his horse before it had gone up completely, the men preferring the scorching heat of the flames to the shelter itself. He swore he'd seen them roasting a leg of some sort, not sure that it was the deer or animal they claimed it was; he had not bothered to check. The bodies were stacked like cordwood as wind-breaks, stripped of every available scrap of fabric. The wind, the incessant, blowing wind, the blinding snow that felt like needles of glass driven into his face; and when the sun would come out in rare moments, the snow-blindness was not worth the meager warmth it gave.

The cold... the cold seemed to penetrate his very being, right to his heart. The fear, the worry, the terror - the cossacks at first like hordes. When Delacroix looked at them next, his eyes widened in fear; these had no faces, black as the depths of hell, relentlessly attacking, a never ending wave of darkness. The snow billowed and blew, reducing his visibility to the frozen tips of his horse's ears, making the appearance and disappearance of the faceless horde all that more terrifying. Delacroix struck left and right, gripping with frozen thighs to the mount he rode, who slipped and skid on the surface, the ice calks in their shoes only providing minimal traction.

Outside of this fever-dream, in the tent, DuQuay groaned, flailing, her breath coming in odd foggy puffs of air, the black stain spreading on her chest.

Houchard rested a trembling hand on his daughter's forehead and exclaimed at the chill he felt. Why was she... freezing?

"Grandjean - fetch blankets! She is like ice!"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

Delacroix gasps in pain, falling from his horse, the darkness following him down, down, down... down... no impact on the snow, just perpetual falling into a black pit of despair, his cuirass melting away, his old wounds opening up, a roaring in his ears and the pain of utter despair and desolation. He tries to grab at the lance, but it burns him, and he hisses in pain. He grips it harder, gritting his teeth, and tries to pull it out or crawl up it. "Be done with me, then! I'm already dead, you foul thing!"

"̸̖͒B̸͚͌́̕ͅǘ̶̦͒͝t̸̖͔͆ ̷̣́̑̇ÿ̷̡̡͎o̴̱͛ù̷͖̳͓̏r̶̲̩̃̅ ̴̧̹̓̈́h̷̝̱̀͒ͅo̵̰̲͑͝s̵̭̹̔̐t̶̨̨̄ ̵̭̮́̈́͜į̴̛̦̎͗s̷̛̼̍̈́ ̶͙̐̚ǹ̶̙̝̀ȏ̸̳͍̭́͘t̸̻̔͛!̷͉̠̄̽͝ͅ ̴̗̈̕͝I̴͊͝͝ͅͅs̶͖̱̼̊͗ ̴̻̼̿͜t̴̡̞̱͑̾h̸͎̆̑a̴̢̜̮͂̋ṱ̴̳̀ ̴̡͌w̶̻̌̚ḩ̴̛͇͌̊a̴̳̅͗ͅt̵̢͓̀ ̶̖̔̒y̶̗̹͉̚o̵̙̠̎u̸̪͌̈́͝ͅ ̴̰̠͘w̷̤͕͎̐i̴̪̓̿͝s̵̙̓̎͋h̶͖̅̄?̴̯͖̈́ ̶͈͂̂H̷̫͇̎͊m̸̦̅m̷͚̝͊̓m̸̤̞͑?̸̳̠̂ ̷͓͋F̷͉́ọ̵̯̖͊̿̅r̷͓̓̄ ̸̟̈́͋Ḩ̶̱͚̒͊E̶̬̍͝R̷͔̽̑͘ ̸͈̓́͂ţ̴̾́ó̵̘͘ ̷̲̝͌̏d̴͓̔í̷͙̖̂͝e̷̱̒̈́͗ ̴̰̥̳͒̒ȁ̵̧̳s̷͇̖̠͝ ̴̞̓̉w̵̘̰͠͠e̴̢̦̎l̴̺̤͗l̶̺͚̅?̴͇̯̈͝ ̷͈̟͖̃͛͝S̷̡̘͠͝u̷͍̞͐̃͊ͅc̴̭̅͠h̶̦̀͝.̵͚̔̄͜.̴̨̈́̄.̷̖͓̬́̕ ̶̲̟̻̈́ḋ̴̯͕͇̈́̀e̷̬͚̓͝͝l̶͓̣̖̍͌͘ï̴̥̹͉ć̷̼͉͝i̴̖͘o̶̮͠u̵͇̪͈̓̐s̵̛̹͗͝ ̴̞̗̣͂̅e̵̘̻̭̎n̷̠͓͉͗ē̴̡̖r̸̩͐͋͜g̴̘̊ͅy̶̬̯͎̾͘.̸̺̖͛.̷͎̣̙̈́̌.̴̛̭.̸̥̗͋ ̶̐͜s̷̮͗̿͜o̴̡̝͉͛͑ ̴̤̃̇̇ĥ̶̡̩ű̸̧͖̱͌͆n̷̙̺̈́̽g̶̘̑ȓ̶̖̰y̷̗̻̱͗͊̿.̷̟̘̃̐͐.̸͈̥̠̀.̷̰̱͇̌́̕ ̷͉́ŝ̸͉̯ô̴̫͖.̴̬͕̆̚.̴̧̂̔͌.̴̧̣̊̔͠ ̶͈̣̈́̾͘h̸̡͔́̈̅u̷̖͓̓̽ņ̴̧̲̈́̈͗ğ̶̯̳̂r̷̗̫͔͋y̵̱̍̉.̵̡͇̜̐͝.̸̡̫͆͆.̴̧͉̦̈́͝"̵̫͓̦̈́̓̓

DuQuay sits bolt upright, screaming, the black substance sticking to her hand through the bandage, Houchard immediately drawing her to him, holding her as Grandjean scurries in with more blankets.

"Silver... silver!" she manages to cough out.

Houchard looks down at his Saint-Louis medal, at the color of it, and makes a decision then and there. He rips it off of his uniform and presses it to the blackened wound, the black substance seething and boiling, turning into soot where the medal touches it, the rest retreating back, the medal sticking to the fabric outside the wound before it, too, dissipates.

"But your host is not! Is that what you wish? Hmmm? For HER to die as well? Such… delicious energy…. so hungry… so… hungry

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods briskly at DuPrel before turning back to his daughter.

"I need to know what this is, Adjutant... I can see by your uniform you are an Aide de Camp; so perhaps you might brief this old general on what this substance is and why it is affecting my daughter so. I need to know. I wish to bring her to my home to recuperate, where her husband might visit, and make his long-delayed amends for his caddish behavior."

Houchard was calm, his tone measured. No more the wild-eyed hussar of his youth, obviously, he understood the gravity of the situation at hand. He brushed back DuQuay's damp hair, with a look of tenderness and concern.

"... It... ate my medal. 'tis only a bauble come the revolution, to be sure, but it was of pure silver. If I had a hundred such medals I would readily sacrifice them again to see my girl restored to her health."

DuQuay's eyes were closed, and she was too weak to respond, but the nightmare - for now- was over. Houchard laid her back on the surgical cot and motioned for Grandjean to cover her with the blankets. He stood up, joints creaking, hunched over in the low tent and turned to DuPrel.

"Walk with me, Adjutant.... I find I am in need of a constitutional and a smoke; perhaps we may find your commander and Marshal Kellermann; I think it is time we discussed matters."

[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?

[levieuxchevalier]

(convo's in that Lorrain German from Houchard)

Houchard nodded, bending down to pick up a burning stick from one of the nearby cooking fires, lighting his pipe, the rich vanilla-cherrywood scent of American Burley curling around him in the blue smoke.

"Ach, ja... I did, perhaps. In my worry for my girl, I may have overstepped my boundaries. Ah but 'tis normal - we were generals long time before he was - you earlier than me by dint of your noble birth, Christophe; I'd have been content remaining a simple chef d'escadron, I didn't need much to be happy; with Catherine and my children; a retirement would have been sufficient for this old scarred body. But, France called and I had to answer; as I assume many of our men did as well. La Patrie en Danger.."

The two men continued along, walking until they found a place to sit, one of the cuirassiers of Delacroix's regiment dragging over a set of chairs under the shade of a tree, motioning for DesJardins to bring over a small camp table, two glasses and some more schnapps.

"Oh, thank you, trooper.. a place for two old men to rest their bones, share some schnapps and smoke in the shade is a good thing."

Houchard turned to Kellermann and sighed, his bushy eyebrows knitted together. He gestured with the hand that held his pipe, shrugging, brows going up and the only working side of his mouth giving a little downwards pout.

"My daughter - well, let us be frank, she is an adopted daughter, but a daughter none the less - she is headstrong. The two past lives within her do not help that one bit. Delacroix is somewhat more tractable, as he knows us and respects us.. most of the time. The other one... what is his name... Beaune... de Beaune.. he's a bit more... pompous, I would say. Brash, rude. Looks at us with starry eyes, yet always going on how he sacrificed himself and the regiment did to save France."

Houchard rolled his eyes at that, and spat on the ground.

"Zut, so many more have done that and more before him. He is nothing special. I may need to remind him, should he have the temerity to appear... the date of his own death arrives soon, and... that affliction which my girl suffers from at Waterloo is magnified; yet it only lasts a day instead of a damned fortnight. How bad off is your son, Christophe? My girl's got this.... black wound in her chest... it took my Saint-Louis medal. She was so cold... like she was freezing, muttering in her sleep about Cossacks... faceless hordes.. the blackness, the void... that substance ebbing and pulsing.. I saw it. Never seen anything like it... I think it would take a man smarter than I to understand what it was."

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

Retirement never quite managed to catch up to me, either... Well, at least the Senate was a marginally more peaceful existence than the army.

I think it is important for us old men to remember that those junior to us in years are still perfectly capable... 23 years of service in 34 years of life is nothing to scoff at, after all. If everyone blindly deferred to age, nothing would ever get done in any area of society.

Besides, someone like Lasalle is too viciously independent for that anyways... One cannot expect anything different from someone who joined the army at 11 years old.

Kellermann also sits down, his knees cracking as he does so.

Ach, children... You have it rather difficult, having three in the body of one. De Beaune may need some adjustment, perhaps he is simply trying to prove himself to people he respects. Mine... I never quite know what to do with him, I fear. I locked him in his apartments, and yet he got out anyways. He's in a very bad way now, can't stay awake for very long and seems to be in a lot of pain. At least they managed to get all of that substance off him, it looks painful...

[levieuxchevalier]

"Eleven? Gott in Himmel... that is entirely too young for a boy to... ach, I suppose it was for a reason? General Kleber, he was sent off to school at seven for the simple fact that he was such a gamin of the streets, running about in gangs and not learning anything that his step-father convinced his mother to send him away. Or so he tells us; one can never know if what he says is the truth or an exaggeration, you know."

Houchard reclined back in his chair and puffed on his pipe for a few moments, seeming to digest what his peer had said, his free hand tapping an old drum cadence on the armrest.

"So... a long service record in such a young one; and yes, perhaps I had been a bit too.. . ancien regime with him. I should rectify that, but my main concern is most definitely my girl -you say they got that substance off of your boy? She still has it on her, it seems to be from a deep wound; she is having nightmares, it seems. I do hope that young Adjutant who scurried off is bringing Lasalle here, I wish to know if there is a way to attract the rest of that substance out of her, so she can recover."

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard sucks on his pipe, and realizes it's gone out, and he sets it down on the side table, pouring Kellermann and he a last glass of the schnapps.

"Apologize? Ja, could do that. It does not speak well of a gentleman such as myself not to acknowledge when he's made a mistake; and the Lord knows I've made many... though Madame's suggestion of shooting Representative Hentz when he came to fetch me after Menin to arrest me would have been... rather harsh. I heard he's still looking for his other eye, you know... That REMf had the audacity to show up to my home, as I was with my wife and children, to make amends. He encountered Madame, and well.... "

Houchard shrugs, giving Kellermann a wink.

"They say hell hath no fury... and let me tell you... there are times I'm scared for General Kleber, if he ever pisses her off."

When DuPrel showed up, Houchard stood and tugged down his vest and sash, and picked up his plume-bedecked tricorne.

"My thanks, Adjutant, for your work in convincing your General to speak to me... Marechal Kellermann... it is good to catch up with an old friend. When this is all settled, do stop by with your son; I would like for him to meet my son, Jean-Nic - he became a man of letters after my death. A prouder father I could not be."

Houchard followed DuPrel to Lasalle's tent, thinking of how he could make amends to the younger General for overstepping his bounds.

Meanwhile, in the tent guarded by two troopers of the 3eme Cuirassiers, DuQuay groaned and sat up; rubbing her chest. It was near the anniversary of Woerth, and she knew that none of the surgeons would be able to fix what was going on with her. The entity's substance bubbled, burned, and she felt horrible that her father had sacrificed his Saint-Louis medal in an attempt to save her. She quietly slipped into her boots, grabbed a spare habit-veste, clapped on her mirloton, and snuck out of the back of the tent, keeping low and out of sight until she reached her horse, the crop-eared Caporal, saddling it up, leading it to a nearby rock and mounting up, going at the walk to the edge of the encampment, into the fog.

All right, you... whatever you are... it's time you and I had a little talk... and I will not rest until I get my goddamned answers...

[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...

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods, understanding, at Lasalle, his mouth working as it always does, that tremor never ceasing.

"I understand, General Lasalle... my concern is my daughter still has the substance on her person... you may not know - but she was having nightmares, and was cold as ice... she was mumbling about Cossacks, and when she rose up, that black tar was reaching out, like tendrils. She called for silver, and... the only thing I could think of was my Saint-Louis medal--it means nothing now, in this time; just a bauble I earned by these scars upon my body... it...it ATE the silver, General. How can I get this off of her, so I can bring her home to my house in Sarrebourg so she can continue to heal?"

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

Meanwhile, in the liminal space that DuQuay is occupying, she is having a helluva time keeping her mount from bolting, as the crop-eared bastard rears and whirls, his former life as a reining champion on full display. She clings like a monkey to his back, mirolton gone (again, dammit!), the horse groaning, trembling, rolling his eyes so that the whites were showing.

"Dammit! Caporal! Ho! HO!!"

The fog begins to shift, and the smell of iron, mud, gunpowder and death begins to become more prominent.... DuQuay's left arm goes numb, wooden, and with a gasp, the large Cuirassier colonel Adrien de Beaune finds himself in possession of his own body again, his bay frothing underneath him, surrounded by his 9th cuirassiers, as Woerth again comes into view.

"NO! NO!!! It's a TRAP! Soldats! A trap!! Wheel right! Wheel RIGHT!"

Puffs of smoke waft out from windows, the rattle of gun carriages and shouted Prussian orders, garbled among the screams of both horse and man. They are trapped, again. The 9th Cuirassiers, the pride of France.... about to sacrifice themselves again on the Altar of the Empire; the Goddess of War a bloodthirsty bitch....

[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.̴̋ͅ.̸̣́.̶̟̾

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard settles into the chair opposite Lasalle's little campaign desk and sighs, running his hand over his face.

"She was under the guard of a pair of 3eme Cuirassiers.. I found myself in need of some air.."

When the elder Kellermann bursts in with the news, Houchard stands up, nearly upending the tent with his great height and consternation.

"HIMMELHERRGOTT WHAT?"

Houchard roars, his face terrific in his rage.

"I'll give those two lâches something to think about!!"

The three men go over to the tent that once held DuQuay, where Grosjean is already berating the two troopers in his strong Lorrain german, absolutely laying into them, his mustache flecked with foam, his sabre drawn, striking them alternatively with the flat of it.

"I'll flay yer goddamned cuirasses off and then yer thrice-damned sorry hides! How did you miss her? Dereliction of duty! I'll have you mucking out the stables with your fucking TEASPOONS you sorry sacks of shit in tin cans! Regarde-moi dans les yeux quand je te parle ! Qu'est-ce que tu glandes, espèce de lavette ?! Espèce de bougre de petit salopard!"

"Sir! Sir! OW! SIR! She... she... she didn't go out the front! She... the back flap was open, sir! OW OW!! OW!!"

Houchard turned to Lasalle, worry warring with exasperation on his features.

"My daughter is headstrong, and protective.... she more than likely rode off to get answers... I... I want to charge in there and bring her back by her damned stubborn queue... However, I am not a stupid man, whatever the CSP said about me... you know this... this void better than any of us, General. Je vous en prie, bring her back... I'll handle these two, before Grandjean turns them into paté... just... be careful."

_________________________--

In Woerth, de Beaune tries valiantly to get his men to listen, to see him, but he is helpless; his heart is in his throat, and he weeps.

"No... no.... we.... we.... this sacrifice.... it saved the French Army.... allowed them to retreat while we bled... while we all died... and still, the battle was lost... WHAT WAS OUR SACRIFICE FOR? WHAT DID I BLEED AND DIE FOR? NO!! NO!!! WE DIED FOR FRANCE! NOT FOR KINGS, NOT FOR EMPERORS!! THIS WAS OUR LOYALTY, TO DIE FOR OUR COUNTRY!!!"

[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!

[levieuxchevalier]

Grandjean pants, arm exhausted, and salutes Lasalle

"These bastards are the 3rd's boys... her own regiment. Well, er... Delacroix's regiment.... I ordered them... sir. I'll handle them. Go find her, please... "

Houchard glares at the two troopers, who cringe, knowing that the old man was by far the scarier of DuQuay's guardians, and the look Marshal Kellermann was giving them was no less severe.

-------------------- WOERTH--------------

De Beaune, overcome, roars with furious grief, drawing his sabre and slashing left and right to no avail. He spots a white flash and turns his bloodshot eyes in the direction, and his mouth falls open as he sees a legend from the era before him. General Lasalle. He swipes across his eyes with his right gloved hand, and turns his horse, rotating his upper body and shifting in his saddle, using his leg pressure to turn his mount.

"GENERAL LASALLE??? THE GENERAL??"

The entity is Not Having That, and surges forward, trying to block De Beaune from reaching Lasalle, and nearly knocks him out of the saddle, now the canister shot hammering at him, punching through his armor, melting it, the sucking wound on his chest pulsing and bubbling, the black ichor beginning to trail outwards like a tattered banner.

*Agh, fuck... FUCK... Adrien, can you hear me? Go! GO! Before you get us BOTH killed... follow General Lasalle!*

De Beaune gasps, pitching forward, his head aching, his body aching. That voice again, female. Hadn't he seen her... yes... the woman in the uniform.. his... counterpart. He trusted her... and he spurred his horse towards Lasalle with a shout, his sabre now a melted mass, only the hilt left. One of the void creatures surged forward, and De Beaune heard the woman's voice again.

*HIT IT IN THE FACE WITH THAT HILT! BRASS KNUCKLES, ADRIEN!! PUNCH IT!*

What an ODD thing to do... de Beaune followed the orders, though, and struck out, temporarily stunning the creature long enough to reach Lasalle, De Beaune beginning to slowly fall apart, the helmet gone, the cuirass hanging off and eventually falling to the ground, his bay's ears shortening, the last tendrils of the sucking chest wound leaving as de Beaune turned back into DuQuay.

"Yell at me later... get me out of here... I wanted to... Look, I'll tell you when we're safe..." DuQuay panted, her mirolton gone (again!), her hair nearly white now, with a few silver streaks; all her auburn hair had changed. "Can't even morph into Delacroix.. and I think I lost De Beaune just now too.... "

[thehussargeneral]

As De Beaune punches the creature with his hilt, Lasalle shoots at it, the thing disintegrating behind the cuirassier before it can recover. When De-Beaune-turned-DuQuay finally reaches his position, he stares her up and down before being reminded of their precarious situation by having to shoot down yet another creature with the last of his loaded pistols. Right, time to get out.

I damn well will, on both counts!

Now move and keep the fuck up!

Caporal may be fast, but Lasalle's strange little Arabian mare is just a little faster, still seemingly unfatigued from the run here. She takes a few steps at a walk, then shoots into a canter, winding back through the maze of streets that had led Lasalle to this place, the man looking back on occasion to make sure that DuQuay is actually keeping up.

The roar of battle gets quieter and duller, until eventually they are free of the town, and Lasalle's horse breaks into a flat-out gallop into the silence of the fog, almost painful now in contrast to the noise of Woerth, his ears still ringing.

It takes what seems to be an eternity of galloping, the mare not faltering once, but at last they enter something. Lasalle pulls her up into a walk, wiping the remnants of the liquid from his sword before returning it to its scabbard and continuing the walk through the streets of Strasbourg. It is populated, but the people go on with their days seemingly without noticing their presence, and no one says anything as he stops by a water trough and dismounts. It can be a bit strange, really, seeing people he once knew apparently unable to even see him.

He pays DuQuay little attention besides ordering her to do the same and let her horse drink, his focus on his mount and on observing the residents as if from behind glass. He does not want to yell at her yet, though his eyes and expression are already hard, and in his anger the primary way to prevent that is to simply ignore her.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay slides off of Caporal, panting, not able to meet Lasalle's hard expression at the moment. She knows what she did was both foolish and dangerous... but... the sucking chest wound is gone. She can faintly feel Delacroix and DeBeaune, the pulse of their souls alongside the hammering of her own heart, yet they are faint, as if in a slumber or a suspension.

She doesn't say a word, yet checks her tack and her horse, almost on autopilot. She is exhausted, and when she sees her face in the reflection of the window, she gasps.

"My hair... oh god... I look... " she murmured, carding through it with shaking fingers.

"I know this place... Strasbourg.. .Kleber's home... gods, I miss him... "

A single tear worked it's way down her cheek before she buried her face in Caporal's neck, shoulders shaking as she let her emotions run while the horses drank.

Pulling up, she swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her pelisse, reached into her pistol-holster and pulled out a small flask and a handkerchief. She blew her nose and then uncorked the flask, the strong scent of kirsch floating in the air as she drank half the bottle, holding it out then to Lasalle with red-tinged embarrassment on her cheeks.

"Je vous remercie, General, pour me sauver."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens to her speak while continuing to pay attention to his horse, also instinctively checking the body and the tack, not looking up when she mentions Strasbourg but replying.

So it is. It was my home for a while, too, when I was young. Sometimes my younger self wanders these streets, too, not that he would recognise most of those I know now, and not that anyone would likely recognise him either.

It is one of the few safer places in this domain.

His voice was a little softer as he spoke about the town, but it hardens again and Lasalle rolls his eyes as she cries into Caporal's neck.

Don't get worked up yet, we still have a while to go, and most of the places we will pass now are ones that require a clear mind. I say you have had quite enough clouded judgement already today, have you not?

And as he takes the flask and drinks a little from it, certainly not the amount one would expect from Lasalle, he gives her a stare clearly learnt in the non-commissioned ranks.

Ne pensez pas que cela soit sans conséquence. Venez.

True to his word, the next few spaces they pass through are not the emptiness of before. They are battlefields, often directly through the middle: the Pyramids, Rivoli, Golymin, an interlude through the slippery streets of rainy Salamanca conducted at a gallop nonetheless. Then comes Medellin, and at last Torquemada, or at least what remains of it. While most of these places are hostile, at the very least they do not target them, and their primary task is therefore simply to evade being shot or charged over.

[levieuxchevalier]

She tries not to look amazed as they go through the battlefields - some she remembers as Delacroix, others she had only dreamed of - seeing the Pyramids was her dream, but it was not wise to stop - she thought she saw Kleber there, in a fleeting glimpse of one of the desert scenes, but she knew it only to be the void replaying, like an old film.

She understood the consequences of her actions, and wondered if it would be Lasalle or Houchard to deliver them, and if she'd be allowed to explain first, why she had gone out in the first place.

It was not a clouded judgement, but a curiosity - know thy enemy - would he understand? She was bone tired, the wound free of the black substance, Delacroix and De Beaune nothing but murmurs in her mind, in her soul - she was worried she'd never see those aspects of herself again.

They began to approach the edge of a pine forest as they went through Rivoli, DuQuay seeing Massena atop Sultan, or what appeared to be Massena - with both his eyes. That was... disturbing. Massena had an eagle's gaze, quite literally - his farsightedness was legendary... probably why he hated to read - couldn't see the words, probably.

"Is this the edge of the... are we nearly home?" she wondered, sticking close to Lasalle, head bent over her horse's neck.

[thehussargeneral]

Indeed they are, and as they ride back into camp Lasalle's first question is nothing to do with DuQuay, but rather the present state of General Kellermann. Only upon being reassured that he is fast asleep does his attention switch back to the wayward rider he has brought back with him.

You have five minutes to think of how to defend yourself. Then we will see if it holds up. I will also expect you to defend the incompetence and negligence of your men.

And with that, he walks back to his tent, finding Houchard and the others still there. Du Prel is told to time five minutes, and Lasalle turns to the others as he replaces the sword he took to the void with the usual one.

She is to defend herself, I do not expect nor will I consider any excuses any of you have to make for her. If this will be a problem, I suggest you find alternative preoccupations for a while.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay dismounts, shaking, caught by Grandjean, who is trying NOT to explode at his comrade and friend, the two 3eme Cuirassiers trembling, wringing their forage caps.

Houchard, however, wastes no time, stalking forward and grabbing his "daughter" by her ear and dragging her off, giving DuPrel a look that says "you will allow me to chew her out first before you start timing ANYTHING"

"Ow ow ow ow ow! Papa! OW!" DuQuay squawks as she's dragged off, heels trying for purchase, spurs furrowing the ground.

"I do not care dat you are fifty, ja? You are damned well old enough to know better den to ride off like dat - sneaking past your men, embarrassing me and your entire regiment with dis foolishness! Explain dis breach of conduct to me, now - I am far less lenient than I tink Gen'ral Lasalle be! Vere is Delacroix in you, hunh? He put you up to dis? De Beaune put you up to dis? Vere are doze manner you claim vere inside you as past lifes? I chew dem out too!" Houchard was towering in his anger- more fear at losing her than true fury. The fury of a father who scolds his child for running out naked into the street as a toddler, who has to be frightening to get a point across.

"I...I... I wanted to know WHY it was doing this.. .why it was hurting men, tormenting my friends, going after Lasalle - I wanted to see WHAT it was... for real... where it came from... it would not answer me."

"Ov COURSE it not ansver you! You tink you can use dat kopf of yours, to siko-psyko-- ah... vat is de vord - CHARM it into tellings you? Get into it's headt and den komm to paix und verstanding? Wrap it all up in pretty bowz und gib it to Lasalle like prresent? Become heroine? Sauvez tous de cet' ombre? Haf you gone touched in de headt? Dis ting - is General Lasalle's to deal mit! You do not interfere! His land, his law, HIS problem! Verstand mich? Hmm? Now, you in big trouble, missy - gotta explain to Lasalle vy you do stupid ting like dis! Gib me heart crisis you did! Scare Gen'ral - Marshal Kellermann! If Kleber know, he put you over knee - I should put you over my knee! Paddle you good! Now, clean up, and you musst take responsibilite for all dis kerfluffle! Marsch! Hop! Hop!"

Houchard WAS livid - his Lorrain accent got thicker and thicker, and Grandjean winced - he'd heard THAT before.

"Old Hatchetface really giving her the goods, DuPrel. Might have to wait a few minutes for her to reattach her arse before Lasalle can chew it off again."

[thehussargeneral]

Du Prel nods, looking back at his pocket watch to try ten minutes instead.

Du Prel: I might suggest, Sir, that those two of your men keep themselves more out of sight.

Lasalle waits until Houchard is done, finally lighting his pipe again as he does so, though he is still clearly very displeased and ready to chew her out again at any stupid excuse.

And when Du Prel's count has finished, he sits up in his chair and exhales. He does like DuQuay, and doesn't particularly want to be doing this, but it is necessary.

What have you to say for yourself?

And perhaps more pertinently, what would you do with you in my position?

[levieuxchevalier]

"Oh... do not worry, DuPrel - I'll have 'em polishing d'Hautpoul's new bottes-fortes - and mine - for their punishment." Grandjean nods, the two cuirassiers groaning.

DuQuay comes out of the tent looking thoroughly chagrined, Houchard behind her, his mouth working in agitation, as it always does, his arms folded across his chest, boot tapping on the dusty ground.

"You ver asked a qvuestion, tochter. I suggest you answer."

DuQuay swallowed hard, looked down at the ground and then, with a deep sigh, raised her head up to meet Lasalle's steady gaze, her face steady, no emotion showing.

"If I tell you I was trying to find out what it wanted... it would matter not - because it did not answer me, and only tormented me further. I should have listened to you in the first place - no living person should go into that fog. I was doing my duty to save General Kellermann at first, as I had charged alongside him at Waterloo. I felt obligated to follow him, as Delacroix. I did not - or rather - thought that the Void would leave me be; that my past life would distract it - it did not - it drew on my life force, and that of my prior lives. It is hungry - and my men suffered for it. I went back to confront it, to do my penance for my mistakes, and made a larger mistake, putting you all at risk. Had I been in your place, General Lasalle - and it was you...I'd have busted you down a rank - yet I hold no rank. I no longer have the ability to shift into either Delacroix or De Beaune. I'd have you polish and repair the tack of the entire regiment, or at least a good portion of it, and bar you from riding with the regiment for a period of time. It would only be fair. I shall retire to Chaillot, and you please send any broken or dirty tack there, and I shall do my best to repair it and send it back in better condition. I shall be responsible for my men, and only my men."

DuQuay then fell silent, standing straight and tall (as she could, that is) - and awaited Lasalle's verdict.

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle considers this response with little visible emotion, and perhaps waits to reply for a little longer than necessary, mostly for effect.

In '04 you may remember that I caused a commotion at the prefect of Agen's ball. For this I was placed under arrest for thirty days, while the prefect was dismissed from his post. I am quite sure he did not find the decision fair, but since I never heard anything of the man again I can assume that he took it with some sort of grace. The Emperor has no need to justify his decisions to others, but he certainly has reasons.

Just as you were to remain here after you returned for good reason. Yet you know my reasons, and were still insubordinate, reckless and rather stupid for a normally smart woman like yourself. You also did your men a disservice by placing them in a situation in which they must be negligent or fear conflict of interest, for they are guarding their own Colonel and must decide whose orders to follow.

Since you say you shall be responsible for them, I will tell you that the correct answer was mine, therefore they have been negligent in a manner entirely incompatible with their duty, themselves have been insubordinate as well, and I question just who has allowed the several smaller slip ups that usually lead to such failures. Tell me, who am I to deem responsible: yourself, as Colonel, your subalterns, or your non-commissioned officers?

If you have not forgotten yourself entirely, then you know which answer is correct, and I hope that I do not need to make you state it like a child. Did Delacroix not spend enough time in the light cavalry to know that such blunders and negligence are what wastes men on campaign and loses battles that did not need to be lost?

His voice is largely cold and unattached, but at the last sentence it sharpens and raises, almost as if the thought comes dangerously close to something personal.

It is something I expect any soldier to understand, but you in particular! I understood by the time I was twelve, it is no great mystery!

Truthfully, I am not satisifed with your explanation, but that is likely because there is no satisfactory answer for such conduct. I likely also will not be satisfied by anything you have to say to me regarding your men, but nonetheless I will demand that you explain to me how such negligence and derelict of duty was permitted to happen, and what you will do to prevent it from happening again, if only so that it is forced to remain in your mind for a time, and because I asked for it in the first place and you failed to answer.

In some ways, Lasalle has taken remarkably after the older Kellermann when it comes to lectures and reprimands, but in others he takes after the Alsatians who raised him, likely with much of the same methods. But the primary difference is that Lasalle is not a physically violent man, rather preferring to force his victims to explain their failures in detail.

The intent is, of course, to force one to reflect on it to prevent it in the future, but it also happens to be embarrassing at times.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay stands there and listens to the tirade, well, half-listens because she knows where this is going - in her living world, she had experienced this time and time again - it was a catch-22 - and no answer would satisfy Lasalle - just like a rather famous - or infamous - drill sergeant in the Marines - or at least in the film he had been hired to consult on and then became the star. Full Metal Jacket, hussar style, she thought to herself.

She swallowed hard, trying to rein in her sarcasm, and kept her voice even when she replied.

"General Lasalle, since no answer I can give you will satisfy you, I shall take my men and my regiments, and leave your presence post-haste. Marechal Kellermann - Monsieur le Duc - I am wholly certain that nothing I will say to your son, whom I followed to my death in 1815 and nearly just did again - will be as succinct or... tadelsüchtig as that of either you or General Lasalle. Know that I did my duty, and I alone am responsible for my men's conduct or lack of - I was remiss in keeping the discipline tight as I did back in 1815. That fault falls fully on my shoulders. Grandjean - as Colonel of the 2nd Cuirassiers, I tender my resignation to you, and give you command of the 3rd as well - to do as you see fit. I will be retiring to Chaillot to ride no more I am unfit to be the commander of the 3eme Cuirassiers and therefore shall be no longer."

Grandjean sputtered, Houchard made a funny little noise in his throat and looked at Lasalle and Marshal Kellermann, his eyes wide and wild.

"Tochter, you cannot.." Houchard whispered, his hand on her shoulder.

"Vater, ich musst. Ich habe meine Pflicht mir selbst, Frankreich und meinen Leuten gegenüber vernachlässigt. Ich kann im guten Glauben nicht länger ihr Kommandant sein. Mein letzter Befehl soll sein: 'Botte-Selle, Jungs, es ist Zeit nach Hause zu gehen.'

("Father, I must. I have neglected my duty to myself, to France, and to my people. I can no longer be their commander in good conscience. My final order shall be: 'Botte-Selle, boys, it's time to go home.')

DuQuay shrank into herself then, just deflating, before she wiped her eyes, straightened up and saluted Lasalle and Kellermann, eyes shining. "Gentlemen, it's been an honour to ride with you. If you would point me in the direction of home...."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens with little more than a raised eyebrow at the suggestion of resignation, then stands. He takes a glass from one of the side tables, fills it with brandy, but sets it in front of DuQuay rather than drinking it himself.

I would also strongly suggest that you reconsider, but for now, that is for you. It is a serious failing indeed, but would you rather be remembered as the one who resigned in disgrace, or one who took a lesson from it and persevered? The advantage of the Afterlife is that there is no pressuring government or CSP to make the latter impossible.

By the way, General Kléber has been despondent since you first left, did you know that?

At some point, Du Prel had already vanished unnoticed to have the horses brought over. When he returns, he whispers something into Lasalle's ear that makes him chuckle.

What, because he's ever a bastion of calm? He'll be fine.

Outside, both Kugel and DuQuay's mount wait, though Kugel appears to have taken a spontaneous dislike to the other horse and keeps his ears back but not quite pinned in protest. Captain Fontaine, meanwhile, has a perfect mirror in the horse that stands waiting next to him, the animal alert and observant at all times much like its owner.

Now, I don't suppose you have anything to say to our wayward General Kellermann before we go? I doubt he will remember much of it, however.

[levieuxchevalier]

It was DuQuay's turn to look astonished for a moment, schooling her face into a mask of indifference.

"Despondent? I think you mean guilty and remorseful, General Lasalle. Jeannot was corresponding with a former mistress - I assumed he had tired of me and wanted something new; or he was reconsidering our upcoming wedding." Duquay rubbed absently at the mostly-healed wound left by the Void - the black substance gone, but the cold burn of the injury remaining.

"Tochter - General Lasalle is correct... you should not resign, not at a time like this - you are not in control of your emotions at the time; remember, there is no CSP now to harm either you or myself - I doubt Hentz or any of his cronies will wish to show up to censure or arrest you - this is between comrades in arms. Did you not tell me you, as Delacroix, were present with most of these men and the General himself in several cavalry charges?" Houchard asked gently, resting his large hand on her shoulder.

"Certe, and these men shall not follow another, not even General de Donop, who has tried time and time again to bring the 3eme back under his command... and I cannot see a better commander for our cuirassiers than you, regardless of whether or not Delacroix returns. I am certain that General Kleber is merely.... experiencing cold feet. He will come around." Grandjean murmured, adding to the general consensus that DuQuay remain in command.

"We'll drill, and perhaps some time spent repairing our tack, and perhaps less wine - will work wonders."

The troopers groaned, but they knew it to be true - they had been remiss in following orders, in behaving as Cuirassiers should - and knew they'd catch hell from General d'Hautpoul and General Nansouty, among others, once they returned to base camp.

There was a squeal of protest from Caporal as he flattened what was left of his ears at Kugel, and sidestepped, waving a warning hoof. There was definitely no pleasantries to be had between the two stallions, and DuQuay looked at her horse, and then at Kugel. "Boys... enough." she chided Caporal gently, going over to guide him away from the other horse, shaking her finger at Kugel. "And you, sir, behave. Bad pony."

She looked at Fontaine, and his horse, who seemed to be rolling his eyes, and tried to stifle a wan smile. "Christ, it's Great Value Nansouty. Captiaine Fontaine - do your farts squeak?"

Chef d'Escadron Demongin rode up on his plodding half-draft, the mustache on the horse waxed into a perfect curl, and DuQuay looked once, twice and then burst into raucous laughter, not able to control it at the ridiculous sight. "Well, it's summer, so he can have that, but tell me, Demongin, do you shave it off in the winter as per regulations?"

Demongin raised the only eyebrow that worked, and shook his head with a wry grin, showing a set of irregular teeth. "Madame le Colonel, I do... I actually do. Shall I have Desjardins give the call for botte-selle?"

"Make it so, Demongin... General Lasalle, if you would be so kind as to lead us the hell out of here, we'll be out of your hair and your domain in a thrice."

Houchard helped DuQuay into the saddle, and mounted up himself, settling his lanky frame onto his mount with a grunt, the liver chestnut Dutch stallion with a silver mane and tail, a thin blaze of white down his nose, four white socks. He looked at DuQuay, who nodded, and after the last note of A cheval rang in the air, he gave the order for the men to form in ranks. "Cavalerie - Formez en Rang!"

[thehussargeneral]

Kugel immediately and violently moves to bite at the conveniently snack-shaped finger, but Lasalle gets there first, having grabbed a riding crop from someone and popping him on the nose with it with an "Enough, damn it!".

Kugel recoils and freezes, thinking about something even if it is not something productive, and Lasalle mounts once he calms and lowers his head. His eyes soften and ears relax a little whenever he glances back at his rider, but then upon spotting Caporal again tenses up once more.

What has he ever done to you, hm? Is it because he has no ears to pin back at you?

Then Lasalle turns to look at DuQuay, a little more serious but still amused.

Rule one: Don't hold up things that look edible unless you want them eaten.

Meanwhile, Fontaine only returns a confused stare at DuQuay's comment, mounting his solid dark bay and positioning himself a small distance behind the group as usual. His aids are barely perceptible, an untrained eye unable to be blamed for thinking that the pair operate purely on thoughts and vibes. Well, the horse is likely sensitive enough, but Fontaine is too illegible.

Right, anyone else at risk of equine murder? No? Good.

He draws his sword, still the strange dragoon one that warded off the Entity's creatures, raising it above his head in signal to those behind and beginning to walk, though Kugel now utterly refuses to stay in line with Caporal, insisting on being slightly ahead.

This time the fog will have some consideration for them, not plunging them into the more violent of the battlefields, though they must still avoid some rogue cannonfire, and after some time of that they emerge in a familiar place: Strasbourg once again, though this time it looks different.

The street is lined with stalls peddling all sorts of things small and large, largely devoted to the theme of Christmas: food, mulled wine, gifts, and so on, candles, lanterns and light coming from windows dimly illuminating everything against the pitch black of the night.

And there is snow, the horse hooves' crunching in it where it is fresh, turning to a sloshing noise where it has already been walked all over.

Even in total darkness Lasalle still recognises the landmarks that defined much of his childhood, touching his hat to the sentries at the gate of the garrison, their uniforms that of the Alsace Foreign Infantry; it should be mentioned that this version of Strasbourg is seemingly permanently in the state it was in at the time of the General's residence there.

Well, no one warned me to bring winter clothes for the middle of June.

[your-staff-wizard]

Happy birthday, Monseigneur, do enjoy this cake that I am having delivered to you.

🎂

- @thehussargeneral

Ah, General Lasalle!

How generous of you! I am glad to see you are in good health!

-Alex

[thehussargeneral]

Why, as always! How can one ever be in ill health in such a great existence? Well, I suppose those things that come into our inboxes can do strange things. Did you know one of them made me allergic to horses for a while? Utterly ludicrous.

Now, Monseigneur, what is your preference of wine, if it would please you?

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard paused for a moment, considering Lasalle's words. He looked at Grandjean, who was nodding his head emphatically, looking hang-dog guilty.

Houchard ran a shaking hand through his hair, and replied in his horrific jargon of half-German, half-French, all Lorrain.

"Ah... General Lasalle.... my apologies....you are correct, I forgot myself in my worry to reach my daughter.... she is headstrong, as all cavalry are, you know? I wish to know how bad she is.. .and I am sure you will be angry with her as well for her impulsive decision; but I beg you, General, to go easy on her; she is, after all, still my little girl, even if she also contains two past lives in her that were most definitely not female."

Houchard allowed Grandjean to lead him away, his limping gait making it a slower affair than it would have been had he been a younger man; in his worry for DuQuay, Houchard looked aged even older than his 55 years.

"General, I really wish you'd stayed at home, sir. I can handle this..."

"Ach, ja, you handledt it vell, so vell, in fact, dat my girl's hurt now... how bad is it?"

Grandjean winced at Houchard's sharp tone, and replied verrrrryyy carefully...

"Uh... well... um... not as bad as General Kellermann junior but..."

"....but?"

Grandjean nodded to the two cuirassiers playing euchre in front of the tent as they stood, cards falling off their laps, and saluted General Houchard.

Inside the tent, DuQuay slept, the borrowed shirt billowed, except for where it was stuck to the bandage across her chest, which was itself stained dark. She tossed and turned, caught in a nightmare brought on by the black substance.

Houchard staggered, a string of religious curses falling from his lips, and one of the cuirassiers hurried to get him a chair and a strong drink.

"Himmeldonnerwetter... my girl... that does NOT look mild, Colonel!"

Houchard's hand trembled as he brought the glass of schnapps to his lips, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"What is that substance?"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

DuQuay.. no... Delacroix.. found themselves in the blinding blizzard again. He lamented the cuirass; though it protected him from the majority of the cold air, it also had frozen to him, and the bearskin rug he had found was now torn into strips, wrapped around his boots. He couldn't feel his feet, or his hands, his mustache embellished with icicles made of his mucus and his breath, the hoar-frost on his unshaven face aging him. What ever clothing he could find, he wore in layers, the heat causing the lice to bite, the eternal itching maddening. His horse stumbled, and he lurched forward in the saddle, the stirrups long discarded; his boots no longer fit in them. He raised his good arm, broken spear in hand and slapped at an infantryman who had tried to make a cut in his horse's neck to suck the blood out while still riding, the piece of leather in his mouth flapping; it was disgusting, the leather, but the salt from it and the meager protein in it gave him enough energy to continue; until the next encampment. He had tried to get thatch off of the roof of a burning house for his horse before it had gone up completely, the men preferring the scorching heat of the flames to the shelter itself. He swore he'd seen them roasting a leg of some sort, not sure that it was the deer or animal they claimed it was; he had not bothered to check. The bodies were stacked like cordwood as wind-breaks, stripped of every available scrap of fabric. The wind, the incessant, blowing wind, the blinding snow that felt like needles of glass driven into his face; and when the sun would come out in rare moments, the snow-blindness was not worth the meager warmth it gave.

The cold... the cold seemed to penetrate his very being, right to his heart. The fear, the worry, the terror - the cossacks at first like hordes. When Delacroix looked at them next, his eyes widened in fear; these had no faces, black as the depths of hell, relentlessly attacking, a never ending wave of darkness. The snow billowed and blew, reducing his visibility to the frozen tips of his horse's ears, making the appearance and disappearance of the faceless horde all that more terrifying. Delacroix struck left and right, gripping with frozen thighs to the mount he rode, who slipped and skid on the surface, the ice calks in their shoes only providing minimal traction.

Outside of this fever-dream, in the tent, DuQuay groaned, flailing, her breath coming in odd foggy puffs of air, the black stain spreading on her chest.

Houchard rested a trembling hand on his daughter's forehead and exclaimed at the chill he felt. Why was she... freezing?

"Grandjean - fetch blankets! She is like ice!"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

Delacroix gasps in pain, falling from his horse, the darkness following him down, down, down... down... no impact on the snow, just perpetual falling into a black pit of despair, his cuirass melting away, his old wounds opening up, a roaring in his ears and the pain of utter despair and desolation. He tries to grab at the lance, but it burns him, and he hisses in pain. He grips it harder, gritting his teeth, and tries to pull it out or crawl up it. "Be done with me, then! I'm already dead, you foul thing!"

"̸̖͒B̸͚͌́̕ͅǘ̶̦͒͝t̸̖͔͆ ̷̣́̑̇ÿ̷̡̡͎o̴̱͛ù̷͖̳͓̏r̶̲̩̃̅ ̴̧̹̓̈́h̷̝̱̀͒ͅo̵̰̲͑͝s̵̭̹̔̐t̶̨̨̄ ̵̭̮́̈́͜į̴̛̦̎͗s̷̛̼̍̈́ ̶͙̐̚ǹ̶̙̝̀ȏ̸̳͍̭́͘t̸̻̔͛!̷͉̠̄̽͝ͅ ̴̗̈̕͝I̴͊͝͝ͅͅs̶͖̱̼̊͗ ̴̻̼̿͜t̴̡̞̱͑̾h̸͎̆̑a̴̢̜̮͂̋ṱ̴̳̀ ̴̡͌w̶̻̌̚ḩ̴̛͇͌̊a̴̳̅͗ͅt̵̢͓̀ ̶̖̔̒y̶̗̹͉̚o̵̙̠̎u̸̪͌̈́͝ͅ ̴̰̠͘w̷̤͕͎̐i̴̪̓̿͝s̵̙̓̎͋h̶͖̅̄?̴̯͖̈́ ̶͈͂̂H̷̫͇̎͊m̸̦̅m̷͚̝͊̓m̸̤̞͑?̸̳̠̂ ̷͓͋F̷͉́ọ̵̯̖͊̿̅r̷͓̓̄ ̸̟̈́͋Ḩ̶̱͚̒͊E̶̬̍͝R̷͔̽̑͘ ̸͈̓́͂ţ̴̾́ó̵̘͘ ̷̲̝͌̏d̴͓̔í̷͙̖̂͝e̷̱̒̈́͗ ̴̰̥̳͒̒ȁ̵̧̳s̷͇̖̠͝ ̴̞̓̉w̵̘̰͠͠e̴̢̦̎l̴̺̤͗l̶̺͚̅?̴͇̯̈͝ ̷͈̟͖̃͛͝S̷̡̘͠͝u̷͍̞͐̃͊ͅc̴̭̅͠h̶̦̀͝.̵͚̔̄͜.̴̨̈́̄.̷̖͓̬́̕ ̶̲̟̻̈́ḋ̴̯͕͇̈́̀e̷̬͚̓͝͝l̶͓̣̖̍͌͘ï̴̥̹͉ć̷̼͉͝i̴̖͘o̶̮͠u̵͇̪͈̓̐s̵̛̹͗͝ ̴̞̗̣͂̅e̵̘̻̭̎n̷̠͓͉͗ē̴̡̖r̸̩͐͋͜g̴̘̊ͅy̶̬̯͎̾͘.̸̺̖͛.̷͎̣̙̈́̌.̴̛̭.̸̥̗͋ ̶̐͜s̷̮͗̿͜o̴̡̝͉͛͑ ̴̤̃̇̇ĥ̶̡̩ű̸̧͖̱͌͆n̷̙̺̈́̽g̶̘̑ȓ̶̖̰y̷̗̻̱͗͊̿.̷̟̘̃̐͐.̸͈̥̠̀.̷̰̱͇̌́̕ ̷͉́ŝ̸͉̯ô̴̫͖.̴̬͕̆̚.̴̧̂̔͌.̴̧̣̊̔͠ ̶͈̣̈́̾͘h̸̡͔́̈̅u̷̖͓̓̽ņ̴̧̲̈́̈͗ğ̶̯̳̂r̷̗̫͔͋y̵̱̍̉.̵̡͇̜̐͝.̸̡̫͆͆.̴̧͉̦̈́͝"̵̫͓̦̈́̓̓

DuQuay sits bolt upright, screaming, the black substance sticking to her hand through the bandage, Houchard immediately drawing her to him, holding her as Grandjean scurries in with more blankets.

"Silver... silver!" she manages to cough out.

Houchard looks down at his Saint-Louis medal, at the color of it, and makes a decision then and there. He rips it off of his uniform and presses it to the blackened wound, the black substance seething and boiling, turning into soot where the medal touches it, the rest retreating back, the medal sticking to the fabric outside the wound before it, too, dissipates.

"But your host is not! Is that what you wish? Hmmm? For HER to die as well? Such… delicious energy…. so hungry… so… hungry

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods briskly at DuPrel before turning back to his daughter.

"I need to know what this is, Adjutant... I can see by your uniform you are an Aide de Camp; so perhaps you might brief this old general on what this substance is and why it is affecting my daughter so. I need to know. I wish to bring her to my home to recuperate, where her husband might visit, and make his long-delayed amends for his caddish behavior."

Houchard was calm, his tone measured. No more the wild-eyed hussar of his youth, obviously, he understood the gravity of the situation at hand. He brushed back DuQuay's damp hair, with a look of tenderness and concern.

"... It... ate my medal. 'tis only a bauble come the revolution, to be sure, but it was of pure silver. If I had a hundred such medals I would readily sacrifice them again to see my girl restored to her health."

DuQuay's eyes were closed, and she was too weak to respond, but the nightmare - for now- was over. Houchard laid her back on the surgical cot and motioned for Grandjean to cover her with the blankets. He stood up, joints creaking, hunched over in the low tent and turned to DuPrel.

"Walk with me, Adjutant.... I find I am in need of a constitutional and a smoke; perhaps we may find your commander and Marshal Kellermann; I think it is time we discussed matters."

[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?

[levieuxchevalier]

(convo's in that Lorrain German from Houchard)

Houchard nodded, bending down to pick up a burning stick from one of the nearby cooking fires, lighting his pipe, the rich vanilla-cherrywood scent of American Burley curling around him in the blue smoke.

"Ach, ja... I did, perhaps. In my worry for my girl, I may have overstepped my boundaries. Ah but 'tis normal - we were generals long time before he was - you earlier than me by dint of your noble birth, Christophe; I'd have been content remaining a simple chef d'escadron, I didn't need much to be happy; with Catherine and my children; a retirement would have been sufficient for this old scarred body. But, France called and I had to answer; as I assume many of our men did as well. La Patrie en Danger.."

The two men continued along, walking until they found a place to sit, one of the cuirassiers of Delacroix's regiment dragging over a set of chairs under the shade of a tree, motioning for DesJardins to bring over a small camp table, two glasses and some more schnapps.

"Oh, thank you, trooper.. a place for two old men to rest their bones, share some schnapps and smoke in the shade is a good thing."

Houchard turned to Kellermann and sighed, his bushy eyebrows knitted together. He gestured with the hand that held his pipe, shrugging, brows going up and the only working side of his mouth giving a little downwards pout.

"My daughter - well, let us be frank, she is an adopted daughter, but a daughter none the less - she is headstrong. The two past lives within her do not help that one bit. Delacroix is somewhat more tractable, as he knows us and respects us.. most of the time. The other one... what is his name... Beaune... de Beaune.. he's a bit more... pompous, I would say. Brash, rude. Looks at us with starry eyes, yet always going on how he sacrificed himself and the regiment did to save France."

Houchard rolled his eyes at that, and spat on the ground.

"Zut, so many more have done that and more before him. He is nothing special. I may need to remind him, should he have the temerity to appear... the date of his own death arrives soon, and... that affliction which my girl suffers from at Waterloo is magnified; yet it only lasts a day instead of a damned fortnight. How bad off is your son, Christophe? My girl's got this.... black wound in her chest... it took my Saint-Louis medal. She was so cold... like she was freezing, muttering in her sleep about Cossacks... faceless hordes.. the blackness, the void... that substance ebbing and pulsing.. I saw it. Never seen anything like it... I think it would take a man smarter than I to understand what it was."

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

Retirement never quite managed to catch up to me, either... Well, at least the Senate was a marginally more peaceful existence than the army.

I think it is important for us old men to remember that those junior to us in years are still perfectly capable... 23 years of service in 34 years of life is nothing to scoff at, after all. If everyone blindly deferred to age, nothing would ever get done in any area of society.

Besides, someone like Lasalle is too viciously independent for that anyways... One cannot expect anything different from someone who joined the army at 11 years old.

Kellermann also sits down, his knees cracking as he does so.

Ach, children... You have it rather difficult, having three in the body of one. De Beaune may need some adjustment, perhaps he is simply trying to prove himself to people he respects. Mine... I never quite know what to do with him, I fear. I locked him in his apartments, and yet he got out anyways. He's in a very bad way now, can't stay awake for very long and seems to be in a lot of pain. At least they managed to get all of that substance off him, it looks painful...

[levieuxchevalier]

"Eleven? Gott in Himmel... that is entirely too young for a boy to... ach, I suppose it was for a reason? General Kleber, he was sent off to school at seven for the simple fact that he was such a gamin of the streets, running about in gangs and not learning anything that his step-father convinced his mother to send him away. Or so he tells us; one can never know if what he says is the truth or an exaggeration, you know."

Houchard reclined back in his chair and puffed on his pipe for a few moments, seeming to digest what his peer had said, his free hand tapping an old drum cadence on the armrest.

"So... a long service record in such a young one; and yes, perhaps I had been a bit too.. . ancien regime with him. I should rectify that, but my main concern is most definitely my girl -you say they got that substance off of your boy? She still has it on her, it seems to be from a deep wound; she is having nightmares, it seems. I do hope that young Adjutant who scurried off is bringing Lasalle here, I wish to know if there is a way to attract the rest of that substance out of her, so she can recover."

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard sucks on his pipe, and realizes it's gone out, and he sets it down on the side table, pouring Kellermann and he a last glass of the schnapps.

"Apologize? Ja, could do that. It does not speak well of a gentleman such as myself not to acknowledge when he's made a mistake; and the Lord knows I've made many... though Madame's suggestion of shooting Representative Hentz when he came to fetch me after Menin to arrest me would have been... rather harsh. I heard he's still looking for his other eye, you know... That REMf had the audacity to show up to my home, as I was with my wife and children, to make amends. He encountered Madame, and well.... "

Houchard shrugs, giving Kellermann a wink.

"They say hell hath no fury... and let me tell you... there are times I'm scared for General Kleber, if he ever pisses her off."

When DuPrel showed up, Houchard stood and tugged down his vest and sash, and picked up his plume-bedecked tricorne.

"My thanks, Adjutant, for your work in convincing your General to speak to me... Marechal Kellermann... it is good to catch up with an old friend. When this is all settled, do stop by with your son; I would like for him to meet my son, Jean-Nic - he became a man of letters after my death. A prouder father I could not be."

Houchard followed DuPrel to Lasalle's tent, thinking of how he could make amends to the younger General for overstepping his bounds.

Meanwhile, in the tent guarded by two troopers of the 3eme Cuirassiers, DuQuay groaned and sat up; rubbing her chest. It was near the anniversary of Woerth, and she knew that none of the surgeons would be able to fix what was going on with her. The entity's substance bubbled, burned, and she felt horrible that her father had sacrificed his Saint-Louis medal in an attempt to save her. She quietly slipped into her boots, grabbed a spare habit-veste, clapped on her mirloton, and snuck out of the back of the tent, keeping low and out of sight until she reached her horse, the crop-eared Caporal, saddling it up, leading it to a nearby rock and mounting up, going at the walk to the edge of the encampment, into the fog.

All right, you... whatever you are... it's time you and I had a little talk... and I will not rest until I get my goddamned answers...

[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...

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods, understanding, at Lasalle, his mouth working as it always does, that tremor never ceasing.

"I understand, General Lasalle... my concern is my daughter still has the substance on her person... you may not know - but she was having nightmares, and was cold as ice... she was mumbling about Cossacks, and when she rose up, that black tar was reaching out, like tendrils. She called for silver, and... the only thing I could think of was my Saint-Louis medal--it means nothing now, in this time; just a bauble I earned by these scars upon my body... it...it ATE the silver, General. How can I get this off of her, so I can bring her home to my house in Sarrebourg so she can continue to heal?"

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

Meanwhile, in the liminal space that DuQuay is occupying, she is having a helluva time keeping her mount from bolting, as the crop-eared bastard rears and whirls, his former life as a reining champion on full display. She clings like a monkey to his back, mirolton gone (again, dammit!), the horse groaning, trembling, rolling his eyes so that the whites were showing.

"Dammit! Caporal! Ho! HO!!"

The fog begins to shift, and the smell of iron, mud, gunpowder and death begins to become more prominent.... DuQuay's left arm goes numb, wooden, and with a gasp, the large Cuirassier colonel Adrien de Beaune finds himself in possession of his own body again, his bay frothing underneath him, surrounded by his 9th cuirassiers, as Woerth again comes into view.

"NO! NO!!! It's a TRAP! Soldats! A trap!! Wheel right! Wheel RIGHT!"

Puffs of smoke waft out from windows, the rattle of gun carriages and shouted Prussian orders, garbled among the screams of both horse and man. They are trapped, again. The 9th Cuirassiers, the pride of France.... about to sacrifice themselves again on the Altar of the Empire; the Goddess of War a bloodthirsty bitch....

[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.̴̋ͅ.̸̣́.̶̟̾

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard settles into the chair opposite Lasalle's little campaign desk and sighs, running his hand over his face.

"She was under the guard of a pair of 3eme Cuirassiers.. I found myself in need of some air.."

When the elder Kellermann bursts in with the news, Houchard stands up, nearly upending the tent with his great height and consternation.

"HIMMELHERRGOTT WHAT?"

Houchard roars, his face terrific in his rage.

"I'll give those two lâches something to think about!!"

The three men go over to the tent that once held DuQuay, where Grosjean is already berating the two troopers in his strong Lorrain german, absolutely laying into them, his mustache flecked with foam, his sabre drawn, striking them alternatively with the flat of it.

"I'll flay yer goddamned cuirasses off and then yer thrice-damned sorry hides! How did you miss her? Dereliction of duty! I'll have you mucking out the stables with your fucking TEASPOONS you sorry sacks of shit in tin cans! Regarde-moi dans les yeux quand je te parle ! Qu'est-ce que tu glandes, espèce de lavette ?! Espèce de bougre de petit salopard!"

"Sir! Sir! OW! SIR! She... she... she didn't go out the front! She... the back flap was open, sir! OW OW!! OW!!"

Houchard turned to Lasalle, worry warring with exasperation on his features.

"My daughter is headstrong, and protective.... she more than likely rode off to get answers... I... I want to charge in there and bring her back by her damned stubborn queue... However, I am not a stupid man, whatever the CSP said about me... you know this... this void better than any of us, General. Je vous en prie, bring her back... I'll handle these two, before Grandjean turns them into paté... just... be careful."

_________________________--

In Woerth, de Beaune tries valiantly to get his men to listen, to see him, but he is helpless; his heart is in his throat, and he weeps.

"No... no.... we.... we.... this sacrifice.... it saved the French Army.... allowed them to retreat while we bled... while we all died... and still, the battle was lost... WHAT WAS OUR SACRIFICE FOR? WHAT DID I BLEED AND DIE FOR? NO!! NO!!! WE DIED FOR FRANCE! NOT FOR KINGS, NOT FOR EMPERORS!! THIS WAS OUR LOYALTY, TO DIE FOR OUR COUNTRY!!!"

[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!

[levieuxchevalier]

Grandjean pants, arm exhausted, and salutes Lasalle

"These bastards are the 3rd's boys... her own regiment. Well, er... Delacroix's regiment.... I ordered them... sir. I'll handle them. Go find her, please... "

Houchard glares at the two troopers, who cringe, knowing that the old man was by far the scarier of DuQuay's guardians, and the look Marshal Kellermann was giving them was no less severe.

-------------------- WOERTH--------------

De Beaune, overcome, roars with furious grief, drawing his sabre and slashing left and right to no avail. He spots a white flash and turns his bloodshot eyes in the direction, and his mouth falls open as he sees a legend from the era before him. General Lasalle. He swipes across his eyes with his right gloved hand, and turns his horse, rotating his upper body and shifting in his saddle, using his leg pressure to turn his mount.

"GENERAL LASALLE??? THE GENERAL??"

The entity is Not Having That, and surges forward, trying to block De Beaune from reaching Lasalle, and nearly knocks him out of the saddle, now the canister shot hammering at him, punching through his armor, melting it, the sucking wound on his chest pulsing and bubbling, the black ichor beginning to trail outwards like a tattered banner.

*Agh, fuck... FUCK... Adrien, can you hear me? Go! GO! Before you get us BOTH killed... follow General Lasalle!*

De Beaune gasps, pitching forward, his head aching, his body aching. That voice again, female. Hadn't he seen her... yes... the woman in the uniform.. his... counterpart. He trusted her... and he spurred his horse towards Lasalle with a shout, his sabre now a melted mass, only the hilt left. One of the void creatures surged forward, and De Beaune heard the woman's voice again.

*HIT IT IN THE FACE WITH THAT HILT! BRASS KNUCKLES, ADRIEN!! PUNCH IT!*

What an ODD thing to do... de Beaune followed the orders, though, and struck out, temporarily stunning the creature long enough to reach Lasalle, De Beaune beginning to slowly fall apart, the helmet gone, the cuirass hanging off and eventually falling to the ground, his bay's ears shortening, the last tendrils of the sucking chest wound leaving as de Beaune turned back into DuQuay.

"Yell at me later... get me out of here... I wanted to... Look, I'll tell you when we're safe..." DuQuay panted, her mirolton gone (again!), her hair nearly white now, with a few silver streaks; all her auburn hair had changed. "Can't even morph into Delacroix.. and I think I lost De Beaune just now too.... "

[thehussargeneral]

As De Beaune punches the creature with his hilt, Lasalle shoots at it, the thing disintegrating behind the cuirassier before it can recover. When De-Beaune-turned-DuQuay finally reaches his position, he stares her up and down before being reminded of their precarious situation by having to shoot down yet another creature with the last of his loaded pistols. Right, time to get out.

I damn well will, on both counts!

Now move and keep the fuck up!

Caporal may be fast, but Lasalle's strange little Arabian mare is just a little faster, still seemingly unfatigued from the run here. She takes a few steps at a walk, then shoots into a canter, winding back through the maze of streets that had led Lasalle to this place, the man looking back on occasion to make sure that DuQuay is actually keeping up.

The roar of battle gets quieter and duller, until eventually they are free of the town, and Lasalle's horse breaks into a flat-out gallop into the silence of the fog, almost painful now in contrast to the noise of Woerth, his ears still ringing.

It takes what seems to be an eternity of galloping, the mare not faltering once, but at last they enter something. Lasalle pulls her up into a walk, wiping the remnants of the liquid from his sword before returning it to its scabbard and continuing the walk through the streets of Strasbourg. It is populated, but the people go on with their days seemingly without noticing their presence, and no one says anything as he stops by a water trough and dismounts. It can be a bit strange, really, seeing people he once knew apparently unable to even see him.

He pays DuQuay little attention besides ordering her to do the same and let her horse drink, his focus on his mount and on observing the residents as if from behind glass. He does not want to yell at her yet, though his eyes and expression are already hard, and in his anger the primary way to prevent that is to simply ignore her.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay slides off of Caporal, panting, not able to meet Lasalle's hard expression at the moment. She knows what she did was both foolish and dangerous... but... the sucking chest wound is gone. She can faintly feel Delacroix and DeBeaune, the pulse of their souls alongside the hammering of her own heart, yet they are faint, as if in a slumber or a suspension.

She doesn't say a word, yet checks her tack and her horse, almost on autopilot. She is exhausted, and when she sees her face in the reflection of the window, she gasps.

"My hair... oh god... I look... " she murmured, carding through it with shaking fingers.

"I know this place... Strasbourg.. .Kleber's home... gods, I miss him... "

A single tear worked it's way down her cheek before she buried her face in Caporal's neck, shoulders shaking as she let her emotions run while the horses drank.

Pulling up, she swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her pelisse, reached into her pistol-holster and pulled out a small flask and a handkerchief. She blew her nose and then uncorked the flask, the strong scent of kirsch floating in the air as she drank half the bottle, holding it out then to Lasalle with red-tinged embarrassment on her cheeks.

"Je vous remercie, General, pour me sauver."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens to her speak while continuing to pay attention to his horse, also instinctively checking the body and the tack, not looking up when she mentions Strasbourg but replying.

So it is. It was my home for a while, too, when I was young. Sometimes my younger self wanders these streets, too, not that he would recognise most of those I know now, and not that anyone would likely recognise him either.

It is one of the few safer places in this domain.

His voice was a little softer as he spoke about the town, but it hardens again and Lasalle rolls his eyes as she cries into Caporal's neck.

Don't get worked up yet, we still have a while to go, and most of the places we will pass now are ones that require a clear mind. I say you have had quite enough clouded judgement already today, have you not?

And as he takes the flask and drinks a little from it, certainly not the amount one would expect from Lasalle, he gives her a stare clearly learnt in the non-commissioned ranks.

Ne pensez pas que cela soit sans conséquence. Venez.

True to his word, the next few spaces they pass through are not the emptiness of before. They are battlefields, often directly through the middle: the Pyramids, Rivoli, Golymin, an interlude through the slippery streets of rainy Salamanca conducted at a gallop nonetheless. Then comes Medellin, and at last Torquemada, or at least what remains of it. While most of these places are hostile, at the very least they do not target them, and their primary task is therefore simply to evade being shot or charged over.

[levieuxchevalier]

She tries not to look amazed as they go through the battlefields - some she remembers as Delacroix, others she had only dreamed of - seeing the Pyramids was her dream, but it was not wise to stop - she thought she saw Kleber there, in a fleeting glimpse of one of the desert scenes, but she knew it only to be the void replaying, like an old film.

She understood the consequences of her actions, and wondered if it would be Lasalle or Houchard to deliver them, and if she'd be allowed to explain first, why she had gone out in the first place.

It was not a clouded judgement, but a curiosity - know thy enemy - would he understand? She was bone tired, the wound free of the black substance, Delacroix and De Beaune nothing but murmurs in her mind, in her soul - she was worried she'd never see those aspects of herself again.

They began to approach the edge of a pine forest as they went through Rivoli, DuQuay seeing Massena atop Sultan, or what appeared to be Massena - with both his eyes. That was... disturbing. Massena had an eagle's gaze, quite literally - his farsightedness was legendary... probably why he hated to read - couldn't see the words, probably.

"Is this the edge of the... are we nearly home?" she wondered, sticking close to Lasalle, head bent over her horse's neck.

[thehussargeneral]

Indeed they are, and as they ride back into camp Lasalle's first question is nothing to do with DuQuay, but rather the present state of General Kellermann. Only upon being reassured that he is fast asleep does his attention switch back to the wayward rider he has brought back with him.

You have five minutes to think of how to defend yourself. Then we will see if it holds up. I will also expect you to defend the incompetence and negligence of your men.

And with that, he walks back to his tent, finding Houchard and the others still there. Du Prel is told to time five minutes, and Lasalle turns to the others as he replaces the sword he took to the void with the usual one.

She is to defend herself, I do not expect nor will I consider any excuses any of you have to make for her. If this will be a problem, I suggest you find alternative preoccupations for a while.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay dismounts, shaking, caught by Grandjean, who is trying NOT to explode at his comrade and friend, the two 3eme Cuirassiers trembling, wringing their forage caps.

Houchard, however, wastes no time, stalking forward and grabbing his "daughter" by her ear and dragging her off, giving DuPrel a look that says "you will allow me to chew her out first before you start timing ANYTHING"

"Ow ow ow ow ow! Papa! OW!" DuQuay squawks as she's dragged off, heels trying for purchase, spurs furrowing the ground.

"I do not care dat you are fifty, ja? You are damned well old enough to know better den to ride off like dat - sneaking past your men, embarrassing me and your entire regiment with dis foolishness! Explain dis breach of conduct to me, now - I am far less lenient than I tink Gen'ral Lasalle be! Vere is Delacroix in you, hunh? He put you up to dis? De Beaune put you up to dis? Vere are doze manner you claim vere inside you as past lifes? I chew dem out too!" Houchard was towering in his anger- more fear at losing her than true fury. The fury of a father who scolds his child for running out naked into the street as a toddler, who has to be frightening to get a point across.

"I...I... I wanted to know WHY it was doing this.. .why it was hurting men, tormenting my friends, going after Lasalle - I wanted to see WHAT it was... for real... where it came from... it would not answer me."

"Ov COURSE it not ansver you! You tink you can use dat kopf of yours, to siko-psyko-- ah... vat is de vord - CHARM it into tellings you? Get into it's headt and den komm to paix und verstanding? Wrap it all up in pretty bowz und gib it to Lasalle like prresent? Become heroine? Sauvez tous de cet' ombre? Haf you gone touched in de headt? Dis ting - is General Lasalle's to deal mit! You do not interfere! His land, his law, HIS problem! Verstand mich? Hmm? Now, you in big trouble, missy - gotta explain to Lasalle vy you do stupid ting like dis! Gib me heart crisis you did! Scare Gen'ral - Marshal Kellermann! If Kleber know, he put you over knee - I should put you over my knee! Paddle you good! Now, clean up, and you musst take responsibilite for all dis kerfluffle! Marsch! Hop! Hop!"

Houchard WAS livid - his Lorrain accent got thicker and thicker, and Grandjean winced - he'd heard THAT before.

"Old Hatchetface really giving her the goods, DuPrel. Might have to wait a few minutes for her to reattach her arse before Lasalle can chew it off again."

[thehussargeneral]

Du Prel nods, looking back at his pocket watch to try ten minutes instead.

Du Prel: I might suggest, Sir, that those two of your men keep themselves more out of sight.

Lasalle waits until Houchard is done, finally lighting his pipe again as he does so, though he is still clearly very displeased and ready to chew her out again at any stupid excuse.

And when Du Prel's count has finished, he sits up in his chair and exhales. He does like DuQuay, and doesn't particularly want to be doing this, but it is necessary.

What have you to say for yourself?

And perhaps more pertinently, what would you do with you in my position?

[levieuxchevalier]

"Oh... do not worry, DuPrel - I'll have 'em polishing d'Hautpoul's new bottes-fortes - and mine - for their punishment." Grandjean nods, the two cuirassiers groaning.

DuQuay comes out of the tent looking thoroughly chagrined, Houchard behind her, his mouth working in agitation, as it always does, his arms folded across his chest, boot tapping on the dusty ground.

"You ver asked a qvuestion, tochter. I suggest you answer."

DuQuay swallowed hard, looked down at the ground and then, with a deep sigh, raised her head up to meet Lasalle's steady gaze, her face steady, no emotion showing.

"If I tell you I was trying to find out what it wanted... it would matter not - because it did not answer me, and only tormented me further. I should have listened to you in the first place - no living person should go into that fog. I was doing my duty to save General Kellermann at first, as I had charged alongside him at Waterloo. I felt obligated to follow him, as Delacroix. I did not - or rather - thought that the Void would leave me be; that my past life would distract it - it did not - it drew on my life force, and that of my prior lives. It is hungry - and my men suffered for it. I went back to confront it, to do my penance for my mistakes, and made a larger mistake, putting you all at risk. Had I been in your place, General Lasalle - and it was you...I'd have busted you down a rank - yet I hold no rank. I no longer have the ability to shift into either Delacroix or De Beaune. I'd have you polish and repair the tack of the entire regiment, or at least a good portion of it, and bar you from riding with the regiment for a period of time. It would only be fair. I shall retire to Chaillot, and you please send any broken or dirty tack there, and I shall do my best to repair it and send it back in better condition. I shall be responsible for my men, and only my men."

DuQuay then fell silent, standing straight and tall (as she could, that is) - and awaited Lasalle's verdict.

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle considers this response with little visible emotion, and perhaps waits to reply for a little longer than necessary, mostly for effect.

In '04 you may remember that I caused a commotion at the prefect of Agen's ball. For this I was placed under arrest for thirty days, while the prefect was dismissed from his post. I am quite sure he did not find the decision fair, but since I never heard anything of the man again I can assume that he took it with some sort of grace. The Emperor has no need to justify his decisions to others, but he certainly has reasons.

Just as you were to remain here after you returned for good reason. Yet you know my reasons, and were still insubordinate, reckless and rather stupid for a normally smart woman like yourself. You also did your men a disservice by placing them in a situation in which they must be negligent or fear conflict of interest, for they are guarding their own Colonel and must decide whose orders to follow.

Since you say you shall be responsible for them, I will tell you that the correct answer was mine, therefore they have been negligent in a manner entirely incompatible with their duty, themselves have been insubordinate as well, and I question just who has allowed the several smaller slip ups that usually lead to such failures. Tell me, who am I to deem responsible: yourself, as Colonel, your subalterns, or your non-commissioned officers?

If you have not forgotten yourself entirely, then you know which answer is correct, and I hope that I do not need to make you state it like a child. Did Delacroix not spend enough time in the light cavalry to know that such blunders and negligence are what wastes men on campaign and loses battles that did not need to be lost?

His voice is largely cold and unattached, but at the last sentence it sharpens and raises, almost as if the thought comes dangerously close to something personal.

It is something I expect any soldier to understand, but you in particular! I understood by the time I was twelve, it is no great mystery!

Truthfully, I am not satisifed with your explanation, but that is likely because there is no satisfactory answer for such conduct. I likely also will not be satisfied by anything you have to say to me regarding your men, but nonetheless I will demand that you explain to me how such negligence and derelict of duty was permitted to happen, and what you will do to prevent it from happening again, if only so that it is forced to remain in your mind for a time, and because I asked for it in the first place and you failed to answer.

In some ways, Lasalle has taken remarkably after the older Kellermann when it comes to lectures and reprimands, but in others he takes after the Alsatians who raised him, likely with much of the same methods. But the primary difference is that Lasalle is not a physically violent man, rather preferring to force his victims to explain their failures in detail.

The intent is, of course, to force one to reflect on it to prevent it in the future, but it also happens to be embarrassing at times.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay stands there and listens to the tirade, well, half-listens because she knows where this is going - in her living world, she had experienced this time and time again - it was a catch-22 - and no answer would satisfy Lasalle - just like a rather famous - or infamous - drill sergeant in the Marines - or at least in the film he had been hired to consult on and then became the star. Full Metal Jacket, hussar style, she thought to herself.

She swallowed hard, trying to rein in her sarcasm, and kept her voice even when she replied.

"General Lasalle, since no answer I can give you will satisfy you, I shall take my men and my regiments, and leave your presence post-haste. Marechal Kellermann - Monsieur le Duc - I am wholly certain that nothing I will say to your son, whom I followed to my death in 1815 and nearly just did again - will be as succinct or... tadelsüchtig as that of either you or General Lasalle. Know that I did my duty, and I alone am responsible for my men's conduct or lack of - I was remiss in keeping the discipline tight as I did back in 1815. That fault falls fully on my shoulders. Grandjean - as Colonel of the 2nd Cuirassiers, I tender my resignation to you, and give you command of the 3rd as well - to do as you see fit. I will be retiring to Chaillot to ride no more I am unfit to be the commander of the 3eme Cuirassiers and therefore shall be no longer."

Grandjean sputtered, Houchard made a funny little noise in his throat and looked at Lasalle and Marshal Kellermann, his eyes wide and wild.

"Tochter, you cannot.." Houchard whispered, his hand on her shoulder.

"Vater, ich musst. Ich habe meine Pflicht mir selbst, Frankreich und meinen Leuten gegenüber vernachlässigt. Ich kann im guten Glauben nicht länger ihr Kommandant sein. Mein letzter Befehl soll sein: 'Botte-Selle, Jungs, es ist Zeit nach Hause zu gehen.'

("Father, I must. I have neglected my duty to myself, to France, and to my people. I can no longer be their commander in good conscience. My final order shall be: 'Botte-Selle, boys, it's time to go home.')

DuQuay shrank into herself then, just deflating, before she wiped her eyes, straightened up and saluted Lasalle and Kellermann, eyes shining. "Gentlemen, it's been an honour to ride with you. If you would point me in the direction of home...."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens with little more than a raised eyebrow at the suggestion of resignation, then stands. He takes a glass from one of the side tables, fills it with brandy, but sets it in front of DuQuay rather than drinking it himself.

I would also strongly suggest that you reconsider, but for now, that is for you. It is a serious failing indeed, but would you rather be remembered as the one who resigned in disgrace, or one who took a lesson from it and persevered? The advantage of the Afterlife is that there is no pressuring government or CSP to make the latter impossible.

By the way, General Kléber has been despondent since you first left, did you know that?

At some point, Du Prel had already vanished unnoticed to have the horses brought over. When he returns, he whispers something into Lasalle's ear that makes him chuckle.

What, because he's ever a bastion of calm? He'll be fine.

Outside, both Kugel and DuQuay's mount wait, though Kugel appears to have taken a spontaneous dislike to the other horse and keeps his ears back but not quite pinned in protest. Captain Fontaine, meanwhile, has a perfect mirror in the horse that stands waiting next to him, the animal alert and observant at all times much like its owner.

Now, I don't suppose you have anything to say to our wayward General Kellermann before we go? I doubt he will remember much of it, however.

[lepremiercoquillard]

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]

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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Espagne had an expression of sympathy on his swarthy face. "Aye, I understand that. Every May 21st, I suffer the same affliction. General d'Hautpoul here suffers it in Februrary for a good six days. Heard yours was much longer, Fontaine. Come, you can rest in our surgeon's tent until it passes. Those of us dead on the field of battle know of the crappy feeling. Do not concern yourself much with propriety or rank. Not even General Nansouty will chide you for this. Because, and you may know, if Madame DuQuay-Kleber found out, she'd have us doin' drill until our couilles fell off."

Demongin snorted at that; he had only just met Madame, and had seen her in the void; he wanted to say something, but Fontaine's state was more worrying to him than anything that had happened at Lasalle's camp.

General d'Hautpoul did not dismount, but nodded in agreement.

"Ouais, Madame... she'd give me hell. I don't want her to see me like this... opened up one a them magic letters and POUF, here I am pint-sized. It's not... not funny. I hate it. Nothing fits, and these gosses are takin the piss outta me because of it. I dunno how those little guys do it, bein' so small and such."

[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?

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Hautpoul frowned, and shook his head.

"Non, Capitaine, it did not... only mentioned the Rule of Three and for the life of me, I can't remember what that means!"

General d'Espagne coughed for a moment, and locked eyes with Demongin, who tried not to smirk.

"Ah, General d'Hautpoul, sir? I believe I know what that may be. Captaine Fontaine ... go rest. That's an order." Demongin murmured, waiting for Fontaine to leave before dismounting, handing his horse to a trooper. "Be careful with him. He... he's a bit special."

"I know, Squadron Commander, he... he had wandered in here not too long ago, eating General Nansouty's dress plume."

"Oh, that's.... wonderful. Those things are not cheap. So... the Rule of Three, General d'Hautpoul, is a rite of passage for cavalry officers... usually just us coquillards, though I've heard the Chasseurs and Hussars have their own."

[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.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"HWHAET?!! Treis femnas, tres cavals, tres botelhas de champanha e tres lieus en tres oras? Siás devenut foll??"*

Ange's voice rings out, a loud voice for such a little (snerk) man and his eyes bulge out of his head comically.

".... do the women have to... you know... arrive?" he whispered, leaning towards Demongin.

"Uh... well... that depends... sir. I mean... probably for this challenge and for you to return to normal, yes." Demongin scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish as he mumbled the reply.

"Merda."

"First we gotta FIND three willing women... General d'Hautpoul. I mean. never was hard when you was a coquillard, but... the women that run with hussars are a bit different." General Montbrun added, shrugging.

"I am still a goddamned coquillard! Just... "

"Une coquillette... perhaps."

"TA YEULE, NANSOUTY!"

It was rather hard for the big cuirassiers not to snicker behind their hands at their (formerly) giant commander's predicament. It would indeed be difficult to procure three women that were willing to sport with the smaller version of d'Hautpoul; which in and of itself was emasculating to the big man.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert finds the group just as Montbrun mentions this difficulty, and he smirks as he offers his superiors a salute, then approaches Montbrun and speaks to him.

Maubert: If I may offer some assistance, Sir, you may recall my regiment was quite briefly commanded by General Lasalle, and I did make acquaintance with a few hussars afterwards, who I am certain would be willing to help this... Predicament. I'm sure they would be happy to help with... Other aspects, too.

Maubert: Perhaps it would be worth me going to find them, Sir?

[lepremiercoquillard]

Ange looks down from his horse that he refuses to dismount from; being a tall guy before this--- unfortunate event, he prefers to remain in the saddle because dismounting would put him at a serious height disadvantage.

"Chef d'Escadron Maubert, your assistance would be very helpful. Brunettes, of the dark auburn variety, well-rounded are my preference. They need to keep this... shrinkage secret... and assure them that my blade has not suffered any ill-effects of this... curse."

Nansouty spit-takes, d'Espagne groans and Demongin has to turn away not to chuckle.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert: Of course, Sir.

Maubert salutes with a chuckle, going off to find his horse.

And a little while later, Maubert returns with a small group of hussars on horseback, and sure enough holding on to them are the three "willing ladies", as the ritual terms them.

The hussars have clearly been briefed not to laugh when first seeing the predicament, and to their credit they manage that relatively well. It is, after all, rather absurd.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"General Nansouty, why did General d'Hautpoul specify stacked brunettes?"

Demongin whispers, eyeing the women as they dismount and approach the hussar-sized cuirasser, as d'Espagne leads over two more horses, and Lepic arrives with three bottles of champagne and his pocket-watch. Nansouty, still in his powdered wig, his queue still too short for his liking, blushes, and compresses his lips tight before whispering out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes on d'Hautpoul.

"You ever meet Madame DuQuay-Kleber?"

"Donnerwetter.... you mean... ah... that small woman who leads the 3rd as their commander- the one that shape-shifts?"

Nansouty nods as one of the girls, a bottle of champagne and Ange saunter off to a remote tent, the three horses tethered to the hitching post as the men argue about the logistics of the ride - was it going to be the same short course, there and back for a 20 league total or...

"The very same. General d'Hautpoul and her were... briefly together... before General Kleber showed up."

Demongin grimaced and shook his head. "Ach, now that's awkward. Do they still... well... are they still?"

'Friends? Of course. Though poor Joseph... it was a blow that he nearly did not recover from.... well.... that and the murder mare."

"Murder mare?? Is that how you... ah... ended up with that new hairstyle? I thought you finally caved to regulations, General, sir!"

Nansouty bristles, looking like he's smelled a particularly nasty smell.

"Absolutely NOT, Chef d'Escadron Demongin! I was proud of my queue, and the tradition, and that damned mare had it in her TEETH - I was almost out of her grasp, and Joseph just... HACKED IT OFF! Agh!"

General d'Hautpoul's tent opens up, and one of the women staggers out, grinning, disheveled, holding the empty bottle of champagne. d'Hautpoul swaggers out, a bit taller, smoking a cigar, and mounts up on one of the horses, taking off at a path General Lepic points him towards.

"6.5 lieus - 3 there and 3 back - to the edge of the encampment through the woods and around, to the opposite side! Then back for round two while we figure out the next third of the trail!"

"Jesu - that didn't take him long."

d'Espagne shrugged - "it's not the size of the man, it's the size of the..."

"Maudit!.. I get it.. I GET it, BRIDGET!! No need to ...."

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert tilts his head at that conversation, having never met DuQuay himself, and also having never heard of the murder mare incident.

Maubert: A shapeshifter in command of a regiment? And a homicidal mare? A strange Afterlife this is. Who is she? The woman, not the horse. The horse is only mildly unusual.

Then he watches as d'Hautpoul returns from the tent and makes for the designated course, one of the hussars following at a distance both for his own entertainment and so that there can be no allegations of foul play.

Maubert: Gen'ral Nansouty, sir, ever met a certain Fontaine of ours? If you and him looked a little more similar, one wouldn't be faulted for thinking you're the same person. Just curious, I haven't been here terribly long... But I think if you've met him you'd know why I'm asking.

[lepremiercoquillard]

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]

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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Espagne had an expression of sympathy on his swarthy face. "Aye, I understand that. Every May 21st, I suffer the same affliction. General d'Hautpoul here suffers it in Februrary for a good six days. Heard yours was much longer, Fontaine. Come, you can rest in our surgeon's tent until it passes. Those of us dead on the field of battle know of the crappy feeling. Do not concern yourself much with propriety or rank. Not even General Nansouty will chide you for this. Because, and you may know, if Madame DuQuay-Kleber found out, she'd have us doin' drill until our couilles fell off."

Demongin snorted at that; he had only just met Madame, and had seen her in the void; he wanted to say something, but Fontaine's state was more worrying to him than anything that had happened at Lasalle's camp.

General d'Hautpoul did not dismount, but nodded in agreement.

"Ouais, Madame... she'd give me hell. I don't want her to see me like this... opened up one a them magic letters and POUF, here I am pint-sized. It's not... not funny. I hate it. Nothing fits, and these gosses are takin the piss outta me because of it. I dunno how those little guys do it, bein' so small and such."

[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?

[lepremiercoquillard]

d'Hautpoul frowned, and shook his head.

"Non, Capitaine, it did not... only mentioned the Rule of Three and for the life of me, I can't remember what that means!"

General d'Espagne coughed for a moment, and locked eyes with Demongin, who tried not to smirk.

"Ah, General d'Hautpoul, sir? I believe I know what that may be. Captaine Fontaine ... go rest. That's an order." Demongin murmured, waiting for Fontaine to leave before dismounting, handing his horse to a trooper. "Be careful with him. He... he's a bit special."

"I know, Squadron Commander, he... he had wandered in here not too long ago, eating General Nansouty's dress plume."

"Oh, that's.... wonderful. Those things are not cheap. So... the Rule of Three, General d'Hautpoul, is a rite of passage for cavalry officers... usually just us coquillards, though I've heard the Chasseurs and Hussars have their own."

[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.

[lepremiercoquillard]

"HWHAET?!! Treis femnas, tres cavals, tres botelhas de champanha e tres lieus en tres oras? Siás devenut foll??"*

Ange's voice rings out, a loud voice for such a little (snerk) man and his eyes bulge out of his head comically.

".... do the women have to... you know... arrive?" he whispered, leaning towards Demongin.

"Uh... well... that depends... sir. I mean... probably for this challenge and for you to return to normal, yes." Demongin scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish as he mumbled the reply.

"Merda."

"First we gotta FIND three willing women... General d'Hautpoul. I mean. never was hard when you was a coquillard, but... the women that run with hussars are a bit different." General Montbrun added, shrugging.

"I am still a goddamned coquillard! Just... "

"Une coquillette... perhaps."

"TA YEULE, NANSOUTY!"

It was rather hard for the big cuirassiers not to snicker behind their hands at their (formerly) giant commander's predicament. It would indeed be difficult to procure three women that were willing to sport with the smaller version of d'Hautpoul; which in and of itself was emasculating to the big man.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert finds the group just as Montbrun mentions this difficulty, and he smirks as he offers his superiors a salute, then approaches Montbrun and speaks to him.

Maubert: If I may offer some assistance, Sir, you may recall my regiment was quite briefly commanded by General Lasalle, and I did make acquaintance with a few hussars afterwards, who I am certain would be willing to help this... Predicament. I'm sure they would be happy to help with... Other aspects, too.

Maubert: Perhaps it would be worth me going to find them, Sir?

[lepremiercoquillard]

Ange looks down from his horse that he refuses to dismount from; being a tall guy before this--- unfortunate event, he prefers to remain in the saddle because dismounting would put him at a serious height disadvantage.

"Chef d'Escadron Maubert, your assistance would be very helpful. Brunettes, of the dark auburn variety, well-rounded are my preference. They need to keep this... shrinkage secret... and assure them that my blade has not suffered any ill-effects of this... curse."

Nansouty spit-takes, d'Espagne groans and Demongin has to turn away not to chuckle.

[thehussargeneral]

Maubert: Of course, Sir.

Maubert salutes with a chuckle, going off to find his horse.

And a little while later, Maubert returns with a small group of hussars on horseback, and sure enough holding on to them are the three "willing ladies", as the ritual terms them.

The hussars have clearly been briefed not to laugh when first seeing the predicament, and to their credit they manage that relatively well. It is, after all, rather absurd.

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard paused for a moment, considering Lasalle's words. He looked at Grandjean, who was nodding his head emphatically, looking hang-dog guilty.

Houchard ran a shaking hand through his hair, and replied in his horrific jargon of half-German, half-French, all Lorrain.

"Ah... General Lasalle.... my apologies....you are correct, I forgot myself in my worry to reach my daughter.... she is headstrong, as all cavalry are, you know? I wish to know how bad she is.. .and I am sure you will be angry with her as well for her impulsive decision; but I beg you, General, to go easy on her; she is, after all, still my little girl, even if she also contains two past lives in her that were most definitely not female."

Houchard allowed Grandjean to lead him away, his limping gait making it a slower affair than it would have been had he been a younger man; in his worry for DuQuay, Houchard looked aged even older than his 55 years.

"General, I really wish you'd stayed at home, sir. I can handle this..."

"Ach, ja, you handledt it vell, so vell, in fact, dat my girl's hurt now... how bad is it?"

Grandjean winced at Houchard's sharp tone, and replied verrrrryyy carefully...

"Uh... well... um... not as bad as General Kellermann junior but..."

"....but?"

Grandjean nodded to the two cuirassiers playing euchre in front of the tent as they stood, cards falling off their laps, and saluted General Houchard.

Inside the tent, DuQuay slept, the borrowed shirt billowed, except for where it was stuck to the bandage across her chest, which was itself stained dark. She tossed and turned, caught in a nightmare brought on by the black substance.

Houchard staggered, a string of religious curses falling from his lips, and one of the cuirassiers hurried to get him a chair and a strong drink.

"Himmeldonnerwetter... my girl... that does NOT look mild, Colonel!"

Houchard's hand trembled as he brought the glass of schnapps to his lips, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"What is that substance?"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

DuQuay.. no... Delacroix.. found themselves in the blinding blizzard again. He lamented the cuirass; though it protected him from the majority of the cold air, it also had frozen to him, and the bearskin rug he had found was now torn into strips, wrapped around his boots. He couldn't feel his feet, or his hands, his mustache embellished with icicles made of his mucus and his breath, the hoar-frost on his unshaven face aging him. What ever clothing he could find, he wore in layers, the heat causing the lice to bite, the eternal itching maddening. His horse stumbled, and he lurched forward in the saddle, the stirrups long discarded; his boots no longer fit in them. He raised his good arm, broken spear in hand and slapped at an infantryman who had tried to make a cut in his horse's neck to suck the blood out while still riding, the piece of leather in his mouth flapping; it was disgusting, the leather, but the salt from it and the meager protein in it gave him enough energy to continue; until the next encampment. He had tried to get thatch off of the roof of a burning house for his horse before it had gone up completely, the men preferring the scorching heat of the flames to the shelter itself. He swore he'd seen them roasting a leg of some sort, not sure that it was the deer or animal they claimed it was; he had not bothered to check. The bodies were stacked like cordwood as wind-breaks, stripped of every available scrap of fabric. The wind, the incessant, blowing wind, the blinding snow that felt like needles of glass driven into his face; and when the sun would come out in rare moments, the snow-blindness was not worth the meager warmth it gave.

The cold... the cold seemed to penetrate his very being, right to his heart. The fear, the worry, the terror - the cossacks at first like hordes. When Delacroix looked at them next, his eyes widened in fear; these had no faces, black as the depths of hell, relentlessly attacking, a never ending wave of darkness. The snow billowed and blew, reducing his visibility to the frozen tips of his horse's ears, making the appearance and disappearance of the faceless horde all that more terrifying. Delacroix struck left and right, gripping with frozen thighs to the mount he rode, who slipped and skid on the surface, the ice calks in their shoes only providing minimal traction.

Outside of this fever-dream, in the tent, DuQuay groaned, flailing, her breath coming in odd foggy puffs of air, the black stain spreading on her chest.

Houchard rested a trembling hand on his daughter's forehead and exclaimed at the chill he felt. Why was she... freezing?

"Grandjean - fetch blankets! She is like ice!"

[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...

[lepremiercoquillard]

Delacroix gasps in pain, falling from his horse, the darkness following him down, down, down... down... no impact on the snow, just perpetual falling into a black pit of despair, his cuirass melting away, his old wounds opening up, a roaring in his ears and the pain of utter despair and desolation. He tries to grab at the lance, but it burns him, and he hisses in pain. He grips it harder, gritting his teeth, and tries to pull it out or crawl up it. "Be done with me, then! I'm already dead, you foul thing!"

"̸̖͒B̸͚͌́̕ͅǘ̶̦͒͝t̸̖͔͆ ̷̣́̑̇ÿ̷̡̡͎o̴̱͛ù̷͖̳͓̏r̶̲̩̃̅ ̴̧̹̓̈́h̷̝̱̀͒ͅo̵̰̲͑͝s̵̭̹̔̐t̶̨̨̄ ̵̭̮́̈́͜į̴̛̦̎͗s̷̛̼̍̈́ ̶͙̐̚ǹ̶̙̝̀ȏ̸̳͍̭́͘t̸̻̔͛!̷͉̠̄̽͝ͅ ̴̗̈̕͝I̴͊͝͝ͅͅs̶͖̱̼̊͗ ̴̻̼̿͜t̴̡̞̱͑̾h̸͎̆̑a̴̢̜̮͂̋ṱ̴̳̀ ̴̡͌w̶̻̌̚ḩ̴̛͇͌̊a̴̳̅͗ͅt̵̢͓̀ ̶̖̔̒y̶̗̹͉̚o̵̙̠̎u̸̪͌̈́͝ͅ ̴̰̠͘w̷̤͕͎̐i̴̪̓̿͝s̵̙̓̎͋h̶͖̅̄?̴̯͖̈́ ̶͈͂̂H̷̫͇̎͊m̸̦̅m̷͚̝͊̓m̸̤̞͑?̸̳̠̂ ̷͓͋F̷͉́ọ̵̯̖͊̿̅r̷͓̓̄ ̸̟̈́͋Ḩ̶̱͚̒͊E̶̬̍͝R̷͔̽̑͘ ̸͈̓́͂ţ̴̾́ó̵̘͘ ̷̲̝͌̏d̴͓̔í̷͙̖̂͝e̷̱̒̈́͗ ̴̰̥̳͒̒ȁ̵̧̳s̷͇̖̠͝ ̴̞̓̉w̵̘̰͠͠e̴̢̦̎l̴̺̤͗l̶̺͚̅?̴͇̯̈͝ ̷͈̟͖̃͛͝S̷̡̘͠͝u̷͍̞͐̃͊ͅc̴̭̅͠h̶̦̀͝.̵͚̔̄͜.̴̨̈́̄.̷̖͓̬́̕ ̶̲̟̻̈́ḋ̴̯͕͇̈́̀e̷̬͚̓͝͝l̶͓̣̖̍͌͘ï̴̥̹͉ć̷̼͉͝i̴̖͘o̶̮͠u̵͇̪͈̓̐s̵̛̹͗͝ ̴̞̗̣͂̅e̵̘̻̭̎n̷̠͓͉͗ē̴̡̖r̸̩͐͋͜g̴̘̊ͅy̶̬̯͎̾͘.̸̺̖͛.̷͎̣̙̈́̌.̴̛̭.̸̥̗͋ ̶̐͜s̷̮͗̿͜o̴̡̝͉͛͑ ̴̤̃̇̇ĥ̶̡̩ű̸̧͖̱͌͆n̷̙̺̈́̽g̶̘̑ȓ̶̖̰y̷̗̻̱͗͊̿.̷̟̘̃̐͐.̸͈̥̠̀.̷̰̱͇̌́̕ ̷͉́ŝ̸͉̯ô̴̫͖.̴̬͕̆̚.̴̧̂̔͌.̴̧̣̊̔͠ ̶͈̣̈́̾͘h̸̡͔́̈̅u̷̖͓̓̽ņ̴̧̲̈́̈͗ğ̶̯̳̂r̷̗̫͔͋y̵̱̍̉.̵̡͇̜̐͝.̸̡̫͆͆.̴̧͉̦̈́͝"̵̫͓̦̈́̓̓

DuQuay sits bolt upright, screaming, the black substance sticking to her hand through the bandage, Houchard immediately drawing her to him, holding her as Grandjean scurries in with more blankets.

"Silver... silver!" she manages to cough out.

Houchard looks down at his Saint-Louis medal, at the color of it, and makes a decision then and there. He rips it off of his uniform and presses it to the blackened wound, the black substance seething and boiling, turning into soot where the medal touches it, the rest retreating back, the medal sticking to the fabric outside the wound before it, too, dissipates.

"But your host is not! Is that what you wish? Hmmm? For HER to die as well? Such… delicious energy…. so hungry… so… hungry

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods briskly at DuPrel before turning back to his daughter.

"I need to know what this is, Adjutant... I can see by your uniform you are an Aide de Camp; so perhaps you might brief this old general on what this substance is and why it is affecting my daughter so. I need to know. I wish to bring her to my home to recuperate, where her husband might visit, and make his long-delayed amends for his caddish behavior."

Houchard was calm, his tone measured. No more the wild-eyed hussar of his youth, obviously, he understood the gravity of the situation at hand. He brushed back DuQuay's damp hair, with a look of tenderness and concern.

"... It... ate my medal. 'tis only a bauble come the revolution, to be sure, but it was of pure silver. If I had a hundred such medals I would readily sacrifice them again to see my girl restored to her health."

DuQuay's eyes were closed, and she was too weak to respond, but the nightmare - for now- was over. Houchard laid her back on the surgical cot and motioned for Grandjean to cover her with the blankets. He stood up, joints creaking, hunched over in the low tent and turned to DuPrel.

"Walk with me, Adjutant.... I find I am in need of a constitutional and a smoke; perhaps we may find your commander and Marshal Kellermann; I think it is time we discussed matters."

[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?

[levieuxchevalier]

(convo's in that Lorrain German from Houchard)

Houchard nodded, bending down to pick up a burning stick from one of the nearby cooking fires, lighting his pipe, the rich vanilla-cherrywood scent of American Burley curling around him in the blue smoke.

"Ach, ja... I did, perhaps. In my worry for my girl, I may have overstepped my boundaries. Ah but 'tis normal - we were generals long time before he was - you earlier than me by dint of your noble birth, Christophe; I'd have been content remaining a simple chef d'escadron, I didn't need much to be happy; with Catherine and my children; a retirement would have been sufficient for this old scarred body. But, France called and I had to answer; as I assume many of our men did as well. La Patrie en Danger.."

The two men continued along, walking until they found a place to sit, one of the cuirassiers of Delacroix's regiment dragging over a set of chairs under the shade of a tree, motioning for DesJardins to bring over a small camp table, two glasses and some more schnapps.

"Oh, thank you, trooper.. a place for two old men to rest their bones, share some schnapps and smoke in the shade is a good thing."

Houchard turned to Kellermann and sighed, his bushy eyebrows knitted together. He gestured with the hand that held his pipe, shrugging, brows going up and the only working side of his mouth giving a little downwards pout.

"My daughter - well, let us be frank, she is an adopted daughter, but a daughter none the less - she is headstrong. The two past lives within her do not help that one bit. Delacroix is somewhat more tractable, as he knows us and respects us.. most of the time. The other one... what is his name... Beaune... de Beaune.. he's a bit more... pompous, I would say. Brash, rude. Looks at us with starry eyes, yet always going on how he sacrificed himself and the regiment did to save France."

Houchard rolled his eyes at that, and spat on the ground.

"Zut, so many more have done that and more before him. He is nothing special. I may need to remind him, should he have the temerity to appear... the date of his own death arrives soon, and... that affliction which my girl suffers from at Waterloo is magnified; yet it only lasts a day instead of a damned fortnight. How bad off is your son, Christophe? My girl's got this.... black wound in her chest... it took my Saint-Louis medal. She was so cold... like she was freezing, muttering in her sleep about Cossacks... faceless hordes.. the blackness, the void... that substance ebbing and pulsing.. I saw it. Never seen anything like it... I think it would take a man smarter than I to understand what it was."

[les-ducs-de-valmy]

Retirement never quite managed to catch up to me, either... Well, at least the Senate was a marginally more peaceful existence than the army.

I think it is important for us old men to remember that those junior to us in years are still perfectly capable... 23 years of service in 34 years of life is nothing to scoff at, after all. If everyone blindly deferred to age, nothing would ever get done in any area of society.

Besides, someone like Lasalle is too viciously independent for that anyways... One cannot expect anything different from someone who joined the army at 11 years old.

Kellermann also sits down, his knees cracking as he does so.

Ach, children... You have it rather difficult, having three in the body of one. De Beaune may need some adjustment, perhaps he is simply trying to prove himself to people he respects. Mine... I never quite know what to do with him, I fear. I locked him in his apartments, and yet he got out anyways. He's in a very bad way now, can't stay awake for very long and seems to be in a lot of pain. At least they managed to get all of that substance off him, it looks painful...

[levieuxchevalier]

"Eleven? Gott in Himmel... that is entirely too young for a boy to... ach, I suppose it was for a reason? General Kleber, he was sent off to school at seven for the simple fact that he was such a gamin of the streets, running about in gangs and not learning anything that his step-father convinced his mother to send him away. Or so he tells us; one can never know if what he says is the truth or an exaggeration, you know."

Houchard reclined back in his chair and puffed on his pipe for a few moments, seeming to digest what his peer had said, his free hand tapping an old drum cadence on the armrest.

"So... a long service record in such a young one; and yes, perhaps I had been a bit too.. . ancien regime with him. I should rectify that, but my main concern is most definitely my girl -you say they got that substance off of your boy? She still has it on her, it seems to be from a deep wound; she is having nightmares, it seems. I do hope that young Adjutant who scurried off is bringing Lasalle here, I wish to know if there is a way to attract the rest of that substance out of her, so she can recover."

[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.

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard sucks on his pipe, and realizes it's gone out, and he sets it down on the side table, pouring Kellermann and he a last glass of the schnapps.

"Apologize? Ja, could do that. It does not speak well of a gentleman such as myself not to acknowledge when he's made a mistake; and the Lord knows I've made many... though Madame's suggestion of shooting Representative Hentz when he came to fetch me after Menin to arrest me would have been... rather harsh. I heard he's still looking for his other eye, you know... That REMf had the audacity to show up to my home, as I was with my wife and children, to make amends. He encountered Madame, and well.... "

Houchard shrugs, giving Kellermann a wink.

"They say hell hath no fury... and let me tell you... there are times I'm scared for General Kleber, if he ever pisses her off."

When DuPrel showed up, Houchard stood and tugged down his vest and sash, and picked up his plume-bedecked tricorne.

"My thanks, Adjutant, for your work in convincing your General to speak to me... Marechal Kellermann... it is good to catch up with an old friend. When this is all settled, do stop by with your son; I would like for him to meet my son, Jean-Nic - he became a man of letters after my death. A prouder father I could not be."

Houchard followed DuPrel to Lasalle's tent, thinking of how he could make amends to the younger General for overstepping his bounds.

Meanwhile, in the tent guarded by two troopers of the 3eme Cuirassiers, DuQuay groaned and sat up; rubbing her chest. It was near the anniversary of Woerth, and she knew that none of the surgeons would be able to fix what was going on with her. The entity's substance bubbled, burned, and she felt horrible that her father had sacrificed his Saint-Louis medal in an attempt to save her. She quietly slipped into her boots, grabbed a spare habit-veste, clapped on her mirloton, and snuck out of the back of the tent, keeping low and out of sight until she reached her horse, the crop-eared Caporal, saddling it up, leading it to a nearby rock and mounting up, going at the walk to the edge of the encampment, into the fog.

All right, you... whatever you are... it's time you and I had a little talk... and I will not rest until I get my goddamned answers...

[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...

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard nods, understanding, at Lasalle, his mouth working as it always does, that tremor never ceasing.

"I understand, General Lasalle... my concern is my daughter still has the substance on her person... you may not know - but she was having nightmares, and was cold as ice... she was mumbling about Cossacks, and when she rose up, that black tar was reaching out, like tendrils. She called for silver, and... the only thing I could think of was my Saint-Louis medal--it means nothing now, in this time; just a bauble I earned by these scars upon my body... it...it ATE the silver, General. How can I get this off of her, so I can bring her home to my house in Sarrebourg so she can continue to heal?"

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

Meanwhile, in the liminal space that DuQuay is occupying, she is having a helluva time keeping her mount from bolting, as the crop-eared bastard rears and whirls, his former life as a reining champion on full display. She clings like a monkey to his back, mirolton gone (again, dammit!), the horse groaning, trembling, rolling his eyes so that the whites were showing.

"Dammit! Caporal! Ho! HO!!"

The fog begins to shift, and the smell of iron, mud, gunpowder and death begins to become more prominent.... DuQuay's left arm goes numb, wooden, and with a gasp, the large Cuirassier colonel Adrien de Beaune finds himself in possession of his own body again, his bay frothing underneath him, surrounded by his 9th cuirassiers, as Woerth again comes into view.

"NO! NO!!! It's a TRAP! Soldats! A trap!! Wheel right! Wheel RIGHT!"

Puffs of smoke waft out from windows, the rattle of gun carriages and shouted Prussian orders, garbled among the screams of both horse and man. They are trapped, again. The 9th Cuirassiers, the pride of France.... about to sacrifice themselves again on the Altar of the Empire; the Goddess of War a bloodthirsty bitch....

[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.̴̋ͅ.̸̣́.̶̟̾

[levieuxchevalier]

Houchard settles into the chair opposite Lasalle's little campaign desk and sighs, running his hand over his face.

"She was under the guard of a pair of 3eme Cuirassiers.. I found myself in need of some air.."

When the elder Kellermann bursts in with the news, Houchard stands up, nearly upending the tent with his great height and consternation.

"HIMMELHERRGOTT WHAT?"

Houchard roars, his face terrific in his rage.

"I'll give those two lâches something to think about!!"

The three men go over to the tent that once held DuQuay, where Grosjean is already berating the two troopers in his strong Lorrain german, absolutely laying into them, his mustache flecked with foam, his sabre drawn, striking them alternatively with the flat of it.

"I'll flay yer goddamned cuirasses off and then yer thrice-damned sorry hides! How did you miss her? Dereliction of duty! I'll have you mucking out the stables with your fucking TEASPOONS you sorry sacks of shit in tin cans! Regarde-moi dans les yeux quand je te parle ! Qu'est-ce que tu glandes, espèce de lavette ?! Espèce de bougre de petit salopard!"

"Sir! Sir! OW! SIR! She... she... she didn't go out the front! She... the back flap was open, sir! OW OW!! OW!!"

Houchard turned to Lasalle, worry warring with exasperation on his features.

"My daughter is headstrong, and protective.... she more than likely rode off to get answers... I... I want to charge in there and bring her back by her damned stubborn queue... However, I am not a stupid man, whatever the CSP said about me... you know this... this void better than any of us, General. Je vous en prie, bring her back... I'll handle these two, before Grandjean turns them into paté... just... be careful."

_________________________--

In Woerth, de Beaune tries valiantly to get his men to listen, to see him, but he is helpless; his heart is in his throat, and he weeps.

"No... no.... we.... we.... this sacrifice.... it saved the French Army.... allowed them to retreat while we bled... while we all died... and still, the battle was lost... WHAT WAS OUR SACRIFICE FOR? WHAT DID I BLEED AND DIE FOR? NO!! NO!!! WE DIED FOR FRANCE! NOT FOR KINGS, NOT FOR EMPERORS!! THIS WAS OUR LOYALTY, TO DIE FOR OUR COUNTRY!!!"

[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!

[levieuxchevalier]

Grandjean pants, arm exhausted, and salutes Lasalle

"These bastards are the 3rd's boys... her own regiment. Well, er... Delacroix's regiment.... I ordered them... sir. I'll handle them. Go find her, please... "

Houchard glares at the two troopers, who cringe, knowing that the old man was by far the scarier of DuQuay's guardians, and the look Marshal Kellermann was giving them was no less severe.

-------------------- WOERTH--------------

De Beaune, overcome, roars with furious grief, drawing his sabre and slashing left and right to no avail. He spots a white flash and turns his bloodshot eyes in the direction, and his mouth falls open as he sees a legend from the era before him. General Lasalle. He swipes across his eyes with his right gloved hand, and turns his horse, rotating his upper body and shifting in his saddle, using his leg pressure to turn his mount.

"GENERAL LASALLE??? THE GENERAL??"

The entity is Not Having That, and surges forward, trying to block De Beaune from reaching Lasalle, and nearly knocks him out of the saddle, now the canister shot hammering at him, punching through his armor, melting it, the sucking wound on his chest pulsing and bubbling, the black ichor beginning to trail outwards like a tattered banner.

*Agh, fuck... FUCK... Adrien, can you hear me? Go! GO! Before you get us BOTH killed... follow General Lasalle!*

De Beaune gasps, pitching forward, his head aching, his body aching. That voice again, female. Hadn't he seen her... yes... the woman in the uniform.. his... counterpart. He trusted her... and he spurred his horse towards Lasalle with a shout, his sabre now a melted mass, only the hilt left. One of the void creatures surged forward, and De Beaune heard the woman's voice again.

*HIT IT IN THE FACE WITH THAT HILT! BRASS KNUCKLES, ADRIEN!! PUNCH IT!*

What an ODD thing to do... de Beaune followed the orders, though, and struck out, temporarily stunning the creature long enough to reach Lasalle, De Beaune beginning to slowly fall apart, the helmet gone, the cuirass hanging off and eventually falling to the ground, his bay's ears shortening, the last tendrils of the sucking chest wound leaving as de Beaune turned back into DuQuay.

"Yell at me later... get me out of here... I wanted to... Look, I'll tell you when we're safe..." DuQuay panted, her mirolton gone (again!), her hair nearly white now, with a few silver streaks; all her auburn hair had changed. "Can't even morph into Delacroix.. and I think I lost De Beaune just now too.... "

[thehussargeneral]

As De Beaune punches the creature with his hilt, Lasalle shoots at it, the thing disintegrating behind the cuirassier before it can recover. When De-Beaune-turned-DuQuay finally reaches his position, he stares her up and down before being reminded of their precarious situation by having to shoot down yet another creature with the last of his loaded pistols. Right, time to get out.

I damn well will, on both counts!

Now move and keep the fuck up!

Caporal may be fast, but Lasalle's strange little Arabian mare is just a little faster, still seemingly unfatigued from the run here. She takes a few steps at a walk, then shoots into a canter, winding back through the maze of streets that had led Lasalle to this place, the man looking back on occasion to make sure that DuQuay is actually keeping up.

The roar of battle gets quieter and duller, until eventually they are free of the town, and Lasalle's horse breaks into a flat-out gallop into the silence of the fog, almost painful now in contrast to the noise of Woerth, his ears still ringing.

It takes what seems to be an eternity of galloping, the mare not faltering once, but at last they enter something. Lasalle pulls her up into a walk, wiping the remnants of the liquid from his sword before returning it to its scabbard and continuing the walk through the streets of Strasbourg. It is populated, but the people go on with their days seemingly without noticing their presence, and no one says anything as he stops by a water trough and dismounts. It can be a bit strange, really, seeing people he once knew apparently unable to even see him.

He pays DuQuay little attention besides ordering her to do the same and let her horse drink, his focus on his mount and on observing the residents as if from behind glass. He does not want to yell at her yet, though his eyes and expression are already hard, and in his anger the primary way to prevent that is to simply ignore her.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay slides off of Caporal, panting, not able to meet Lasalle's hard expression at the moment. She knows what she did was both foolish and dangerous... but... the sucking chest wound is gone. She can faintly feel Delacroix and DeBeaune, the pulse of their souls alongside the hammering of her own heart, yet they are faint, as if in a slumber or a suspension.

She doesn't say a word, yet checks her tack and her horse, almost on autopilot. She is exhausted, and when she sees her face in the reflection of the window, she gasps.

"My hair... oh god... I look... " she murmured, carding through it with shaking fingers.

"I know this place... Strasbourg.. .Kleber's home... gods, I miss him... "

A single tear worked it's way down her cheek before she buried her face in Caporal's neck, shoulders shaking as she let her emotions run while the horses drank.

Pulling up, she swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her pelisse, reached into her pistol-holster and pulled out a small flask and a handkerchief. She blew her nose and then uncorked the flask, the strong scent of kirsch floating in the air as she drank half the bottle, holding it out then to Lasalle with red-tinged embarrassment on her cheeks.

"Je vous remercie, General, pour me sauver."

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle listens to her speak while continuing to pay attention to his horse, also instinctively checking the body and the tack, not looking up when she mentions Strasbourg but replying.

So it is. It was my home for a while, too, when I was young. Sometimes my younger self wanders these streets, too, not that he would recognise most of those I know now, and not that anyone would likely recognise him either.

It is one of the few safer places in this domain.

His voice was a little softer as he spoke about the town, but it hardens again and Lasalle rolls his eyes as she cries into Caporal's neck.

Don't get worked up yet, we still have a while to go, and most of the places we will pass now are ones that require a clear mind. I say you have had quite enough clouded judgement already today, have you not?

And as he takes the flask and drinks a little from it, certainly not the amount one would expect from Lasalle, he gives her a stare clearly learnt in the non-commissioned ranks.

Ne pensez pas que cela soit sans conséquence. Venez.

True to his word, the next few spaces they pass through are not the emptiness of before. They are battlefields, often directly through the middle: the Pyramids, Rivoli, Golymin, an interlude through the slippery streets of rainy Salamanca conducted at a gallop nonetheless. Then comes Medellin, and at last Torquemada, or at least what remains of it. While most of these places are hostile, at the very least they do not target them, and their primary task is therefore simply to evade being shot or charged over.

[levieuxchevalier]

She tries not to look amazed as they go through the battlefields - some she remembers as Delacroix, others she had only dreamed of - seeing the Pyramids was her dream, but it was not wise to stop - she thought she saw Kleber there, in a fleeting glimpse of one of the desert scenes, but she knew it only to be the void replaying, like an old film.

She understood the consequences of her actions, and wondered if it would be Lasalle or Houchard to deliver them, and if she'd be allowed to explain first, why she had gone out in the first place.

It was not a clouded judgement, but a curiosity - know thy enemy - would he understand? She was bone tired, the wound free of the black substance, Delacroix and De Beaune nothing but murmurs in her mind, in her soul - she was worried she'd never see those aspects of herself again.

They began to approach the edge of a pine forest as they went through Rivoli, DuQuay seeing Massena atop Sultan, or what appeared to be Massena - with both his eyes. That was... disturbing. Massena had an eagle's gaze, quite literally - his farsightedness was legendary... probably why he hated to read - couldn't see the words, probably.

"Is this the edge of the... are we nearly home?" she wondered, sticking close to Lasalle, head bent over her horse's neck.

[thehussargeneral]

Indeed they are, and as they ride back into camp Lasalle's first question is nothing to do with DuQuay, but rather the present state of General Kellermann. Only upon being reassured that he is fast asleep does his attention switch back to the wayward rider he has brought back with him.

You have five minutes to think of how to defend yourself. Then we will see if it holds up. I will also expect you to defend the incompetence and negligence of your men.

And with that, he walks back to his tent, finding Houchard and the others still there. Du Prel is told to time five minutes, and Lasalle turns to the others as he replaces the sword he took to the void with the usual one.

She is to defend herself, I do not expect nor will I consider any excuses any of you have to make for her. If this will be a problem, I suggest you find alternative preoccupations for a while.

[levieuxchevalier]

DuQuay dismounts, shaking, caught by Grandjean, who is trying NOT to explode at his comrade and friend, the two 3eme Cuirassiers trembling, wringing their forage caps.

Houchard, however, wastes no time, stalking forward and grabbing his "daughter" by her ear and dragging her off, giving DuPrel a look that says "you will allow me to chew her out first before you start timing ANYTHING"

"Ow ow ow ow ow! Papa! OW!" DuQuay squawks as she's dragged off, heels trying for purchase, spurs furrowing the ground.

"I do not care dat you are fifty, ja? You are damned well old enough to know better den to ride off like dat - sneaking past your men, embarrassing me and your entire regiment with dis foolishness! Explain dis breach of conduct to me, now - I am far less lenient than I tink Gen'ral Lasalle be! Vere is Delacroix in you, hunh? He put you up to dis? De Beaune put you up to dis? Vere are doze manner you claim vere inside you as past lifes? I chew dem out too!" Houchard was towering in his anger- more fear at losing her than true fury. The fury of a father who scolds his child for running out naked into the street as a toddler, who has to be frightening to get a point across.

"I...I... I wanted to know WHY it was doing this.. .why it was hurting men, tormenting my friends, going after Lasalle - I wanted to see WHAT it was... for real... where it came from... it would not answer me."

"Ov COURSE it not ansver you! You tink you can use dat kopf of yours, to siko-psyko-- ah... vat is de vord - CHARM it into tellings you? Get into it's headt and den komm to paix und verstanding? Wrap it all up in pretty bowz und gib it to Lasalle like prresent? Become heroine? Sauvez tous de cet' ombre? Haf you gone touched in de headt? Dis ting - is General Lasalle's to deal mit! You do not interfere! His land, his law, HIS problem! Verstand mich? Hmm? Now, you in big trouble, missy - gotta explain to Lasalle vy you do stupid ting like dis! Gib me heart crisis you did! Scare Gen'ral - Marshal Kellermann! If Kleber know, he put you over knee - I should put you over my knee! Paddle you good! Now, clean up, and you musst take responsibilite for all dis kerfluffle! Marsch! Hop! Hop!"

Houchard WAS livid - his Lorrain accent got thicker and thicker, and Grandjean winced - he'd heard THAT before.

"Old Hatchetface really giving her the goods, DuPrel. Might have to wait a few minutes for her to reattach her arse before Lasalle can chew it off again."

[thehussargeneral]

Du Prel nods, looking back at his pocket watch to try ten minutes instead.

Du Prel: I might suggest, Sir, that those two of your men keep themselves more out of sight.

Lasalle waits until Houchard is done, finally lighting his pipe again as he does so, though he is still clearly very displeased and ready to chew her out again at any stupid excuse.

And when Du Prel's count has finished, he sits up in his chair and exhales. He does like DuQuay, and doesn't particularly want to be doing this, but it is necessary.

What have you to say for yourself?

And perhaps more pertinently, what would you do with you in my position?

[levieuxchevalier]

"Oh... do not worry, DuPrel - I'll have 'em polishing d'Hautpoul's new bottes-fortes - and mine - for their punishment." Grandjean nods, the two cuirassiers groaning.

DuQuay comes out of the tent looking thoroughly chagrined, Houchard behind her, his mouth working in agitation, as it always does, his arms folded across his chest, boot tapping on the dusty ground.

"You ver asked a qvuestion, tochter. I suggest you answer."

DuQuay swallowed hard, looked down at the ground and then, with a deep sigh, raised her head up to meet Lasalle's steady gaze, her face steady, no emotion showing.

"If I tell you I was trying to find out what it wanted... it would matter not - because it did not answer me, and only tormented me further. I should have listened to you in the first place - no living person should go into that fog. I was doing my duty to save General Kellermann at first, as I had charged alongside him at Waterloo. I felt obligated to follow him, as Delacroix. I did not - or rather - thought that the Void would leave me be; that my past life would distract it - it did not - it drew on my life force, and that of my prior lives. It is hungry - and my men suffered for it. I went back to confront it, to do my penance for my mistakes, and made a larger mistake, putting you all at risk. Had I been in your place, General Lasalle - and it was you...I'd have busted you down a rank - yet I hold no rank. I no longer have the ability to shift into either Delacroix or De Beaune. I'd have you polish and repair the tack of the entire regiment, or at least a good portion of it, and bar you from riding with the regiment for a period of time. It would only be fair. I shall retire to Chaillot, and you please send any broken or dirty tack there, and I shall do my best to repair it and send it back in better condition. I shall be responsible for my men, and only my men."

DuQuay then fell silent, standing straight and tall (as she could, that is) - and awaited Lasalle's verdict.

[thehussargeneral]

Lasalle considers this response with little visible emotion, and perhaps waits to reply for a little longer than necessary, mostly for effect.

In '04 you may remember that I caused a commotion at the prefect of Agen's ball. For this I was placed under arrest for thirty days, while the prefect was dismissed from his post. I am quite sure he did not find the decision fair, but since I never heard anything of the man again I can assume that he took it with some sort of grace. The Emperor has no need to justify his decisions to others, but he certainly has reasons.

Just as you were to remain here after you returned for good reason. Yet you know my reasons, and were still insubordinate, reckless and rather stupid for a normally smart woman like yourself. You also did your men a disservice by placing them in a situation in which they must be negligent or fear conflict of interest, for they are guarding their own Colonel and must decide whose orders to follow.

Since you say you shall be responsible for them, I will tell you that the correct answer was mine, therefore they have been negligent in a manner entirely incompatible with their duty, themselves have been insubordinate as well, and I question just who has allowed the several smaller slip ups that usually lead to such failures. Tell me, who am I to deem responsible: yourself, as Colonel, your subalterns, or your non-commissioned officers?

If you have not forgotten yourself entirely, then you know which answer is correct, and I hope that I do not need to make you state it like a child. Did Delacroix not spend enough time in the light cavalry to know that such blunders and negligence are what wastes men on campaign and loses battles that did not need to be lost?

His voice is largely cold and unattached, but at the last sentence it sharpens and raises, almost as if the thought comes dangerously close to something personal.

It is something I expect any soldier to understand, but you in particular! I understood by the time I was twelve, it is no great mystery!

Truthfully, I am not satisifed with your explanation, but that is likely because there is no satisfactory answer for such conduct. I likely also will not be satisfied by anything you have to say to me regarding your men, but nonetheless I will demand that you explain to me how such negligence and derelict of duty was permitted to happen, and what you will do to prevent it from happening again, if only so that it is forced to remain in your mind for a time, and because I asked for it in the first place and you failed to answer.

In some ways, Lasalle has taken remarkably after the older Kellermann when it comes to lectures and reprimands, but in others he takes after the Alsatians who raised him, likely with much of the same methods. But the primary difference is that Lasalle is not a physically violent man, rather preferring to force his victims to explain their failures in detail.

The intent is, of course, to force one to reflect on it to prevent it in the future, but it also happens to be embarrassing at times.