Aurum

Chapter 3:

Priscilla could have cried as she collapsed into her borrowed camp bed, its worn joints creaking ominously under the weight of her gear. She was exhausted from the march, days of endless trudging through snow coated fields that they dragged their corpse-like bodies across, speeding towards Isvirki. As she finally settled, drained completely, her eyes shuttered, and her mind sank – into the oblivion of a deep, unconscious sleep.

"All to the west of camp!" The order rang out, loud yet foggy – barely registering upon the faces of Priscilla's fellow soldiers, as she collapsed deeper yet into sleep.

"All to the west now!" It blared again, this time merging with Priscilla's growing dreams, forming a state of near suspension in her make-believe world.

Her eyes jolted open as she flew to the floor. The bed crashed downwards with force, leaving her frozen under a pile of heaving equipment, immobile as orders were being shouted from every direction. The faint sound of screams narrowed her vision, as screams rung like sirens around her. The sounds were oppressive, they enveloped her, a cacophony of suffering, overwhelming fury flew around her collapsing tent, enveloping her, crushing her.

Pinned under a bed-frame, she aimed a kick, and adjusted herself to face upwards, towards the ebony black sky, peppered with stars observant in their peace, through the holes ripped across the fabric of her tent. Laying there, she took slower breaths, her eyes darting from left to right. Silence radiated through the disturbed frigid sky, the absence of peace trickling through the shards of a disturbed night. Eventually, cursing, Priscilla pushed the bed-frame off of her, leaving it heaped on the floor, before clambering through contorted metal rods, out of the tent. She stumbled into the snow, stained blood-red, a light frost already blanketing the corpses strewn around her. It took all her willpower not to gag, as she marched through the flats of snow, meandering almost deliriously towards the centre of camp. A second attack in just a few weeks, she realised, as the dim lamps of the central ring of tents grew brighter, 2 attacks and a plague – She wondered if the offensive had been cursed, if they had been sent out here to die, and as she did a growing exhaustion toppled her, as she fell into the unbroken snow, her shimmering armour a beacon in the darkness of the camp.

She awoke freezing, as dawn rose on the camp, and climbed to her feet, draped cloak dragging on the ground as the sun reflected in crimson off the blood-stained swords in the distance. She walked with much effort towards the remainder of her army, a beleaguered mass of fed-up soldiers languishing in the icy expanses of Acies. She slumped next to some worse-off looking troops, and picked a bowl of frigid soup, looking out. The attack had only affected her tent and a few others, leaving the majority of the camp unscathed, but nonetheless, as Pricilla took stock of the army, she noticed that their numbers had halved – the traditional 5,000 soldiers per army, falling to a mere 2,000 as they continued towards Isvirki Fort. Eventually, she drained the soup, and joined the army as it marched, onwards through the endless flats.

"How can a place be so desolate" rung a familiar voice, refined yet hoarse with exhaustion.

"Hmm?" Priscilla knew who was talking, but shattered and starved, she felt nothing but a desire to sit near a fire and lounge.

"I'll repeat" The voice said with indignation "How can a place be so desolate" Every syllable was stressed, in a show of muted offence.

Priscilla wheeled around, almost tripping in the snow, to face Violet Silas, she'd only known Violet for a few months, - ever since joining the army, - and whilst Violet had her peer, Priscilla had soon vowed to stay further than earshot from her at all times. It wasn't out of spite, or anger, or cruelty, but rather self-preservation – Violet was cripplingly narcissistic, in every single aspect of her life – her unapologetic self-centeredness drove Priscilla towards insanity, - if only Violet hadn't insisted on their acquaintance, after she'd found out about Priscilla's minorly aristocratic background.