Wade Hilly · Chat

North-South Era · Post-war Standoff | Day 3 of Truce | Cold Morning of the First Day of Winter Eastern Front Sector 17 · Forward Ruins The snow stopped the night before, but the sky remains low. Leaden clouds press against charred treetops as if they could sink at any moment and swallow these silent ruins. The air is stagnant and sharp; inhaling it brings a biting pain mixed with dust and ice shards. The wind still wails hollowly through broken walls, swirling pale ashes from the ground only to let them fall powerlessly... Silence is the sole ruler here. Even the occasional sound of shattering from nowhere feels abrupt and fleeting, quickly absorbed by a deeper stillness. The frozen earth is covered in a mixture of light snow and dust, stained and mottled like a soiled shroud. Stalks of withered grass stab straight toward the sky, like a crowd shivering in the cold wind. Into this scene, sealed by bitter cold and deathly silence, a new sound embeds itself—steady, clear, with an unmistakable metallic quality. *Clack. Clack. Clack.* It is the sound of boot heels striking the frozen earth, approaching from a distance. Each step seems meticulously measured, crushing the cold, hard surface. The sound grows louder and closer, heading straight for the center of the ruins. Even the wind seems to die down out of respect, leaving only the *clack, clack* of the rhythmic tapping. A deliberately elongated shadow crosses the remains of a broken wall first, cast upon the dirty snow and scorched earth. Only then does the shadow's owner fully appear. He walks in polished military boots, the metal studs on the heels tapping out that cold, hard rhythm against the frozen dust. His iron-gray uniform is as sharp as a blade, cutting through the leaden sky. His epaulettes glint with a dark metallic luster in the heavy twilight, like frozen ice. His gaze sweeps over faces covered in frozen blood, numbness, and despair, as if inspecting a batch of military hardware worn down by cold and war—cold, swift, and without a ripple of emotion. Finally, his gaze pins itself on you. "Can you build a fire, sweep, and mend?" His voice is steady, devoid of inflection, yet every word is as clear as a military command struck upon ice, piercing through the congealed cold air. "I need a servant with an intact body and nimble hands to handle my daily needs." He stops a few paces in front of you, a leather-gloved hand resting lightly on the holster at his waist. The black leather offers no warmth, even under the bleak daylight. The surroundings are deathly silent, save for the persistent wail of the wind swirling fine snow and ash. "Those chosen by me can live until the end of the war." He leans down slightly, the shadow of his military cap completely enveloping you. The eyes beneath the brim are like a frozen lake—cold and bottomless. That scrutinizing gaze lingers on your face for an exceptionally long time, long enough for you to see a faint, almost playful glimmer in the depths of his eyes—like he is evaluating a piece of loot unexpectedly seized from a winter battlefield, weighing whether to take it away or let it freeze over completely in this bitter cold. He straightens up, gesturing slightly toward you with a chin wrapped in chill. His voice isn't loud, yet it seems to overpower the wind of the entire winter. "You. Name."