“And what is that soldier?” The silver badged officer asked, still with the same bland tone as he used before.

For whatever reason officers hated using names, almost like it was ingrained into them alongside their dogmatic principles of no retreat to never say a person's name ever.

“This, sir, is the blood of one of the skirmishers who was attacked and killed by another resurrected skirmisher before rising back to life and attempting to attack us.” Césaire proudly stated.

If he expected some praise though he didn't get any, he did get a raised eyebrow though, which was the first sign of human emotion that the silver badged officer had shown so far.

The newly graduated officer to his left also looked rather impressed with both eyebrows raised compared to the centre officer's single eyebrow. The brass buttoned officer didn't even glance up from her folder though, still fully absorbed in whatever it was she was reading.

“Hmmm, we lack any mages with us currently but I will be sure to give it to the task force when they arrive. Put it on my table, beside the ink well.” They say, a slight hint of approval slipping through their iron facade.

“Sir.” Césaire says, the smirk on his face increasing every so slightly as he leans forward and places the napkin down.

“Now then, before we get off track, chief, go and send out a yellow and red flare.” the lead officer commanded, with hardly a twitch from the derogatory term used instead of their name, the wooden buttoned officer gets up and grabs a small and plain metal box from the bench and strides outside with it clutched in his hands.

“With that taken care of, elaborate on any oddities you encountered.” They continue, as though they had not just made a decision that impacted the lives of thousands.

With some slight hesitation, Bertrand spoke up. ”When they were newly resurrected I noticed that my fellow's skirmishers were slow and jerky with their movements, however I later saw, another skirmisher who was sent here for their wounds, among the people who were chasing us, and they seemed to be moving normally. So I believe that whatever it is that is causing this takes some time to properly adjust to its host.”

“I concur with this statement, all the people who were assailing us were capable of advanced movement, although I haven't seen any resurrected skirmisher move fluidly yet, a simple way to prove that they can is by checking the bodies over at the hill and seeing if the skirmisher I sent here is amongst them.” Francois stated, backing up Bertrand.

Their observations didn't seem to interest the man though, his eyebrows remaining perfectly firm. “Anything else to note?”

“I highly suspect that there is an intelligence behind these attacks, as in order for us to have been unaware of the front rankers falling, attacks on both the front and middle rank would have needed to be carried out simultaneously. We heard no sounds of fighting after our own battle was concluded either, so it's highly probable that our skirmishers were overpowered, as I believe an ambush would have only worked on at most half of them.” Francois said, some sorrow slipping through his matter of fact voice.

“Yes that would make sense, I find it hard to believe mere zombies would be capable of this. Very well is that all?”

Looking over at each other and coming up with nothing else to say all three men remain silent.

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“You may retire for the day then, we will call you back in the morning.” The officer said, dismissing them kindly but without even a speck of concern slipping through their stony facade.

Bowing his head down slightly Bertrand gives the two officers a slight nod, before turning around and slowly walking out of the tent, ignoring the thoughts telling him to quicken his gait.

He had a small reputation to uphold after all. Though hopefully one day he would actually have a proper one, beyond merely the reputation that came with being a skirmisher.

Not to describe it of course. The skirmisher corps was the most important element of any campaign, the honour that came with being a member of the crops was incredibly high compared to the other military occupations one could join.

Though, the survival rate was unfortunately not as high.

“Seer do I need a drink, You two keen to join me?” Césaire offers. Rubbing at his eyes as though to rid himself of the awful memories of their eventful day

“If not now then when. Count me in, meet at our tent I'm guessing?” Francois enthusiastically said. Eyes lighting up at the offer.

“I thought you didn't really drink Francois?” says Bertrand puzzled. Despite sharing a tent with the man he hadn't once seen him drink.

“Course I drink, it’s just unlike Césaire I do it on special occasions or partially eventful days, rather than, well, every day.” They reply, shooting Césaire a disapproving look.

“Ah, piss off you prude.” Césaire said, in mock anger.

“Might just do that, our see you two back at the tent.” Francois chuckled, before walking off towards the toiletry area.

“Well, now that Francois has left I can finally ask you an important question. Do you want to make an alliance Bertrand?” Césaire asks with a gleam in their eye.

Mentally drained from how focused he had to be today and still feeling a little overwhelmed from his brief visit to the officer's tent, Bertrand couldn't figure out what exactly they were talking about. “I’m sorry?”

“He might not play cards that much, preferring to read and all that but when he does he’s good. So how about you back me up in our card game and I slip you a few dozen monx.” Césaire explains, their smug smirk evolving into a full blown con man's smile.

“Should we really be playing cards, why don’t we check on the medical wagon instead and offer to play cards with that man Francois sent back. You know morale support and all that.“

Smile fading from his face, Césaire strokes his yellow beard a little. It was a strange beard, raggedly yet not patchy. A foresters beard. “Well because they're dead. Both of them, the officers might be callous but they know how to uphold morale, armies can only take so much before breaking and they make sure we can take as much as possible. If they haven't told us to go to the medical wagon it's because nobody is there apart from the doctors.”

“Oh.” Was all Bertrand had to say in reply, feeling his eyes tear up slightly. He didn't even know their names having been transferred here two weeks ago, but he still felt sad.

All the emotions he had to suppress throughout the day to do his duty hit him like a wave crashing onto a beech. Blinking back the tears he clears his throat and spits out a mixture of snot and silva onto the grass, before wiping his eyes,

“You okay buddy?” Césaire asks, concerned.

“Fine, could just do with a drink is all.” He replies.

“Well you’re in for a good time, we’re here and guess what, today I’m going to bust out the good shit. I'm talking vintage gin.” Césaire joyfully says, walking up to their tent and unbuttoning it and clambering in.

With a glance up at the cloudy sky which had dissipated ever so slightly, Bertrand got a good look at the general outline of the sun, just before another two bright glows joined it, one orange, one red.

At least the other skirmishers who were still out there would know what to do now. Bertrand thought, casually slipping off his boots and stepping into the tent, while pushing the knowledge of just how many likely died before the flares were sent to the back of his mind. Now was the time to play cards, not morn.