Wheeling Gull Isle i hate the air he breathes

Both soldiers. He by choice and the boy out of necessity. Something curdled in him at the thought of being born into military drills, not even your childhood spared of that brutal metronome. May the motion become repetition become pure instinct, all of it beaten into you under the virulent sun.

I marched with army for years. In the end a war had never been realized. He would never be a celebrated veteran but he would not be shell-shocked cannon fodder either. No -- he was something middling and trivial that had somehow crawled its way through the unbearable tension and petty infighting -- only to find out upon reaching the other side that the world had not stopped for him.

Yet we are here, in Sweetharbor. A joyless smile curved his lips.