GEOFFREY STONE OVER THE TOP! Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo Shovel them under and let me work-- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work. -Carl Sandburg, "Grass" Flanders, 1917 A.D. "I will teach you as time allows," Major-General Cumberland says. "The war takes priority, of course....you and I have all the time in the world, but the war won't last forever." It takes a few weeks before you begin to suspect that he says this with regret. Cumberland begins drilling you in basic fencing techniques, with the saber that comes with your new dress uniform. You feel even odder than Cumberland, carrying it about with you, even in trench khakis, but he insists you never leave it behind. One day when you do, he draws his own saber and stabs you through the heart. It's late evening when you gasp and open your eyes again, still remembering the pain and the cold blackness that closed around your vision. Cumberland tells you that most wounds will heal very quickly, but actually being killed is a major trauma even for immortals, and can take hours or even days to recover from. His lessons are like that; abrupt and brutal. He is a driven man, and the look in his eyes still makes you uneasy. He seems to intimidate the mortals around him even more. Apparently they are used to his eccentricities; you're still not sure how he explained away the gunshots fired in his tent that night, but no one questions the sudden elevation of Sapper Stone to Lieutenant Stone, at least in your hearing. The other officers are coolly civil to you, but show surprisingly little true disdain, which is what you would have expected. You are not, after all, from the sort of background one expects of officers. Apparently Major-General Cumberland's reputation has enough weight to dissuade any hazing of the man he inexplicably field-promoted. You have few chances to see your old comrades in the Royal Engineering company; when you do, they salute and mumble banal greetings, nervously. An invisible line has been drawn between you. Cumberland shares some of the strategic planning that goes on in Staff HQ with you, which puts you more in the know than most other junior officers. You're rather dismayed to learn how cavalierly the generals view the "expenditure" of troops to gain certain objectives whose true strategic significance escapes you. And your mentor seems to be among the most bloodthirsty of all. He describes battles between Loyalists and Roundheads, he reminisces about Waterloo, he mentions India, South Africa, France, and the burning of Washington in that trifling little war with the colonists a century ago, and always it's about how much damage was done to the enemy and how much more decisive the victory for England could have been (or how England could have *been* victorious) if only more troops had been available. He draws battle diagrams for wars past and present, teaching you more about strategy than you're learning about swordfighting, trying to instill in you the same passion for a victorious England that he has.....but somehow, the true source of his patriotism escapes you. You love your country, but does Cumberland, or is he merely obsessed with winning? Repeatedly you look at arrows and lines that to Cumberland represent forces and strengths and weaknesses, but to you represent men bleeding and dying at the behest of ribbon-encrusted generals back in the command tent. Draw an arrow here, and a thousand men charge into a line of machine guns. Circle that terrain feature, and a battalion will spend a night in Hell trying to hold onto the useless, muddy, mortar-blasted hill that the little mark on a paper map represents. He strides among the trenches, with you in tow, increasingly wondering just what your purpose is here, as he certainly doesn't need you for anything. The crack of a sniper's bullet still makes you duck (when you hear it, through the damned persistent ringing in your ears), and you note the shell-shocked expressions of the men living out here like you did until a few weeks ago. Cumberland doesn't, and he doesn't even seem to notice when the enemy is within shooting range. His immortality has inured him to the spectre of death. He seems to be continually inspecting the front lines for something, and his gaze travels along the opposing front, across the bloody sea of mud, as if he's trying to find something, or someone. One evening he tells you, "Damned if I know where the Hun bastard is, but I know he's out there, Lieutenant Stone." That night comes news of a terrible raid by German stormtroopers, those elite enemy soldiers who cross no-man's land in total darkness, sneak past the wires, and launch bloody incursions into the very trenches of their foes. The damage they inflict on a single raid is usually not that significant, but the effect on morale is devastating. There is often an unspoken agreement between the German and British front line soldiers, not to shoot at one another at certain times, so that everyone has a chance to move about, collect the dead and injured, or just relieve oneself, without being picked off by a sniper. The stormtroopers are notorious for violating these unofficial treaties. Cumberland is in a fury, as you are woken up in the dim pre-dawn light. "It's HIM!" he snarls. "I know it, his handiwork is writ large....I wouldn't be surprised if he personally created and trained those so-called 'stormtroopers'. Bloody thrice-damned Hun mongrel! He's mocking me! Daring me to come get him!" Cumberland's eyes blaze at you. "You have been on trench raids before, haven't you, Lieutenant?" <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey couldn't understand someone like Major Cumberland. Being patriotic was one thing - Geoffrey wouldn't dispute that, since he'd actually volunteered that three-year eternity ago - but the Major carried it to obsession. Yet somehow, it seemed as though he had more interest in the power of the country than its people. He could understand the idea that a piece of land might be of greater value than at first it appeared: before the war, he'd seen enough bits of ragged, worthless wasteland turned into valuable houses. And he knew that warfare cost lives. But the sacrificing of lives just so that the people back home could declare a victory, just so that the commanders could claim to have won the latest round in some great game... that was something alien to him, something repugnant. While he didn't voice his suspicions out loud, it seemed to Geoffrey that the better commanders all achieved their objectives while negotiating a discount on the blood. Perhaps immortality wasn't a good thing for a commander. It was certain that the present campaign was long on blood and short on point. The Hun were welcome to this swamp: it didn't provide them with a useful position to launch an attack, and there was nothing valuable about the location itself. Geoffrey had now heard that the generals' advisors had been suggesting a retreat to a better defensive line for *years* - the battle had more to do with the generals' pride than any strategy. It made him feel very bitter; maybe he should use his immortality to get to a higher rank and do a better job. *** After Cumberland's brutal demonstration of why he had to wear a sword, he came up with an explanation for others: a wry laugh, and "the Major's a stickler for details. The regs say a sword is part of the uniform, so I have to wear it". *** Geoffrey didn't need to ask who Cumberland was talking about. Only another immortal - one on the other side - would wind him up into this sort of fury. "Yes, Sir, though only a couple, to mine the trench as we left." <><><><><> [GM] "Well," says the Major-General, "to-night we are going to handpick some men and go back over the top. They'll be staging a trench raid, just like the bloody stormtroopers, to give the Hun a taste of their own medicine-" he grasps the hilt of his saber and stares you down, "-but you and I will be looking for other prey." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: "Another immortal, Sir? A Hun?" Geoffrey isn't sure how to react. On the one hand, the person they were going after hadn't done him any personal harm. On the other hand, if what Major Cumberland said was correct, their target would be doing his best to kill them both. He helps the Major pick a raiding party, chosing men than he knows are either experienced raiders, or good at being careful and quiet. The Major may not be interested in others' lives, but one Lieutenant Stone certainly was. <><><><><> [GM] "Yes," Cumberland says. "His name is Otto. Otto Maximillian the last time I encountered him, which was almost a century ago, but I'm sure he uses a different last name by now....perhaps even a different first name, but he's been Otto for as long as I know of. He's an ancient, barbarous son of a bitch, My own mentor lost his head to the bastard. Huns are worse than the bloody French...at least the French have been civilized longer." The 300 year-old English soldier pulls back the flap of his tent and looks out into the night. "I've sensed glimmerings of another Immortal presence, now and then. It could be someone else....oh, I'm sure there are others of our kind fighting on both sides in this war. But my instincts say that Otto is right here, probably holding a position equivalent to my own on the other side. He's been a member of the German nobility for centuries, so it would be easy for him to maneuver himself into a position in the German High Command. And he's always been stealthy and sneaky." "I'm going to finish our feud for once and for all. It's about time to eliminate one more old barbarian." ..... With your hand-picked team gathered (and they are more than a little startled to learn that Major-General Cumberland himself is coming along on a high-risk trench raid- Cumberland informs you he hasn't even bothered to inform his staff), two Immortals and twelve mortals crouch at the edge of No-Man's land. "Stone and I will take point," Cumberland says, again disturbing the enlisted soldiers, since this further goes against all common sense, putting the officers in the lead. Showing leadership is one thing, but putting the commander right out in front to be gunned down first causes Sergeant-Major Blevins to protest. Cumberland brusquely silences him. You're beginning to suspect that Cumberland has some nearly supernatural ability to stifle arguments from others. "The Lieutenant and I will guide the way, since we know exactly what we're looking for," Cumberland continues. "Under no circumstances are you to fire until I give the word. Once we meet the enemy, you'll start flinging grenades and inflicting maximum casualties among the Hun. The Lieutenant and I will proceed to our specific objectives." Once again, Cumberland manages to suppress the objections that such an obviously faulty, irrational plan raise in the minds of the others. To you, he says "When we find Otto....or whoever the other Immortal might be, the rules of engagement among Immortals require single combat. Your job will be to make sure no mortals interfere while I fight the Hun. It won't be quite as difficult as you imagine....mortals have a facility for ignoring us at times. As remarkable as it seems, the more out of place Immortals appear, the more prone mortals are to turn their heads away. The difficult part will be after the duel...the Quickening. But on a battlefield, even that will be easily rationalized by mortal observers." "Of course, if we get shot up at any point along the way, we'll just have to improvise and make our way back to the English front lines as best we can." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey is slightly worried by Cumberland's obliviousness to the men. Even if he has no interest in those who aren't immortal - the term still gives Geoffrey a strange thrill - he seems intent on causing as much curiosity as possible. He has a quiet word with Sergeant-Major Blevins. "The Major and myself have been given a special objective - I'm afraid I'm not allowed to discuss it. The rest of the trench raid is to cause as much damage, panic and confusion as possible, and then withdraw: if it's done right, the local Hun will be in for a few jittery, sleepless nights." *** "What is this `Quickening'? Is there something I should watch out for, Sir?" *** [OOC: Senior officers charging into battle isn't *that* bizarre: Lt.Col. "H" Jones was killed in the Falklands while leading a charge against a sub- machine-gun post. Though a Lieutenant-Colonel isn't quite a Major- General ] <><><><><> [GM] Cumberland checks his equipment, particularly his sword, before inspecting yours. "Ah yes," he mutters, slipping an extra knife into his boot. "The Quickening.....I told you that the only way we can truly die is by decapitation. Well, have you ever seen a normal man lose his head? Most who haven't are astonished at how much blood there really is....it simply explodes from the severed neck, in a red fountain." "Our kind are a little different, Stone. Our veins may be filled with blood while we're alive, but something happens at the moment we die. All that blood becomes....pure energy, for lack of a better term. It gushes out of us in an incandescent surge of power, like a fireworks display. It sets things on fire, it lights up the sky, and it arcs over anything metallic. It's quite spectacular, and of course, rather dramatically noticeable, which is why we tend to seek isolated places to stage our duels." His eyes shine as he looks at you. "There's more to it than that, though. That energy is actually the living essence of the slain immortal...and if another immortal is present, he draws that essence to him like a lightning rod. It's a bloody fantastic sensation that I can't even begin to describe, you just have to experience it yourself, but some immortals get drunk on it, and they go around seeking heads to experience it again. And you'll actually absorb some of the vitality and even the memories of the one you killed. That's what compels us to seek one another out and fight to the death....the Quickening. And that's why whoever is the last immortal will possess untold power, because all the Quickenings of every immortal who's ever been, passed on from one immortal to the next, down through the centuries, will converge in that one individual." "Now come on lad, let's go." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey hadn't seen a man decapitated, though he'd seen a few decapitated corpses. Still, he knew enough about plumbing to be able to imagine it... As for this `Quickening', he'd believe it when he saw it. All these firework displays on death sounded like pure invention, maybe by someone who'd spent too long in an opium den. On the other hand, General Cumberland seemed to know what he was talking about. And what would he do if the General *lost*? Still, plenty of time to demolish that bridge when he came to it. >"Now come on lad, let's go." "Yes, sir!" <><><><><> [GM] Cumberland's ability to pick his way across the bloody swamp between the English and German fronts is uncanny. He seems to have a preternatural ability to avoid sentries and machine gun nests. You are a nervous wreck before you've gotten halfway....the shelling and strafing that goes on unabated brings back all-too-vivid memories of your multiple deaths. The men following you perform well as you hit the first trench. You all cut down half a dozen Huns with precise shots, then you're in the muddy excavation, blazing away. Cumberland, however, grabs your shoulder and whispers "Come on....we're going on to the next trench. We're more likely to pass undetected if we're not accompanied by mortals." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey nods at Cumberlands words, but quickly gives instructions to the sergeant-major, if at hand, or one of the men otherwise: "Sow a bit more chaos, then withdraw before they're fully alert." Whatever ideas the General may have, Geoffrey has no desire to see more men killed than necessary. Then he follows the General on his hunting expedition. <><><><><> [GM] The Sergeant-Major nods. You hear more gunshots, and the loud "pop!" of a grenade kicking up a shower of dirt...still muffled by the ringing in your ears. Cumberland moves like a wraith, dispatching a sentry from behind with his saber. Even with this near-supernatural stealth that he says you possess as immortals, you can't see being able to wander around behind enemy lines indefinitely, though. Over a mile back from the leading trenches, you finally sense it. It took you a moment, because you've been in the General's presence almost continuously, and have gotten used to that tingling at the base of your skull, but the sensation increases and changes slightly, and you know you've come within range of another immortal. Cumberland senses it too, and rises to his full height from the shadows, despite being within sight of probably two score German soldiers. "OTTO!" he bellows, to your horror. "OTTO MAXIMILLIAN! ERINNERN SIE MICH AN?" <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: "B*******" mutters Geoffrey under his breath, "That'll bring the Hun running." Remembering the General's instructions, to keep the ordinary soldiers at bay while Cumberland fought Otto, he cocks his rifle. Trying to keep to the gloom, he intends to wait until Otto is identified and then pick off anyone else shouting orders. <><><><><> [GM] "Arthur? Is that you?" comes an accented voice from the darkness near the line of German tents, sounding astonished. You see several shadows leveling rifles at Cumberland. One of them yells something; you pick him off, which triggers a volley of shots in Cumberland's direction; he drops to the ground, whether diving for cover or hit by one or more bullets, you can't be sure. Someone is yelling orders in German, and the firing stops. Meanwhile, Cumberland is yelling at you- "Hold your fire, Stone!" "What is this nonsense, Arthur?" comes the other voice, drifting through the haze and gunsmoke. "And please stick to English....your German is atrocious." Lying in a small ditch, you can see the heads of other German soldiers silhouetted against the grey sky. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey holds his fire, wondering just what is going on. "Just trying to keep Otto's little friends busy, General" he replies quietly. He might hold his fire, but he'll draw a bead on any shadow that looks to be giving orders. If everything goes wrong, he wants to cause a bit of confusion to cover his escape. <><><><><> [GM] Cumberland rises again, grunting and clutching at his side- it looks like at least one bullet did hit him. The Major-General stands up and says loudly and clearly, "I've come to settle our feud, once and for all, Otto!" "Vas sagt er?" one of the Germans mutters. They seem as confused by this scene as you. You hear "Otto" snap some more commands at them in German, and they fall silent. The immortal Hun steps over the ridge atop the trench you're crouching in, so that he appears as a shadow against the grey sky.....an easy target. If he has any tactical sense, he must realize this. "First of all, Arthur, the name is not Otto anymore. It is Ludwig Von Kesselnau. GENERAL von Kesselnau, if you please." You see General Von Kesselnau's head moving about, searching in the darkness. "You have a friend with you, don't you?" "Nevermind him-" Cumberland says, and stops short as a bright light suddenly shines down into your trench, illuminating both of you. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey remembers the General's comments about a duel between immortals, but he wonders if the Hun soldiers also know. As the light shines, he flattens himself against the trench wall, trying to find whatever cover he can. <><><><><> [GM] There's no cover as the harsh spotlight illuminates both of you. Major- General Cumberland snarls and waves his fists, his saber clutched in one of them. "Do I understand you correctly, Arthur?" asks General Von Kesselnau in an almost pleasant tone of voice. "The two of us are both in command of thousands of men, in the midst of a war, but you decided you'd just come strolling across No-Man's Land to challenge me to a duel?" "What better way to resolve this conflict?" Cumberland snarls, waving his fist in front of his face, while trying to shield his eyes from the glare of the spotlight with his raised saber. There's silence for long moments, then you hear an audible sigh from the German. "Arthur.....Arthur......you know, I have always believed you to be slightly daft. But now it's appalingly evident....you aren't insane. You're just stupid." Cumberland bellows in indignant rage, and charges the muddy slope, trying to reach his adversary, who's now invisible in the blinding glare of the spotlight. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey shudders. He'd thought Cumberland had a better plan than that; the Hun's assessment is all too accurate. Only a fool would charge blindly up a muddy slope and hope to succeed - the General's only chance will be if the Hun immortal gets a bit too cocky. Should he try for a shot? Cumberland had ordered him not to fire, but he couldn't just stand idly by and watch the General be slaughtered. Hoping that Cumberland's charge will distract the soldiers for a fraction of a second, he raises his rifle and shoots out the spotlight. The moment it goes dark, he rolls to one side to avoid the bullets that are likely to head for where he was standing. <><><><><> [GM] Your rifle is the first to fire, and you hear a German swear as the spotlight flares out with a tinkling crash. A volley of return fire kicks up dirt inches from your feet, and you feel, more than hear, a bullet snap by your cheek. "Bloody idiot!" snarls Von Kesselnau, over the din. "Face me like a man!" roars Cumberland in return. "I'll be happy to settle this with you, *after* the war!" the German immortal replies. More shots ring out, and while you can barely see him, you hear Cumberland cry out, "Aaaarrghh!" and then he tumbles back down the slope. Von Kesselnau snaps more orders in German, and the shadowed heads you can see disappear from the ridge above you, leaving you without targets. "You, youngster," calls out the Hun. "Your mentor has gotten his last three pupils killed. He's a bloody lunatic. Just a friendly caution." Then he yells something that sounds like "Grenate!" and you hear a series of thumps on either side of you. You just have enough time to reflect that you're really coming to HATE getting blown up, when the flashes and detonations send you flaming into darkness...... You wake up, lying on your back, in thick, wet mud. It's still night, though you don't know if it's the same night. You feel the ground quivering beneath you, with vibrations from distant artillery shells. <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Much as he hates to side with the enemy, Geoffrey has to admit that the Hun's assessment of General Cumberland sounds about right: he *is* a lunatic. Then the world explodes around him. *** Geoffrey instinctively checks for wounds, not quite trusting this miraculous healing ability. Then he rolls over onto his stomach, and has a good look round. <><><><><> [GM] Your wounds are gone, though once again, your uniform is in bloody tatters. Standing, and shivering in the chill as your wet muddy uniform clings to your back, you instinctively dive for cover as a flash lights up the area, from a shell landing only a hundred yards away. You are obviously still within the war zone. You can't hear any voices or men moving within range of your hearing, however, though that's not surprising considering how poor your hearing has been lately. You sense an immortal approaching as you rise again. You can see very little in the smoky darkness. <><><><><> Geoffrey: [OOC: Does he still have either his sword or his rifle?] Geoffrey tries hard to make out which immortal it is. If he can sense him, then the reverse must also be true. He has no qualms about trying to escape, should it prove to be the Hun, but he's aware that a bullet or explosion would leave him too weak to defend himself. If it appears to be the Hun, he'll head in the reverse direction, staying low. <><><><><> [GM] You still have your sword, but your rifle is gone. It's Major-General Cumberland who emerges from the fog. "There you are, Stone!" he says gruffly. "Come on....the bastard dumped us in No- Man's Land, albeit a relatively unfought section of it. I reckon our nearest unit to be about four miles from here." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey feels a conflict of loyalties. This fool of a General is liable to get them both killed, and a great many mortals too. But he's still Geoffrey's superior officer, and Geoffrey is still a loyal soldier, despite everything. "Yes, Sir. Which direction, Sir?" <><><><><> [GM] "Good God, did we really send men to fight in that?" -General Haig's Chief-of-Staff, visiting Passchendaele for the first time, after the offensive ended (November 8, 1917) "It's worse further up." -The driver of his staff car You and Major-General Sir Arthur Cumberland make it back to your unit. Not all the members of your hand-picked strike force were so lucky. Three men, including the Sergeant Major, died....though they did inflict many casualties on the Germans. Major-General Cumberland is a man obsessed. He plots, he plans, he devises strategies to break through no-man's land, to shatter the German front lines, to "Get that bloody Goddamned Hun!" He sends his advice up the chain of command, and fumes when his strategies, even bloodier and expensive in terms of manpower than what's already occurring, are declined. In Cumberland's mind, you begin to suspect this is no longer a war between Britain and Germany. It is a personal contest, between himself and that German immortal. He rants and rages. Even the other staff officers, who are clearly used to his eccentricities, are becoming increasingly uneasy. The primary reason he is tolerated, you learn, is that he is the highest-ranking British officer to actually come to the front lines and expose himself to gunfire and artillery and poison gas. The men admire him for that. You find it hard to credit him with exceptional bravery, knowing that he isn't really risking death or dismemberment. On the other hand, is he really worse than the commanders much further back, in their comfortable staff tents, planning this entire futile campaign? He does begin teaching you to fence. And he is very, very good. You can't touch him. He parries you effortlessly, and slashes you over and over again, in the face, and arms, and thighs and body. You dread your daily fencing lessons....the pain never becomes more bearable, even though your wounds close in minutes. Cumberland asks pointedly whether you'd prefer to lose your head and be free of pain forever. He teaches you the Rules. You can't fight on holy ground. You can't use ranged weapons in a duel. You can't kill an unarmed opponent. You can't let others interfere. You can't involve mortals. From what you've seen already, it seems these Rules are somewhat open to interpretation. But Cumberland is deadly serious about them. Other, "optional" parts of this strange immortal code, not Rules, but rules....you should teach fledglings, not kill them. It's rude to engage someone in a duel without giving your name. Don't kill mortals unnecessarily. (Does directing a campaign that kills thousands of men in a single night count?) Give your opponent time to outfit himself or herself (yes, there are female immortals!) as they wish. Give them time to put their affairs in order, if they have mortal ties. (Most definitely, these rules are open to interpretation....Von Kesselnau himself pointed out that he was refusing Cumberland's challenge because he was busy leading troops in the middle of a war! Cumberland seems to feel that as he was putting himself out to the same degree, the challenge was justified.) The offensive goes on. More men die. General Haig seems to think the German surrender is imminent; where he gets his information, you can't imagine. You hear that back in London, Prime Minister Lloyd George is receiving advice from many sources to halt this campaign...and ignoring it. Another massive offensive is staged in October. Thousands die on both sides, and your side gains another few worthless yards of frontage. On November 7, 1917, the Allied forces launch one last attack...this time pushing forward all the way to the village of Passchendaele itself. The village is captured by the Allies. The village is a bombed, burned-out husk. All its surviving inhabitants have long since been evacuated. There is nothing here but blackened walls and a pock-marked moonscape that once was a cow pasture. The village has no strategic value whatsoever. It never did. General Haig proclaims that the offensive has served its purpose. As you and Major-General Cumberland stride through the "streets" of this former Belgian village, the elder immortal is unusually somber, and you believe that even this possible madman realizes how hollow an achievement this was. <><><><><> Geoffrey: An increasing annoyance develops in Geoffrey. Did the General really not care how many lives were sacrificed in his quest? In some respects, General Cumberland was *worse* than the arm-chair commanders who were running the war - at least they were killing their own men in an effort to win the war, not for some stupid personal game! >Cumberland asks pointedly whether you'd prefer to lose your head and be free >of pain forever. "No, Sir" - *Otherwise I'd have killed myself months ago* he thinks. >He teaches you the Rules... it seems these Rules are somewhat open to >interpretation. But Cumberland is deadly serious about them. *Rules are for games, and killing people isn't a game* thinks Geoffrey. "Why are there rules, Sir?" he asks, "Who set them?" "What a magnificent victory" Geoffrey mutters sarcastically under his breath, "We've liberated some rubble. I hope the rubble appreciates it." He can't help feeling that the victory really belongs to the Hun, fooling their enemy into sacrificing large numbers of men to no effect, men who will be sorely missed when a real objective is available. To say nothing of being sorely missed by their friends and family. <><><><><> [GM] "The Rules have been around....since forever," Cumberland replies brusquely. Which tells you he really doesn't know. "ALL immortals follow them....all those who haven't been marked as violators, that is." He turns on you. "I know what you're thinking, boy....why go to the trouble of learning how to fight with swords, against someone who's been doing it for centuries, when nowadays you could just cut him down with a repeater?" The Major-General leans close, eyes staring into yours in that unnerving, luminescent manner. "The Rules are the Rules, and EVERYBODY follows them. Don't question them and don't even think of breaking them...unless you want every other immortal in the world coming for your head, including me!" He turns away, and walks on, adding "If you break the Rules, YOU aren't protected by them anymore either." <><><><><> Geoffrey Stone: Geoffrey still couldn't understand, but it was clear that the General accepted the rules implicitly, and couldn't explain why. Maybe it was a class issue, a sort of chivalric code. Of course, that still raises questions about what happens if there are no witnesses... [OOC: He'll probably understand the rules better after the Geneva convention] He follows General Cumberland through the rubble, staring at the ruins. So much devastation, for so little gain. <><><><><> [GM] What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle. Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of the wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shores. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-bys. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds. -Wilfred Owen, "Anthem for Doomed Youth" December 8, 1917 A.D. Belgium Later historians will debate over the exact numbers killed on both sides during the Third Battle of Ypres. Not long after the war, "official" British records will lower the body count to a number that is absurdly low and still horrifically high. Five miles were gained, during the past three months, to absolutely no effect. Major-General Cumberland keeps you close at hand, still trying to plot a way to break through the lines here at Passchendaele. Thus you aren't directly involved in the Cambrai campaign, which enjoyed initial success, with a much-needed boost to the morale of Allied forces. 200 tanks led the offensive against the Hindenburg Line, smashing through the German front and taking the town of Cambrai itself, conclusively demonstrating that these new war machines can be quite effective when properly utilized. Unfortunately, they are not. The armored battalions achieve their objective, but they are not supported. With no infantry following them immediately to hold the territory they gained, the tanks are forced to retreat as the Germans swiftly recover much of the territory they lost. And the war goes on, the European front still mired in a gory deadlock. You're learning more than you want to about how officers conduct themselves when safely removed from the front. Cumberland, to his credit, lives in Spartan fashion and doesn't abuse his rank to live a life of ease, but Cumberland is a madman, who will send thousands of mortals to their deaths so that he can continue his vendetta against a centuries- old rival. Your fencing lessons remain painful and instructive. You've learned not to ask too many questions. If someone like Major-General Cumberland were coming for your head, you know that your only hope would be a gun, not a sword, but he is adamant about these archaic Rules, and perhaps it isn't wise to cross social conventions practiced by men and women who are older than most of the countries fighting this war. Early in December, the Major-General calls you to his tent. After you report and salute, he puts you at ease, and to your immense surprise, seems in almost a cheery mood. "Stone, I need you to run an errand for me. So....I am arranging for you to have a week of liberty, back home. Lucky you are, that you're going to see England again before I will, but I need to stay here, and this needs delivering." He's signing a document of some sort on his field table, using a very archaic quill pen. <><><><><> Geoffrey: Exposure to officers allows Geoffrey to see just how seriously social rules can be taken. After seeing one officer ostracised for a week for some mysterious infringement involving a decanter of port, he starts to understand how some people could view the breaking of arbitrary rules as more serious than murder. It was a strange, alien world, though. *** Geoffrey couldn't believe his ears when Cumberland gave him his orders. He was going back to Blighty! Only for a week, but even a week was a welcome relief from the daily strain of the Front. "Yes, sir. What errand, sir?" <><><><><> [GM] Cumberland places the document in an envelope, and seals the envelope with wax. Then he hands it to you. "I need this delivered to a monastary in Gloucester. You will give it to the head abbot, a man named Paul Appleby." "No questions....it's a personal matter, but one I unfortunately cannot attend to myself. Appleby will give you some token of confirmation for you to bring back to me." He pauses. "Appleby is not an immortal. There should be no others of our kind involved, though it is possible you will find one staying at the monastary. If you do, tell him or her nothing, and take care that you leave cautiously. And DON'T forget your sword." He rises. "You leave tonight. Deliver the envelope, and then you have the remainder of the week to do as you please." He gives you one of his intense stares. "DON'T travel without your sword." <><><><><> Geoffrey: Geoffrey salutes smartly, and takes care to remember the name - Paul Appleby, at the monastery in Gloucester. *** He packs hurriedly for the trip back to Blighty. Easy enough - trench warfare doesn't allow for a great many personal possessions. It feels a bit silly to walk around wearing a sword, but hopefully most people will assume it's part of the uniform. "Though I'd better be ready with the apologies if I meet a cavalry officer" he muses with a smile. <><><><><> [GM] In the shabby train no seat is vacant The child in the ripped mask Sits undisturbed in the waste Of the smashed compartment. But how shall I escape? These had lives like mine. What was it they possessed That they were willing to trade for this? There is blood, dried now, along the mask Of the child who yesterday possessed A country welcomer than this. Did he? All night into the waste The train moves silently, the vacant Breath rises, vanishes--Escape, escape! One pays, for this freedom, all that one possessed; Here all the purses are vacant. Sleep; and the emptying hearts escape Even their own wish--turn back to this Nothing that hides, with its calm cancelling mask, The days and the faces: the world they waste. What else are the lives but a journey to the vacant Satisfaction of death? And the mask They wear tonight through their waste Is death's rehearsal. "For I too shall escape," We read in the faces; and what is there we possessed That we were unwilling to trade for this? -Randall Jarrell, "Refugees" December 11, 1917 A.D. London ..... There is a light snow falling on London. You pat the breast pocket of your uniform, reassuring yourself again that the envelope Major-General Cumberland gave you is still there. The air smells different here, and you've been savoring it ever since you stepped off the transport that brought you across the Channel. In your dress uniform, now sporting lieutenant's bars, you cut a rather dashing figure, or so you imagine. You thought the sword was silly at first, but girls smile at you, and a few even embraced you as you walked out onto the street, calling you a "war hero". Perhaps it's the enduring image of the gallant cavalryman with flashing saber. You can't bring yourself to enjoy the undeserved acclaim. If you allowed yourself for a moment to be drawn into civilian fantasies about valiant English soldiers fighting for King and Country in a noble cause- if you forgot for a moment the horror and the blood and the mud, the long miserable nights with trenchfoot and disease and whistling shells, the terrifying days with bullets and grenades and gas and more whistling shells- the persistent ringing in your ears would remind you. It STILL hasn't gone away, despite Cumberland's insistance that immortals will heal all wounds eventually. London only seems cheerful on the surface, though. Christmas decorations add a bit of gaeity to the mood, but the city's been bombed repeatedly over the last year, so the civilians here at least are not completely divorced from the horrors of the front. You want to get to Gloucester as quickly as possible...the sooner you deliver Cumberland's mysterious envelope, the sooner you can get back and spend a few days with your parents before returning to Belgium. Won't they be delighted to see you! And amazed that their son has come home an officer....you'll need to come up with a convincing story to explain that. The train station is crowded, with scores of people traveling for the holidays, despite the war and the admonition to limit unnecessary travel. There are quite a number of other servicemen in uniform, who call you "Sir" as you pass by. You still haven't gotten used to being saluted by enlisted men! You also try to avoid the few officers you see, since you still haven't quite assimilated into the culture of the commissioned ranks, and the Major-General has had to cover for several of your more embarrassing faux-pas's. No, running into a cavalry officer, especially, would be very sticky. Then someone brushes past you, and you feel a strange prickling in your skull. Similar to the Quickening, when Cumberland is nearby, but....different. Much weaker, almost subliminal. It was just a trace, really, you could almost believe you imagined it. You see a pretty woman with dark hair, perhaps a year or two older than you, in a dark navy coat, with white gloves and a dainty hat. You just get a glimpse of her profile, as she looks down at a schedule in her hand, and then she's walking away from you. You get the oddest feeling, watching her....some instinct that tells you she's like you.....yet you don't sense the Quickening around her, and she shows no sign that she senses anything at all; she didn't even look at you. <><><><><> Geoffrey: *I never thought, when I last left London, that I'd return as an officer* he muses, smiling ironically - even slightly bitterly - as people call him a hero, *The real heroes are still there, and don't have the benefit of being immortal.* Ever since he'd boarded the ship to take him back across the channel, he's almost been able to rid his nostrils of the smell of mud and death. Almost. Some of the other passengers had thought him seasick, the way he stood on the rail during part of the crossing, braving the cold in order to breathe the sea air. *** >Then someone brushes past you, and you feel a strange prickling in your >skull. Geoffrey started. Another immortal? No, it felt wrong... or at least different. It wasn't what Cumberland had called the Quickening. He looked round sharply, and noticed the pretty brunette. *Could she be another?* he wondered, *No - but I think she's connected somehow.* Geoffrey walks over to her and, with his politest embryonic-officer's manners, asks: "Good morning, Miss. Can I help you?" [OOC: Substitute "afternoon" or "evening" if appropriate ] <><><><><> > Some Lady < Folding the large list of schedules in front of her, she looks up, only slightly startled by the voice out of the masses. Her expression is a mixture of formal and informal pleasantness, but he might guess at what goes on behind the somber pale eyes, **An officer.....** Quickly, she replaces her stoic expression with a half-smile and lets a slightly embarassed laugh escape. "Well, you just might be able to....." She holds out the piece of paper for Goeffrey to see and points to some numbers on it. Her accent should be readily recognizable as American. "I just cannot seem to find this part of the station. You see, I'm attempting to get to France...." Peering up again at him while still pointing, her smile is almost coy. "and, for the life of me, I keep getting twisted around here." <><><><><> Geoffrey: Geoffrey looks surprised. "To France? I've just come from there, and it's no place for a beautiful young woman. Still, let's see..." He looks at the timetable, to try to translate its numerese into English. <><><><><> [GM] Being somewhat more familiar with the London train station, Geoffrey is able to locate the platform she's looking for. The problem being that the timetable does not include a map of the station, only a listing of gates corresponding to destinations, and the gates aren't marked very clearly. By her ticket, the American is headed for Brighton, which would be the place from which a ship for France would leave. Since Geoffrey just came by that same track, it's easy for him to point the way. <><><><><> Geoffrey: "OK Miss, the Brighton train's leaving from platform 7. Can I ask where you're headed in France? A lot of the trains have been taken over for war duty." Actually, Geoffrey was guessing, but he hoped it sounded plausible enough to satisfy his curiosity about this woman who wanted to get closer to a war. [OOC: Tsk, tsk - we only have "platforms" and "lines", not "gates" and "tracks" . For Brighton, this is probably London Bridge station, which appears to have been the terminus for the the "London, Brighton & South Coast" line (which I think was part of "Southern Railways" (?)). London Bridge station is small but suitably complicated. Geoffrey is headed across town to Paddington Station and GWR (the "Great Western Railway", popularly called "God's Wonderful Railway")] [OOC: I'm not a train-spotter, honest... (but I have got a copy of "Jowett's Railway Atlas", which shows every single railway line ever built in the UK up to 1989)] <><><><><> > Still some lady < "Oh, this is wonderful..." Her voice carries a hint of lilting wonder. Suddenly masking it to seem very much the serious scholar, she offers in a nearly proper British accent, "I seek Paris by way of Brighton." Her entire demeanor seems to have lifted and her words are crisp as she stares now at the stranger unblinkingly. "I go there to aid the wounded." Only the slight upturning of one corner of her lip might bely that she intends her manner to seem humorous. In every other way, she appears entirely intent now on your reply...and it is clear that her words are not meant as lightly as the way she presents them. <><><><><> Geoffrey: "I'm sure the wounded will appreciate that", replies Geoffrey, "I didn't realise you were a nurse. Paris is about as safe as anywhere, though the Hun have bombed it a few times. Can I see you to your train?" [OOC: ...and in March, they start shelling it ] His conscience keeps reminding him that he has his own business to attend to. <><><><><> > Woman in Blue < Her eyes narrow and she seems to very subtlely bristle at your words. "I am not a nurse." Her casual attitude is all but gone now. She seems to decide not to be so blatant about what it is she will be doing. And, the rest of your words about bombings go unheeded. She looks back and forth at the trains as they lumber by, seemingly to clear either the air or her mood. Then, she looks again at Goeffrey. "Yes. You can see me to my train. So, you have come from the front, then, yourself...?" <><><><><> Geoffrey: Now what - is this strange woman playing games with him? "I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood - I though you said you were going to aid the wounded. Yes, I've just come from the Front. We've apparently won a great victory." The lack of any emotion in the statement, save maybe a touch of bitterness, implies that the `victory' was Pyrrhic in the extreme. <><><><><> ~~ Lady ~~ Her smile is so thin as to be almost transparent. Ripples of annoyance again surface as her calm gaze rests on him. Her voice grates like sandpaper against rough wood, "I'm a doctor." She lets that topic drop to move onto the other, clearly not wanting to make a big deal out of it at this point. Her smile softens only slightly, "A victory..... that's good. I just wish this would all be over. The casualties have been horrendous, from what I've been lead to believe." She almost seems wistful as her eyes slip away to look at the trains yet again. "Why aren't you over there now, though? Leave of absence of some sort?" <><><><><> Geoffrey: *Oops. Open mouth, insert foot* thinks Geoffrey. "Oh! Err, good" he says, feeling himself reddening, "We're even shorter of doctors." *Shut up, you babbling idiot* he thinks. >"Why aren't you over there now, though? Leave of absence of some sort?" "Not exactly - I've been sent back on an errand by my commanding officer. But it's nice to be out of range of the Hun artillery, even if only for a few days." <><><><><> > Lady < Her manner softens even more as she notes his response to her harsh tone. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't get so upset about your thinking I am a nurse. It's just an assumption that =everyone= makes...." She even accompanies the words with a smile after rolling her eyes. Chuckling softly, she looks back down at her schedule, pointing to the place that indicates which train is her own. "So, now that we're here..... " She looks up at Goeffrey. "It's going to be another half-hour to an hour before my train arrives. We could grab a quick spot of coffee or something..... unless that errand of yours makes you need to move along more quickly?" She clearly is not shy. <><><><><> [GM] Geoffrey's train leaves in only thirty minutes; a spot of coffee is about all he'll be able to manage. But something about the strange American's presence continues to disturb and fascinate him. Like an itch he can't scratch, or a sneeze that won't come. As if he SHOULD be sensing something else about her, but isn't. <><><><><> Geoffrey: *Hmm, they're right that American women are very forward* he thinks, *It's not even a leap year.* He checks his watch, and smiles. "I have time for a coffee. By the way, I'm Second Lieutenant Geoffrey Stone, in the Royal Engineers." <><><><><> > Lady with a Name now < As Goeffrey mentions his title, her attitude becomes immediately appreciative. She makes no attempt to be subtle about it as the smile spreads to cover her face. She tucks the stack of papers beneath her arm and extends a hand in greeting. "Nice to meet you." Her sentence ends with the proper lilt of congeniality. "Yes. Very nice. Oh.... and I'm Dr. Elainne Dunaway. Sorry I didn't introduce myself sooner. You can certainly call me Elainne, though." <><><><><> Geoffrey: A look of relief crosses his face at her smile. "OK... Elainne. The station buffet's just over there." Inside, Geoffrey buys a cup of coffee for himself - tea reminds him too strongly of brew-ups in the trenches - and whatever Elainne wants. <><><><><> ~~ Elainne ~~ She also gets a cup of coffee and joins Goeffrey at a table. The tiny little coffee shop/buffet sits alone near one end of the station. Her manner is a comfortable mixture of aggressive, intense, coy, and intelligent. "So..... before you go riding off on me.... can I ask you about the warfront?" Her light green eyes are flecked with darker browns as she stares straight at him. The look is much like that of a secretary ready to take dictation. If Goeffrey is the type to notice small things, thought, he might note her chewing very quietly on the inside of her lip. <><><><><> Geoffrey: Geoffrey relaxes; Elainne is very easy to talk to. "The Front? There's not really much to say. We've just spent months up to our ar-, err, knees in mud, making repeated assaults against the Hun. We've finally forced them to retreat, losing a great many of our own men and winning a ruined village of no value to anyone." He gives a bitter laugh. "I hope it all makes sense to someone, because it certainly doesn't make any sense at the front-line. There, you just try to survive from one day to the next, savouring any scrap of warmth or dryness and listening out for the whistle of incoming artillery." He takes a mouthful of coffee, and looks thoughtful. "I've been lucky so far. Very lucky - a mortar shell knocked me unconscious, but I woke up uninjured in a Field Hospital. Unlike the other poor devils, with wounds from bullets, shrapnel, wire and gas." There - maybe he can get an answer to the strange sensation that's been bothering him. <><><><><> ~~ Elainne ~~ She sits for several minutes just listening. She doesn't interrupt at all. Then, the smile reappears, softer, more reflective. "Well. I can only hope to be able to provide help for those still there." She pauses as if going over his words quietly in her mind again. Then, she again speaks. Her face shows a bit of confusion. "You say you were unscathed from a mortar shell? Isn't that nearly impossible? I mean.... unless I'm confusing that with something =much= smaller..... ?" Other than pure interest, there is nothing else discernable behind the words. Her hands rests gently to cover the cup as a fine mist of steam rolls out. <><><><><> Geoffrey: Geoffrey laughs. "I'd have said so too, if it hadn't happened. I don't really remember much about it, but I've seen them bury themselves deep enough in the mud that the explosion is contained; I suppose that's what happened to me." <><><><><> ~~ Elainne ~~ She merely shrugs, apparently willing to accept the explanation given -- although, she takes on a slightly distant expression as if considering it quietly. She lifts the cup to her lips and takes a slow sip, falling quiet for several minutes. After setting her cup back down again, she smiles. "So.... tell me. Where are you from originally? And, how did _you_ get dragged into this bloody mess?" <><><><><> Geoffrey: "I'm a builder - well, a bricklayer, really. From London. As to how I got caught up in the war, I volunteered when it broke out. Since I knew a bit about building, I ended up in the engineers - though I've done more blowing up than building. What about you?" <><><><><> ~~ Elainne ~~ She offers a sad smile. "Yes, that seems to be the impression I'd gotten. So much destruction..... so many deaths. That's one of the big reasons I'm volunteering my services. Something has to be done to help out.... in any way. Word is there are groups of medical personnel in Paris who are doing just that. And, I _had_ to join them." She pauses and looks down into the swirling black of her drink. Her smile becomes that of an embarrassed child as her voice softens, "Plus, I've always wanted to go to Paris. J'aime la langue..... et je voudrais y visiter." Her eyes lift to meet his quietly. <><><><><> Geoffrey: He smiles. "Oui, c'est utile en France. Avec les filles francaise, aussi." Geoffrey's French is reasonable, though his accent isn't very good. [OOC: His French is probably better than mine, since it's been 8 years since I last used it ] "I hope the suffering doesn't sour the romance of Paris. I've been through it a few times, but always on troop trains." <><><><><> ~~ Elainne ~~ She shakes her head, although clearly pleased that he also can speak some French. Her voice continues to hold a hint of feigned French accent as she continues. "The suffering is something I have grown accustomed to even at home. It's not something I like..... but I think I can handle it." She takes another long drink of coffee, and she stops with elbows pressed firmly against the table and cup still lifted to her lips. Her tone softens and becomes almost rueful. The accent is gone. "Sometimes, I think I might even have become callous to it all. I doubt Paris will truly be spoiled for me..... not like you imply, at least." <><><><><> Geoffrey: Geoffrey's voice is gentle. "A little callousness is necessary, or we'd all go mad - that is, if we're not all mad already. But as long as we still value life, we can't be completely unaffected by the suffering." He drains his coffee. "What worries me is the thought of waking up one morning, and no longer caring about life. I've seen men go that way - officers, too." Geoffrey is clearly thinking of someone else, and seems to have forgotten that he's an officer too . <><><><><> ~~ Elainne ~~ She sets down the cup, having taken the last sip of it. Her lips are pressed firmly together for a bit while she listens. Her eyes are downcast. She echoes his words aloud softly, "Officers, too......" then looks up. Her manner is direct but also tender. "Friends of yours?" The hazel depths of her eyes reflect a humble concern. A kind smile again is there, as well. <><><><><> Geoffrey: Geoffrey laughs. "No, not really. I tend to forget I'm an officer - the promotion was a bit sudden, like. But some of the officers - some of the *other* officers - seem to treat soldiers as if they were just pins on a map. No, worse than that: if they dropped a map-pin, at least they'd pick it up." There's no bitterness in his voice, merely resignation and a touch of wry humour. Then he sighs. "I probably shouldn't say this, but my CO's like that. He doesn't seem to care how many lives are lost, so long as the `objective' is won." <><><><><> ~ Elainne ~ She relaxes and leans back into the chair just as a little girl goes wandering by toward one of the empty tables. Her eyes catch sight of the girl, and and a smile flits across her lips without a thought. Peering quickly back at Goeffrey, she seems keen on his words, "Oh..... so you're a _new_ officer, then. That must be something you are proud of? And.... you seem to have a healthy perspective....." Her words are hopeful, at least, if nothing else. <><><><><> Geoffrey: "Proud? Not really - not yet, at least. It wasn't as if I'd just done something heroic and got a battlefield promotion. My CO needed an aide-de- camp, decided he liked me, and had me promoted. I've been lucky - and it's difficult to be proud of being lucky." He sighs. "In some ways, I feel ashamed. I'm no longer living quite as harshly as the other men, and I get sent on cushy errands like this one." "Which reminds me", he adds, glancing at his watch, "I really ought to be getting along soon if I'm to make the Gloucester train." He still couldn't understand the sensation in his head. Was Elainne another immortal, but one who hadn't suffered her first death yet? Or were there different sorts of immortals? He'd have to ask Cumberland when he got back. <><><><><> ~ Elainne ~ She also looked at her watch as he did his own. Scooting her chair back as if to stand, she smiles. "Gee, my own train isn't long behind yours, I suspect. Funny how time flies when you're having fun." She lifts the napkin to dab it nonchalantly at her lips. A flicker of mischief lights up her eyes then dissipates as she reigns in control. "Shame we're not headed the same direction. I've really enjoyed even the brief conversation we've had." She does not even look away as a train comes lumbering into the station. <><><><><> Geoffrey: Geoffrey is slightly confused by Elainne's manner, and smiles. "Yes, I wish I could stay and talk longer. But I've got to be there by tonight - I hope I can find a place to put me up. What about you, have you already got a place to stay in Paris?" Not the subtlest way to ask someone for their address, but the best he could manage on the spur of the moment. <><><><><> ~ Elainne ~ She reaches over to pick up her handbag then tucks it under her arm. The smile she offers is slightly wavering. "I wish I did.... but I'm hoping some sort of hostel or agency has been set up to house those of us who are offering our help. To be honest, I'm a little bit nervous about all of this. It's my first time overseas." Her gestures are imminently controlled as she bends to pick up her bag with her now-free hand. She sighs heavily, as if suddenly the weight of the world is upon her shoulders.... then blinks several times, eyeing a clock posted near the center of the station. Her behavior is reluctant when finally she returns her attention to Geoffrey, as if she has resigned herself to the fact that she will never see this man again. And, her smile is professional. She reaches out a polite hand. "Really, I hope you _do_ look me up if ever you return to Paris. We could use all the help we can get." <><><><><> Geoffrey: The young officer looks wistful, clearly wishing he could accompany her. "I'll try - I'll certainly try. You might get a letter to me - I'm in the Royal Engineers attached to 20th Division - but delivery is naturally erratic." <><><><><> [GM] Geoffrey and Elaine say farewell and part....probably just another chance meeting during the War, never to be repeated. Geoffrey boards his train to Gloucester, and behind him, Elaine waits in London station for the train that will take her to her port of departure. Both are surprised when alarms are raised and people begin rushing for cover, in a panic. Geoffrey's train, barely out of the station, brakes to a halt. And looking to the skies, he sees the dark shapes that Londoners have come to dread- Zeppelins. Zeppelin raids have become less frequent in the past year- the Allies didn't take long to discover how easily an airplane carrying phosphor- laden tracer bullets can turn the giant hydrogen-filled airships into spectacular fireballs. But now and then, the Germans still send a fleet of them across the Channel. Like now. Geoffrey watches helplessly, as bombs begin raining down on London. And the other passengers on his train cry out in horror, as two land directly on the London train station behind them, sending flaming debris flying for half a mile.