Chex Gaiden: 3/4

Around 8 years ago

Dwarven Marches

The sun was angry.

It beat down upon the unhappy inhabitants of the waste every day without relent, sucking
all moisture from the air and shrivelling any plant life that dared to sprout. The days got
scorching hot, to a point where life had two options: hide or die. The nights got
blindingly cold as well, so most form of creature made due at dusk and dawn, collecting
moisture from the dry cacti and the low places where dew formed. The landscape was a
mixture of rolling sand dunes, breaking up to mud flats or rocky outcroppings, with an
occasional copse of stone mesa.

It was mid-morning, and Scout Corporal Chex Fleet suffered inside her heavy thermal
suit. It consisted of heavy pants and coat, a treated apron, thick mittens, hood and goggles
made of cut volcanic glass. Meant to protect the wearer from the dangers of the waste,
Chex still felt winded and uncomfortable under all the layers, even after several weeks of
acclimatization. Their platoon Recce Roc Six-Two - had gone out on patrol to the north
west of Fort Amalgram, and was around 500 miles out into the dry. They were due to
reach the river Amalgram today, and replenish their dwindling water sources. Currently
they were making good pace, and soon they would stop to dig shelters to escape the noon
heat a foe more dangerous than most of the desert inhabitants.

Chex was glad they would reach water soon, the sand got under the heavy layers and
chafed, leaving her skin raw and blistered. They treated their feet as often as possible,
applying creams and drinking potions to alleviate the blisters and pain. She squinted
through her lenses against the glare, a distant shimmer on the horizon. Was it just heat?
She knew men could sometimes see things that werent really there, claiming to see
grand trees or massive lakes all lies of the sun and sand. Turning sunwards, she held her
hand horizontal over her head and brought it down to tap her hood thrice. From the long
staggered formation behind her, a form broke off and approached.

Sergaent Jean-Luc Par was a tall man with a long nose. He hailed from Bellange and
spoke with a thick accent, sometimes interspersing Bellangian throughout his Common.
Dressed in similar garb, with a pack and rifle slung over his shoulder, he quickly covered
the distance between them. Quest-ce que cest, Cheques? She turned around, used to
his odd way of speaking after the years of training and co-habitation, not to mention the
long patrols and sudden ambushes.

Il y a something there, Jean. Turning back westwards, she raised a hand towards the
distant shimmer, a sparkle that seemed to stretch a fair distance along the arc of the
distant desert. The man peered closely; his vision was lauded to be the best in the platoon,
maybe the whole division due to his marksmanship.

Je pense que He let out a small laugh, Cheques, it iz water! We ave made it to la
riviere! He quickly turned around and raised and arm, quickly bringing it across his
body in a chopping motion westwards. There was a relieved murmur from the column as
word spread that they had finally reached a place of rest.

Chex nodded stiffly, not out of emotion but because the heavy clothing restricted her
movements. Re-joining the ranks, she began the long trek towards what would be their
camp, hopeful they would reach it before the sun reached its zenith. She missed the sound
of moving water, a concept nearly unheard of in most parts of the Dwarven Marches. The
Amalgram River was an exception, bringing fresh water as well as trade from the south.
It was also the place where she grew up, along the dockyard of Bunyans Bend, far to the
south.

The march passed relatively quickly, and well before noon they had reached the blessedly
cool waters, small groups splitting up to dig shelter trenches and latrines. Chex pulled
down her face mask, taking a deep breath of the cool air carried by the rushing waters.

She smiled and approached the bank, shedding her heavy gloves to pick up a smooth
river stone. Flat, round, and worn by the passing of water, perfect for skipping. She
hadnt done that in years. Weighing it in her hand, she glanced out over the water before
raising her hand to throw and something caught her wrist.

She looked back to see Sergeant Par there, a hand grasping her wrist and a stern
expression on his similarly bare face, Pas maintenant, caporal. Get over to the duty line,
we ave to resupply before we can relax. He let go of her wrist, and she turned towards
her duty, the stone slipping from her fingers,

Oui, sergeant.

The heat of the desert was great, it was dry and the sand chafed. Sometimes bad things
happened and people got hurt, but it was out here that she felt free. With people who felt
the same way as her, who wanted to help and put their lives on the line, this is what
mattered in life.

Soon, they would head north to patrol the borders there strange beasts had been
reportedly attacking expanding pioneers, and they were to investigate before reporting
back.

Observation Post M228
If used, please reseal.
Hegemony of Oz

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

Calendar for gold collection.
Hegemony of Oz