>>5651554“This is some crowd.” Corrine muses next to you. “I’ve seen graveyards livelier than this. You’d almost think they’ve already given up.”
Corrine isn’t wrong. The morale of the Kingdom’s camp seems to be shockingly low. You’ve never seen soldiers quite as quiet as these. Those few that do engage in conversation do so in muted mutters. Even the arrival of the Blackwings, which should have prompted some interested stares from the crowd, does nothing to stir these soldiers of Faerghus. At best, you and your men are spared a few disinterested and curious glances. Much like the sentry you’d seen posted at the camp’s gate, these soldiers wear worn out and used gear and equipment. From a quick glance, it looks as though resupplies have been an infrequent occurrence.
>“Corrine, get the men settled in. I’m going to see if I can find any familiar faces amongst the crowd. I imagine Duke Fraldarius will be summoning us shortly, so be ready. I’ll want you with me when we meet the king. You were there as well when we saved him outside Charon. Hopefully our presence will trigger some goodwill in him.”Corrine sighs. “I wouldn’t hold my breath, but sure. I’ll take care of things here.”
You stroll around the hastily put-together camp, head on a swivel on the lookout for any members of the Blue Lions. Before you arrived in the camp, you’d seen Ashe borrowing a knight’s helm that had been sitting in storage from Milly. With his face obscured completely, he was unlikely to be recognized by anyone from the academy who might spot him. As you walk through rows of worn-out tents, you keep an eye on the Faerghus soldiers present. The usual excitement that follows an army on the move is nowhere to be seen. One didn’t need to attend Garreg Mach to see that this was an army that had been on the losing side of a five-year war. Still, if there was anything positive you could say about the situation, it was that each man that you encountered seemed as though they were veterans. They’d survived the worst that the Empire could throw at them and had emerged all the stronger for it.
As you continue walking through the camp, you stumble across what must pass for their infirmary. Rows of sick and injured soldiers lay on the ground in cots, being tended to by the army’s medics. One such medic is in the midst of finishing her work, wrapping up a broken arm in a thick padded cloth. Even after five years and a change in hairstyle, you’re able to instantly recognize Mercedes von Martritz. Amidst the agony and torment of those injured soldiers, the woman retains the same grace and beauty she always had. You approach her in a hurry, shoving past the guard who tries to stop you.
“Ma’am, this area is for injured soldiers only.” Mercedes says, looking up at you. “If you require assistance, I ask that you wait until I’ve finished attending to these soldiers.”
