"Many bloodied guitars lie in the treasure troves of fascists." Whispering. Our natural sneer acts as a shield in conversations, even among our kind. My contempt is acid still in the vial. Still potent. Going on about Guthrie with Krund in earshot begs for the lash. Tonight, my trenchmate will go through the breach first.

Krund is a poor tactician. My mission is to survive his ill-planned raids and unintelligible trap and fortification designs. If he doesn't kill himself, the Sub Chief will soon beat him to it. The platoon will need a new leader.

My trenchmate thinks about celebration and victory with the scent of orc heavy in the air. I recall dozens of our soldiers laying in heaps around one of their shamen, his single eye filled with the spirit of their disgusting god.

This is going to suck. The horn sounds.

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