The bombardment of the Second Forlan Front hasn't let up.
Debris falls from above, stones bouncing off her.
In her daze, her body shields her completely, turning flesh and blood into hardened "armor."
Marianne: I fell asleep ...?
Somehow, she's managed to sleep through an artillery strike.
The stench of the tunnel quickly jolts her out of her confusion.
Mud, corpses, human waste, and battlefield smoke all assault her senses at once.
Simon: Hah, you slept like a rock, Marie. Quite literally.
Simon: Who would've thought the girl who used to flinch at gunfire would end up so stone cold—and in just six months, no less!
She ignores her comrade's teasing. Her body is too itchy.
Marianne: Damned fleas ...
She slaps her arm, crushing one of them, before reaching for the letter in her coat and letting out a quiet sigh.
Simon: Anyway, it's best you sleep while you still can—we have to be heading back to "Dead Man's Hill" soon.
Simon: We've been resting in the rear for more than three months now. It'll probably be tomorrow, don't you think ...?
There is a tremble in his voice, but it reaches her clearly enough.
Marianne: ... I know not. "Arcane Support" is certainly not pulling out any time soon.
Marianne: Still, the commander gave his word—upon the completion of this operation, we may return home.
This unit of arcanists, sent to protect a critical supply route, carries impossible expectations.
In half a year on the front, they've already lost half their men.
But in the grand total of casualties, even that is barely a footnote. Arcane skills have done little to save the front line from the horrors of trench warfare.
Simon: Hah! End the stalemate, turn the tide ... what a glorious mission the draft posters gave us!
Simon: But no one said we'd die of thirst before we could do any of that!
Enemy fire has cut off supply lines, leaving them hungry and parched for nearly a week.
They have enough canned goods and dry biscuits to just about survive.
But thirst is the bigger problem. Many have turned to licking the moisture seeping from the tunnel walls.
Marianne: ... I have already reported to Sergeant Pierre. Once the shelling abates, I shall procure some water.
Simon: God bless! You know where to find some?
Marianne: Francois chanced to hear the whisper of running water. He spake to me of a dip in the land 800 meters past the tunnel.
Simon: Zut ... I've heard about that place. It's been hit hard.
Simon: I know your arcane skills give you the best shot at survival, but ...
Simon: We've already lost so many. I don't want to lose you too ...
This grim truth stuns Marianne. She forces down her trembling voice.
Marianne: ... We have no choice.
Marianne: Without water, every one of us may truly perish here.
Marianne: You spake it yourself—I will live by virtue of my arcane skill.
Marianne lets out a dry, bitter laugh.
Marianne: Francois will join me—that will better the odds.
Marianne: ... Just a little longer. The shelling will soon be over.
A soldier in navy blue crouches by a shallow marsh, quickly filling a canteen.
At least, that's what it used to be. Now it's more like a graveyard—bodies lie exposed and unburied, and canteens litter the ground.
Marianne brushes aside the green film on the surface, a bloated corpse gently swaying in the rippling water.
Francois: Ugh ... the water stinks.
Marianne: ... A far sight better than drinking sewage, still.
The soldiers fall silent, each recalling the horrors they have witnessed in the grip of thirst.
Marianne: The enemy knows well that we collect water from this place. We must make haste.
Francois: Bon sang! They've started again!
Marianne: Find cover, now!
GAMEPLAY
Marianne charges forward, crashing into the foot of a low hill and heaving a last shaking breath before she curls up into a ball of stone. Francois's groans fade from her ears.
Shrapnel, branches, dirt, ash—they all ricochet off her "armor."
Yet again, her arcane skill has spared her, and yet again, she must watch a comrade fall.
This is the cycle of war. She has seen many lose their lives, and she will see many more.
Simon: ... Looks like we'll be heading back to the front line tomorrow, huh?
Marianne: No ...!
Marianne: ... I will not trudge back into the depths of that hell.
Marianne: God ... forgive me, for I have sinned ...
Marianne: ... Ugh!
On that wasteland, only God bears witness as two shards of shrapnel pierce the belly that should have been stone.
Letter: Dear Agnès, I ask your forgiveness for writing so late.
Letter: At this time, I am recovering in Forlan. You needst not worry, for I am nigh on completely healed.
Letter: It is a fair price. One I must pay for leading my comrade-in-arms to his death.
Letter: For I returned only with the water, his body left to rot in the wasteland ...
Marianne: No ... such words shall never pass the military censors.
Marianne: ... Yet, I cannot taint Agnès's happiness with lies ...
She sits back on the makeshift bed and anxiously pats her face.
Then, she crosses out the part about the water and carefully rewrites her words.
Letter: I heard tell that we have reclaimed a critical stronghold. Perhaps this stalemate will yet reach its end.
Letter: For we have held the line, cousin, and spared the capital untold devastation.
Letter: Thus, it must be so. I may well return home ere long. I can but hope the new commander will keep his promise.
Letter: In your last letter, you spake of the aid you have provided to the homeless as of late. Your kindness moves me, dear cousin.
Letter: But what of you? Are you well? How are matters at home? I pray for your safety day and night.
Messenger: Ténébrun, orders for you.
Marianne: ...!
Marianne: Arcane Support ... has the time finally come? Will we return home?
The messenger's eyes hold a trace of pity.
Messenger: Just read it.
She takes the paper, her fingers trembling, dread building in her chest.
Orders: Second Class Soldier Ténébrun: According to the physician, your recovery period is nearly over.
Orders: In light of the valor shown by Arcane Support, and the battlefield utility of your arcane skills ...
Orders: Command has decided you are needed in the next major offensive.
Orders: You are to return in three days.