Notes

Got kinda far into this one lol
Dearest Regards
Premise: On March 15th, 1947 CE, the Sorcerers Inquisition came to an end along with the second Amian War or better known as the second World War. The number of living humans dwindled to 3/4th’s what it would have been before the war and a harsh yet inevitable truth settled on the many few remaining, Humanity had barely been saved from extinction. In order to keep such a war from ever occurring again the council of nine deemed use of magic illegal worldwide.

Mikael A. Pines, a survivor of the Inquisition lost a friend to the Second Amian War and although the war has come to an end he has not forgotten. He will never forget not till the day the man who killed his friend was right behind him. 6-feet under.


1

He awoke to the all too common sounds of gunfire and artillery in a heated sweat, his mind may have but his body never truly drifted off into the better land of a satisfying slumber. His M-14 kept still between his hands and his body up against the wall of a familiar trench. A fairly scrawny MG gunner to the right of him would be firing off rounds as if their stockpile had no limits and taking a break to indulge in the seductive pleasure of tobacco and cannabis any chance he got a break. His silver tags hang from the rusted silver chain on his neck and read “Mikael, Pines” along with any other relevant information.

He was new to the battalion, freshly picked from “Grovewood,” a labor camp two or three months ago. He wasn’t like though, he wasn’t selfish, or depraved of meaning, or any of that. And when the time came to take up arms, he’d have accepted gladly, to “dish out the righteous punishment of god.” as so many other Temarians would boast. It took him a while for him to get used to his squad, even open up, but he managed and just like all the others he’d have been desensitized to the violence soon enough.

He peaks his head up to the opening of the trench his gun in hand, only to crouch back down and lean against the wall, his head tilted up to the sky blackened by the constant fire of guns and ancient Amian rites.

Another soldier in a black cloak, holding a state-issued Scoped Temarian M-14, peaks his head over the barrier only to receive a burning ball of magma and rock to the chest. His body flies back, limp, a still-searing hole where his still-beating heart would have been had it niot been liquified moments before.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Mikael’s eyes attached to the fluid scene before looking upwards some undiscernible emotion flaring up in him.

Mikael’s eyes look down and over to the body once more and his breathing slows for a moment, he grabs the scoped gun and peaks his head up looking down it and firing at whatever the hell would be on the battlefield, be it Temarian or Amian or whatever the fuck it was. Quickly retreating back in cover.

It seems like it goes on for days, months, maybe years, eventually the gunfire, sounds of artillery being fired, spells being cast, and the sound you can only hear when you’re on an active battlefield stops abruptly.

There’s a silence within the cramped trench.

“Is it over?” one soldier speaks the same thing on the entire squadron’s mind, clutching his rifle, brave enough to stand up and let his eyes scan the battlefield. His eyes widen.

“Well?” another anxious soldier asks.

A smile replacing his before terrified expression, he remains silent.

Soon the rest of the squad stands be it from sheer curiosity or the want to be killed immediately by some ancient Amian rite or some other reason whatever that may have been. Whatever their reasons may have been a simple white-flag standing on the other side of the bullet-infested, bloodied, and gray battlefield changed whatever emotion they’d have been feeling and echoed it, ten times over.

“Turn on the Radio.” The highest commanding officer in their ranks demands unsure of the enemy’s motives.

“Sir.” the uplifted atmosphere becoming more uncertain as each second passes, the Radio operator heads over to the small ham radio and turns it on beginning to tune into any receiving frequency.

“Well?” one of the anxious soldiers asks.

As if on queue the Radio answers: On this March 15th, 1947 at 1400 hours Amian High Chancellor Lukas Ceraneth My’vanna has been killed. In response to this his replacing chancellor has signed a treaty at Evergrove, Amia with the Temarian Empire thusly ending the Second Amian War. The radio repeats itself.

Another pause of silence takes the soldier before they erupt into cheer, laughter, and celebration. A sound you wouldn’t expect coming from a battlefield littered with bodies, merriment flies high.