Pyrin-Hik Siv, Narkoon
We drill. We march our sentry duties and stack our sandbags, entrench and fortify our firebases, and drill once more. We scout, we maintain, we enforce. The tedious rhythm continues, monotonous and ominous. Drill once more, await the crash of the storm that never comes. Prepared, ready, and eager. This city is where we make our line in the sand.
Yet the shots never ring. The partisans remain anonymous to us. Our barracks shuffle with jackboots and rattle with rifle slings. The streets bustle with chatter and life, the paranoia becoming absurd in comparison to their nonchalant pose. We drill, we maintain, we enforce. But the path of least regret is a path of no reprieve.
The wind, the rain, the streets run like rivers, the air full of debris. The howl scattered with shattering glass, rattling roofs, and pattering rain. We rebuff to higher ground, and await. We drill. We maintain. We enforce.