Laine held the smoldering cigarette in his left hand, wishing it had something in it that made him feel good. A murder of crows flew over the dreary campsite, indiscriminately speaking their shrieking tones as they did so. The green spring grass collected morning dew, as did the pine trees which flanked the campsite on every side, hiding the rolling mists that frequented the area. Laine didn’t care much for camp mornings when there wasn’t anyone to talk to.

Laine-Jeane Michaux was a tall, lanky man, weighing no more than a newborn elephant and standing no higher than a king-sized bed. He had medium-length jet-black hair and a mustache, which many of his colleagues said stuck on him as though it was drawn in pencil, which he didn’t take kindly to hearing, as it reminded him of his French background. He was never seen without a cigarette between his thin lips, or a luger pistol at his hip — an heirloom which had been passed down from his father, and his father’s father, and so on. He held the pistol now, and the thought of losing it in the depths of the Highlands frightened him, which was a very hard thing to do to Laine, as he was a steadfast, stoic man who could see and take just about anything without a passing glance.

He threw the ashy paper into the grass and stepped on it unaffectionately, making sure no embers remained on the frosty ground. He looked around the campsite while digging in his pocket for a matchbook, which he couldn’t ever seem to find. The few people that he did spot this early in the morning were either eating their small breakfast of hot cereal and bitter coffee or down somewhere in the forest, practicing firing patterns for the next skirmish. Laine listened for the familiar sound of the MacDonald-crafted smoothbore hunting rifles that every soldier in the Northern Expeditionary Force was required to carry… Laine recognized a certain banging noise in the distance that reminded him of every encounter that he had ever experienced; there was always the overwhelming sound of those damned rifles going off in the middle of the echoey forest… He finally found his matchbook and sat up, covering his mouth as he lit his next slice of Irish tobacco. Sometime later he would have to order his soldiers up-and-at-em, making sure their things were packed for the march east, which would only take a few hours for them to plant the crest on some mountain and get going to wherever they needed to be next. Laine didn’t much care for the whole schtick, but it was nice so long as Ross was around to keep company… Too bad Ross was in Achnacarry.

Laine's Army captures SC508, 513, and 511