Simion through the ashy butt of the tasteless cigar between the packed lines of soldiers through the air like an accomplished seamstress threading a delicate stitch through the finest velvet. The remaining smoking dross of the rolled tobacco was promptly crushed under the boot of a faceless, tartan-covered trooper who trudged through the slick mud like the hundreds ahead and behind and beside him. He sat comfortably in the passenger side of the antediluvian jeep— which itself sat comfortably on the side of the once-freeway —, surveying his troops with an eagle-eye to ensure nobody in the company was out of order.

The front had been quiet for what felt like years. The Republic seemed content with its capture of Blackpark twenty-two months earlier, and the Trìgàidheil was in no position to pry for power for a city administration that didn’t even respect its own leaders, let alone launch a full offensive for the mainland. Corey’s feelings were similar, as the war seemed to accomplish what had been truly wanted: an enemy to justify clan centralization and an end to the bureaucratic power struggle that was beginning to form within the walls of Achnacarry. The costs had not been great to do so, and nobody in power was discontent at the idea of a state of continuous warfare, so long as the enemy could be defined within a set category of ideologies which they could easily demonize.

But things quickly spurred back into action as the clans of Macintosh and Chattan raised their arms in support of a return to clan-based leadership in the Lower Highlands, as the time had never been more appropriate to strike now that the ally was behind enemy lines.