Corporal James Smith wiped the sweat from his brow and savored a deep breath of the crisp mountain air as they finally came to the top of the last snow covered ridge. They were here: Fort Motaniak, an abandoned Confederate bastion. He turned to his fellow soldiers, as well as the confederate refugees behind him.
"There it is people, your new home, Fort Montaniak. From what I understand it's been abandoned for some time, though there could still be remnant forces our scouts missed. In addition, some of our scouts still are unaccounted for. So, I say we check it out before we settle. Do any of my commanding officers have a problem with this plan of action?" He waited, and no objections could be heard. The officers knew he was an experienced soldier. Hell, he'd probably seen more battles than most of the soldiers currently enlisted. Between the skirmishes with the Indians, and the rebellion, he was quite the veteran. The troops trusted him, the officers respected him. He checked his rifle. He hadn't brought much ammunition on this trip. He'd brought enough for three full loads per gun, fifteen rifle rounds, eighteen pistol rounds. Even in the event indians ambushed them, that should be plenty. He cleared his throat. "Okay, I'll need five volunteers to come with me."

Douglas drudged forward up the trodden path, his boots struggling to find proper footing among the frozen ridges. His grey eyes slowly came to focus on the fort loomin before him and the rest of the troops, then to the proud proclamations of his commanding officer. A man of experience, it was hard to ignore the strangely charismatic yet stern tone he would normally address others with. Even so, the request for volunteers to accompany him inside Fort Montaniak struck a discodant tone. Cradling his Springfield slightly, he allowed himself to fall back in the crowd of soldiers and civilians which packed itself closely near the implied safety that was the Union army. Cummings clenched his teeth as he looked around to the tired, weary, desperate faces around him; the faces of those that had never known the atrocities of war; the faces of those that wished to forget. Douglas could not help but liken himself to them as resentment well up inside. Hundreds whose lives were spared could only watch as flames consumed their himes, and all they once held close and dear in this world turned to ash. The saviors in gray tried their best to take these wreched souls away from all this...away to somewhere, but where? What could truly be done by anyone to reparate for such losses? Why must any losses have occurred? Why? Tears welled up in Douglas' eyes as his mind was left to grapple with such questions not even the most genious of thinkers could resolve.

*The echoes of screams had been heard throughout the barren field that lay in what we now know as the state of Illonios; carried by the wind. Robert had been marching with his troop and a group of refugees for what was days now. There was so much here that he just...didn't know. The war was bad enough, to have to fight for no reason. They say it's because of the niggers, but they also said it's because the South deserve to die....Robert couldn't make head nor tails of the ordeal.

And it scared him.

The twisted ballet of war was something that no young man should bare witness to. Death and destruction, families torn apart...a savage human nature. It was true that there was a certain beauty to the art of war...but it was a dark one, indeed.

Robert had his whole life in front of him....about to go to law school thanks to a wealthy neighbor...it didn't work out. A couple of months ago he was mysteriously murdered, and Robert had no option but to join the army, if not to help his poor family get back on their feet by easing them of a month to feed. Yet here it was...the fort that they were looking for. There was no explaination of what to expect, and a joke of a briefing. It wasn't something Rob needed to worry about. Though he had hated the war...he still had a duty to his country. He stepped forward in front of one of his supriors, grasping the stock of his rifle close to his heart and opened his mouth, his cracked lips stinging at the side of his face.

"I'll go, sir..."

Corporal smith stepped in front of the group and waited for volunteers. After some time, a lone hand shot up. He had taken the time to place names and faces together during the march, so he knew who the man was.
"O'Leary correct? Welcome aboard. Alright, I need four more volunteers." They waited in silence for a moment. Then, two more hands shot up. He nodded towards them and they stepped forward.
"Private Dunleeve, sir.
"Private Olsen, sir." The corporal nodded in approval. Then he looked at the rest.
"Alright, I need just two more volunteers, anybody?"

Why must this happen under God's watch?
Ryan lifted his head towards the corporal. His face was grim, grey and thin. It seemed within a few days he could be considered a corpse. He had been without adequate amounts of food for about two days now. It was really started to hit him.
He had been an all around glad man for most of his life. Owning a small store was not hardwork, not to him anyway. Most of his friends had tended to harder jobs, like tending to farms. He decided he had it easy.
When he had joined the war, he didn't think it would last. Hoping and convincing he would not be involved in any battles gave him initial courage. Yet, this was not what became true. He had been involved. Too involved for him to handle.
When it came to the point where Ryan didn't have much hope left in him, he simply went along with what came his way. A soul-less puppet..
"I'll go, sir."

((...I hate you guys))