Makkani lays in a small cot, positioned on a tree in the Blackmoon Forest. He can hear voices. The voices of his troops.

'That sounds like Private Wenton,' he thinks, 'Sounds like he's drinking again.'

'That sounds like Corporal Hendersen. Sounds like he's telling stories about his girlfriend again.'

'That sounds like Private Grux. Sounds like he's... he... what the...'

Makkani shudders a bit at the odd sounds coming from Grux's tent. Sure, he could have a tent, but the fairytale hero in him gave him the sense that there was something to be gained by staring into the stars as he rested.

He was lonely. Damn lonely. He'd nearly forgotten all the high hopes and wonderful feelings he'd had when he first came to Lahan. Now he was sick and cold, his heart pained by the abscence of any person who didn't fear his rank, and his mind preoccupied with... with...

"Private Grux! This is a military camp, not the place for your -personal- endeavors, got it!?"

Loud laughter erupted from all the neighboring campsites. Makkani sighed, falling back and drifting off to sleep.