Thread: Salvation: Baptism by Fire & Silver!

One...two...three... A deep, soft sigh. Inhalation. One...two...three... Another breath, only longer. One...two...three... She always did this, especially when she wasn't quite sure of what was going to happen within the next expanse of an hour. To remain calm, poised, and strong, was her main goal in life. It had helped her through many troubling times, and in this day, it's what kept her alive. Even now, as she sat at the bedside of her partner, she was finding the will, the strength, and the determination to keep herself out of harm's way. It was a challenge within itself, feeling that now frail, trembling hand, in her own. Only a day ago, had that very hand been strong, steady and stern. Now, it lacked the renewing sense of invigoration. It was cold, limp...and dead. Eyes, a startling steely blue, raised up to admire the familiar face that had brought her much happiness in her years of serving. His name was Stark, and he had been her fellow marksmen for nearly ten years now. Since the very beginning, he had led her to victory. Not only her mentor, a dear supporter, and great friend, but someone who had her back no matter what. A pillar of strength that had once seemed impenetrable. She was losing that, now, and watching as it happened. The nurses told her it would be best if she left, but time and time again, Rosemary refused to leave her station. Always, was her station beside Stark. Without him, what would she do? She wasn't quite sure...and she could swear upon the demons and angels warring outside, that he knew it, too. A small twitch, and his fingers flexed, holding tight onto her much smaller limb. It was a sign to let her know, that he was still there, listening. So, she took it upon herself to fill him in. They assigned me a new partner...a fellow sniper. Name is Trystan. He'll do great, I'm sure...but... She hated this part. Hated saying goodbye. She looked as fragile and small, as she felt. Wrapped up in her soiled, wet uniform. It was slathered with blood, mud and rain. However, her hair, the length reaching the sharp line of her jaw, was untouched. Ringlets of pure ivory, the freshest, cleanest white that any man would ever witness. It decorated her head in a choppy flow, cascading around cat-like features, and sweet, ruby red lips. Stark had always said she was the Little Red Riding Hood of their brigade. She stood out like a sore thumb, but could easily rival and exceed everyone's expectations, and own talents. She believed in herself, as that was the only thing left to believe in now. I'll see you soon, she finally whispered, leaning over to kiss the previously washed cheek of her superior. Don't you let go... And with that, she did. Standing, she hoisted her rifle onto her shoulder and grabbed her helmet, haphazardly swinging it at her side, whilst she made her way outside of the ward. The skies were perpetually gray, swirling with madness. The lightest hint of light managed to peek through every now and then, but within a millisecond, it was swallowed up. Her meeting was to take place in the south side of their station, near the abandoned church. It only took her twenty minutes to reach it by foot, and when stepping inside of the rickety, broken structure, she wasn't surprised to see that she was here first. Her bag was dropped at the abandoned altar, and she tipped her head back, gazing up towards the misshapen, melted statue of a false God. It meant nothing now, and even with the lightest glimmer of sunshine trickling along the man's frame, she found no solace in the company of a wooden figure. Her goal was to kill them all, even if it was impossible. She reached for heights that seemed to know no bounds, and would only stop, when she was made to.