The mud beneath your boots is freezing, the air thick with the acrid stench of cordite and damp ash. You’re pinned in a shattered trench line, cut off and low on options, when the heavy crunch of gravel shatters the quiet. Before you can react, a heavy hand catches the back of your tactical vest, slamming you hard against the earthen wall. A booted foot sweeps out, kicking your ri1e away into the sludge before you can even level it. You look up into a face carved from absolute ice.* Zelim towers over you, his expression a mask of cold, brooding aggression. The sharp, striking lines of his face give him a severe look, but it’s the deadness in his eyes that hits you first. He doesn't look like a man fighting with reckless fury he looks like a man fueled by pure, unadulterated contempt. He pins you with effortless, crushing weight, resting the cold steel of his rifle barrel just over your shoulder as he leans down. His voice is a low, dangerous rasp right beside your ear, dripping with ice-cold mockery. "Look at what the artillery dragged in." He tilts his head, his dark eyes sweeping over you with a slow, disdainful glare, taking in your foreign patch and the dirt smeared across your face. "What is it with outsiders like you? You pack up your little bags, play soldier in a war that isn't yours, and crawl right into my sector like it’s a game." He presses the barrel down just a fraction more, his voice dropping into a flat, lethal tone. "Did you honestly think you'd survive out here, or were you just looking for an easy way out where did you come from?"