The gnome was, somewhat unceremoniously, roused out of a half-sleep by the cacophonus mixture of rekindling bonfires, noises from below, and a 20 lbs. slug of spearpoint-shaped brass stuffed with over 300 1/2-inch steel shrapnel balls blasting away from the artillery platform at the edge of the camp.
 
 
The gnome winced at the ground-shaking FUMP of the cannon. He felt his foot itch, but ignored it in the wakening light. He shut his eyes-- tight-- hoping that if the dancing colors behind his eyelids moved around enough... maybe he'd trick his brain into thinking he was dreaming. It was the same trick each morning, and it never quite worked.
 
 
More voices came from below. The canvas of the tent canopy he was lying upon had grown warm due to his body heat throughout the night. Another FUMP. Another wince. He just would never feel comfortable sleeping inside with those things around. His foot itched again.
 
 
The gnome took a grubby hand, no bigger than that of a human child's but as worn, blistered, and calloused as a blacksmith, and flung the beaver-fur blankets covering his body. His legs were stubby and short. He once heard, from his crew, that they gave the stature and demeanor of a bulldog. He'd never seen a bulldog, but figured the two animals by themselves were admirable enough.
 
 
The gnome did not have the same nailbeds as humans; as 'unchanged,' as 'onverännert' which was the gnomish word for the tall, lanky, gangly creatures who claimed they had always owned the world. Instead, the bulbous fleshy protrusions and the dirt-darkened, spike-like, almost canine points of his claw-like toes were one of over a thousand things that made the man feel uncomfortably noticed around the onverännert. And, thanks to the artillery, the onverännert had reduced him down to just two of his toes on his right foot. Two-Toes.
 
 
Two-Toes did not know why he felt compelled to look at his namesake wound at frequent intervals of the day. Maybe, he thought, he would look down one time and they would magically all be there again. Maybe it was to remind him of who he was, where he was, that this was, in fact, his reality. Or maybe it was just morbid curiosity; and the anxiety and adrenaline chemicals his brain pumped into him at the sight of his own mortality was slightly addictive.
 
 
To that end, Two-Toes ran a thumb over the ridged cap of his dented metal flask. It had been warmed by his body, but the gin inside was cool. It felt oily and viscous running down his dried-out throat. As if realigning to 'standard operation' mode, his body began to groan with the muscular aches and joint pain that came with being old, having a drinking problem, and essentially camping every day for the past five months.
 
 
Almost each night of those five months had involved Two-Toes climbing to the top of his cadre's tent, watching the night sky of Loch Arvanis' shore, and anxiously awaiting a returning blast from their enemy to rip and blast his body apart. It hadn't come, but he starting to hurt like one had.
 
 
There was once a time where, if had Two-Toes felt this awful in the morning, he could simply explain that he was tired, sore, and did not want to work. He wouldn't have been coddled for it, of course, but he would have at least gotten a sympathetic 'ya, I get it.'
 
 
That would feel nice.
 
 
Instead, Two-Toes was leading what remained of his cadre into, what he considered, certain death. Lieutenants Murky, Rice, and Basket had each gotten an arrow between the eyes from their adversary, the Lurkers of Loch Arvanis. Major Ironjaw had disappeared in the middle of the night a Gap ago after walking off to empty his bladder. That really just left Captain Glinteye-- who had wisely, if not cowardly, decided to practically barricade himself in the HQ tent with a constant guard. The soldiers weren't fans, but he knew if anything happened to Captain Glinteye their whole camp would fall apart.
 
 
Even more voices from down below. At this point Two-Toes had slept above his cadre so often that he knew when the change was made from early-morning low mumbles to morning time conversation. He knew other things too. Who went to bed last, who snored, who cried in their compartment, who slept with who, etc. It made Two-Toes feel-- well he didn't quite know. Maybe the closest feeling would be like that of a father-- maybe more of an uncle-- but he didn't have kids and likely never would at his age.
 
 
One last swill from the gin flask. The late summer day was going to be hot; so he wouldn't want to drink then. But he shouldn't be drunk during the mission either. So he got in his heaviest drinks at the crack of dawn.
 
 
"Sergeant Two-Toes?" A deep male voice called up to him, "Are you still up there, sir?"
 
 
Two-Toes whispered a curse under his breath, not trying to keep it soft enough to be exactly hidden.
 
 
"Aye, Crawl" Two-Toes replied in his gruff voice but kept it at that. He leaned back down; sinking into the warm spot of his tent canopy bed-- taking two private seconds to log the feeling of being somewhat safe, somewhat comfortable, and somewhat warm in his brain. It may be the last time he'd ever lay down in something resembling a bed. He might be sleeping in the dirt by the day's end. The thought didn't last too long, and with a grunt Two-Toes stowed his flask, gripped the beaver fur blanket, and in one motion hurled himself off the 15 ft. tall canopy. If there was one thing gnomes did better, it was falling. However, due to his buzz, Two-Toes wobbled a bit on the landing.
 
 
Crawl, his proxy-- AKA right-hand man-- hadn't said anything else in the time it took him to get down. Out of every onverännert he'd ever met, Two-Toes thought Crawl might be his favorite and the one closest to being a gnome. Though he certainly didn't look like it. He was over 6 feet tall, had textured black wavy hair that ran down to the middle of his spine, almond-colored skin that had wrinkles from many years spent being tanned by the sun as well as laughing. Crawl's dark forest green eyes, so deep they almost looked black, regarded him with an expression that was some mixtures between tiredness, sadness, and empathy.
 
 
'Fuck,' Two-Toes thought, 'He knows I'm scared.'
 
 
Despite the thought and his eyes, Crawl's face took on an easy smile which made the black stubble on his cheeks and upper lip curl in tandem. He held two bowls of steaming gray porridge and two wooden mugs of a drink he called 'coffee.' Crawl had a limited supply, and only made the rich, silky, and darkened beverage on days like today. On days where they might die.
 
 
"Breakfast for you, sir. I hoped we might be able to discuss tactics before the rest start annoying us," Crawl's voice held no bite or poison; the word 'annoying' being used as affectionately as one might use the word 'cuddling.'
 
 
"Ye' need to shave lad," Two-Toes replied non-humourously; though he wanted to smile. His Doheemian accent caused his 'ooo'-sounds to come out like 'eee'-sounds.
 
 
"Just taking a page from your book, sir." Crawl retorted with a belly laugh that reminded Two-Toes why most of the men in his unit followed Crawl's lead over his own. The gnome did not dislike Crawl for that reason, he was actually thankful for it.
 
 
The grumble that erupted from Two-Toes belly did make both of them smile this time. He couldn't deny his hunger pangs, which surprised him.
 
 
"Aye. But we gotta walk 'n' eat. Captain says we have kit this go about-- 'n' if they've kepp'it secret until morning-of, s'gotta be somm'in straight from the Gray-Boys back t'ere." Two-Toes shoved his thumb in the vague direction of the city of Holy Aom some 1200 miles south.
 
 
The implication of the statement hung heavy on both of the Saltlander men. The same 'kits' had given both of them their names and their titles. Perhaps the Lurkers of Loch Arvanis would be next; or perhaps this would be their last breakfast ever.
 
 
The FUMP of artillery shot again, and Two-Toes lost his grip on his wooden spoon; making it fall to the muddy floor by his scarred, blown apart foot.
 
 
"Shit." He cursed. Test test test.