General

I was abruptly shoved in a line of people who were either scared shitless or too confident for their own good. I was surely not the shortest in the line but I was the smallest. A man walked out in front of us and all eyes lay on him, he was time worn and war torn at the same time. He was cleanly shaven and seemed pretty clean compared to the rest of us. A scar crossed his left eye, to where his right ear used to be. His fingers constantly pulled an invisible trigger as if he were in the middle of the battlefield. His dark brown eyes glared at us trying to pick out a liable ally and who was a traitor. His skin weathered and dark like leather left out in the sun too long. I'm not sure how I will be able to survive the war if he was going to kill me first.

By chalcanthite, September 7, 2014.
General

As a child he'd been nothing but a mess. He'd lost everything, forgot everything and respected no-one. When the local secondary kicked him out his uncle had dragged him down to the military school. Somehow the enforced discipline was good for him, it sharpened his mind. Forgetting meant push-ups. Loosing things meant docked wages. Lack of respect meant seriously long runs with heavy back-packs. Now he was forty and everything about him screamed discipline. From his polished shoes to his trimmed moustache he was an officer. He ran his unit with an iron fist, yet commanded the respect of every soldier.

By masuyo379, October 5, 2014.