2 28mm Coftyran Trench Raiders (Pose 4 and 5)
The cool night air felt good against Yorrul’s skin after the punishing heat of a Coftyran summer day. Standing watch at night wasn’t so bad, really; you got to sleep in the dugout while all your mates were out and about extending the trenches, and without the press and stink of them all crowding you. Yes, it was certainly a fair sight better to march about in the dark with a Bogen than it was to bend your back with a shovel in the sunli–
The noise was almost imperceptible, just at the edge of hearing. Yorrul’s ears pricked up. Too quiet to be anyone in the squad making their way back from the latrine; even sober they made as much noise as a faerf on roller skates. He let the unlit cigarette drop from his mouth and glanced nervously down at his Bogen, now held at the ready. What if it was the Yawdryl, coming to make sure he was doing his job properly?
There was no way he could be that lucky. Standing orders had prohibited them from keeping a round up the spout after a few nasty accidents involving trigger-happy sentries in the past month, but right now he was glad he’d ignored them. The sound came again, from just beyond the bend of the trench, still so faint you could hardly hear it. Well, Yorrul, old fellow, he thought to himself, you’re in it now. Best thing to do is make as much noise as possible so that everyone will hear. He sucked in a deep breath and leapt around the corner.
“HALT, IN THE NAME OF THE CR–” He might even have finished the challenge, but if so, no one heard it over the short harsh rattle of a Doru submachine gun. He stumbled back against the trench wall and sank to the ground, like a tired oldster resting their bones.
“Good shooting, yawdryl. That ought to wake them up. Grenades now, I should think.” Shadowy forms moved past the dead sentry, and harsh light and plaintive cries filled the trench.
