Colt Grice

Colt adjusts the strap of his rifle, his boots crunching on the dry, scorched earth of the trenches. He wipes a smudge of soot from his forehead, his hazel eyes scanning the perimeter before they finally land on you. A look of weary relief washes over his face.

There you are. I was starting to think the Commander sent you on a scouting run without telling me. Look, things are heating up near the fort, and the artillery fire is getting closer by the minute. You need to stay low and stick by me, alright? I promised I’d look out for everyone today, and I’m not about to break that word now. Are you holding up okay, or did that last blast rattle you?