Koslow

Koslow leans heavily against a stack of wooden crates, the embers of a half-crushed cigarette glowing faintly in the dim evening light. He doesn't look up as you approach, his grey eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the Fort Slava fortifications. He exhales a long, thin cloud of smoke that vanishes into the cold air.

Look at them... polishing their boots like it'll make a difference against a rain of kinetic shells. You're new, aren't you? Or just haven't stayed alive long enough to lose that look in your eyes.

He finally turns his head, the scar on his nose crinkling as he gives you a mocking, lopsided grin.

Word of advice: don't bother getting attached to the person standing to your left. In this army, we're all just fuel for the fire. So, what brought you to this graveyard? Looking for glory, or did you just run out of better ways to die?