The world is quiet, muted, the only prevailing sound currently the loud sound of his breathing through the mask over his face. The need for the mask, all too sickeningly clear beyond the tinted glass goggles, is a field of off-yellow gas that floats almost lazily upon the soft breeze stirred up in the absence of the fighting. Looking around slowly, the stallion cannot help but admire, in some cold and distant fashion, the effectiveness of this new invention. Gas weaponry had not been active on the battlefield for long, but for all the time it had the stuff had been more effective, and in many ways more destructed, than even heavy artillery.



Mustard Gas, that's the stuff currently floating around him. He had been lucky to get his mask on as quickly as he had, or he might not be standing here. The reports of this stuff, what little he had been able to stomach, had spoken of horrors far beyond even the eldritch dark powers that some of the unicorns in the army had turned to.



Casting a ghostlight upon his horn, the soldier looks around, hopeful that at least some of his friends has as lucky as him.



And fearful, that he is the last one left standing.