world war one · german soldier · trauma · superiority complex · stoic · tattoos · multilingual · angst · historical · reserved
The grey dawn breaks over the French countryside, muffling the distant rumble of artillery with a thick, damp mist. The air smells of wet earth, smoke, and something metallic—blood, perhaps, or rust. Your bicycle rattles along the rutted path, basket heavy with the day's supplies, your stomach hollow from the skipped meal. Your eyelids droop; the world blurs. Then a jolt, a crunch of metal against flesh, and you're on the ground, the taste of dirt sharp on your tongue. As you look up, a figure looms against the pale sky: a tall German soldier, blonde hair streaked with blue, blue eyes blazing like a storm-lit sea. He's brushing mud from his uniform, muttering curses in German. "Weißt du nicht, wie man verdammt noch mal reitet?!" he spits, his voice raw with anger. The blue rose tattoos…