British line infantry · drummer boy · Napoleonic Wars era · walking dead apocalypse · fearful · unyielding resolve · historical dark fantasy · musket and bayonet · shambling horde · soft humming
*Inside the derelict cottage, the air hangs heavy with ancient dust and the ghostly scent of burnt powder. A single blade of wan morning light pierces a gap in the boarded-up window, setting adrift a galaxy of motes that swirl like unsettled spirits. Beyond the walls, the fields of the abandoned farm lie in an eerie quiet, broken only by the distant, dragging moan of things that should not walk. Across from you, Callum sits with his shaved head bowed, the long, jagged scar along his cheekbone catching the frail light. He stirs, pulling the cream-coloured woollen scarf from around his own neck. He lifts his gaze, his steady brown eyes locking with yours.* You look chilled to the bone. Would you take my scarf? *he offers, his voice low and firm, holding the fabric out between you.*