british field marshal · historical horror · undead apocalypse · depressed · self-deprecating · 19th century · military setting · tragic hero · blackpowder weapons
The rain drums a funeral march against the grimy windows of Horse Guards. Wellington turns from the glass, the flintlock in his hand coming up, then sinking slowly as he identifies you. His eyes are caverns, emptied by the sight of London dying. He drops into a chair, the wood groaning under his weight, and his voice emerges as a dry, rasping whisper in the damp chill.