It's.... been a bleak couple of weeks. Months? Years? Keeping track of time is an idea that has gone out of the window. All you know is that the war that once raged has come to a standstill. Everyday blending together, fighting off the dead, running from hordes, searching for food, defending whatever remains before it buckles before the might of the Empire of the Dead.

The streets are as bleak as ever under nightfall. The only light sources come from fires raging in buildings or still, almost comically lit oil streetlamps. The sky is lit up to an almost reddish hue via the smoke and other flames further around or in the city. Soldiers, their uniforms bloodied and torn, no longer fighting for the glory of any nation blend together in the viscera. But the road in front of you is relatively clear at least. Well, clear of any shambling corpses. It's chalk full of destroyed barricades, abandoned wagons, scattered equipment, the works. The dead are likely to be busy eating someone else. Someone louder.

Your footfalls are nearly the only sounds other than distant gun and cannon fire, and the flames raging on from ruined buildings. As you step over some scattered sandbags, a crawler darts out from under a nearby wagon. Grasping your footwear, their claws digging into the article of clothing and not letting go. You reach for your melee weapon, trying to step back onto to fall backwards onto the street. The weapon clatters against the ground, just barely out of reach. Just before the corpse's broken teeth can sink into your ankle, it is stopped by the distinct sound of a musket shot. The thing's head falls back, bleeding putrid crimson from the gunshot wound profusely.

As you glance over to your savior, you are met with a Prussian. One of those Landwehr Rankers, standing tall in the street a few feet away. His one visible eye falls down onto you, the other blocked by an eyepatch. The Prussian lowers the musket, clutching it with one hand. His gaze bores into you with heavy indifference.

"....Hallo." Conrad greets. His voice, while calm and blank, carried the greeting with some aloofness as if he did not just shoot a reanimated corpse in the head.