Tis a cold night near the banks of the Berezina. The fireplace that you and your comrades have set alight still burns bright in defiance of the freezing winter.

Sheets of ice drifted along the river and onto the sea, some of them coming dangerously close to knocking down the half-built bridge that you and your fellow men were to cross and escape the cannibals that have overtaken half of Europe.

The sounds of hammering stopped, and from a distance, a man donning a bearskin cap and an exhausted look began to trudge through the snow and back to the church where you camped at.

Grumbling as he approached, he threw his axe to the corner of the room and sat next to you.

"Why are you still awake, chevreau? Everyone's gone to sleep."

He'd murmur, his eyes hanging low and tired.