[ IP ] Wilderness

Corporal Jerin Molsky paused at the top of the ridge, his gaze directed down in the next valley over. 
 
 His breath fogged the winter's air as he exhaled, a rime of frost on his two weeks of unshaven beard. His M6T Laser Rifle was in his hands, he made his way down the treacherous slope, his insulated boots keeping out the wet snow with each step. Not for the first time, he cursed putting his past on the enlistment form. 
 
 Molsky was from the planet Kilarney, notable only for its complete lack of importance in Inner Sphere society. Isolated from the militant Marian Hegemony and the Free Worlds League's ancient enemy in the Lyran Commonwealth the world escaped the Word of Blake's Jihad and weathered the collapse of the League purely by being deemed too unimportant to bother with. Which suited the inhabitants just fine, as their principal export were fine woods and quality whiskey and nothing of military or industrial value. Molsky himself was from a family of timberjacks, and though they'd been in the business for over five centuries, Jerin was sick of it. Fearing he'd spend the rest of his days behind the controls of a lumber truck or else stuck in some office, he lept at the chance to get off the rock he spent his whole life on and go see the rest of the Inner Sphere. 
 
 So naturally, he got made a glorified park ranger. 
 
 Perhaps it was a tad unfair to call it that. Officially, he was the assistant scout of Fourth Platoon, K company, Wraith Battalion of Colonel `` Typhus'' Novak's Grave Guards. Officially, that position meant it was his task to patrol for enemies and act as a trailblazer for the rest of his platoon. Unofficially, it meant he was in ancient Terran space flight parlance, the `` Redshirt.'' Upon learning the origins of the term, he watched the thousand year series and laughed at its anachronism and idealism. A united humanity exploring the galaxy in the name of peace and science. He'd seen better plot lines in *Immortal Warrior. * No Tri-Vid technology, laughable costumes and unrealistic sets. Still, for sheer comedic value it was rather good, even if their English was rather stilted. 
 
 But he was good at what he did, possessing a keen eye and a penchant for detail. Twice he received commendations from the Old Man himself for his skills. One for saving an entire column from a Marian ambush and the second for crossing a three hundred and forty kilometers of unforgiving desert to conduct a lone long range patrol against an enemy airfield. 
 
 A flock of black winged avians lighted up towards the purpling sky, making Corporal Molsky throw himself into the wet damp snow, flicking off the safety of his laser rifle. His blood dropped to the same temperature as the biting air, the realization heavy and dark. He read *The Art of War, * the colonel personally recommending the thin treatise to all his soldiers. 
 
 *'' The rising of birds in their flight is the sign of an ambuscade. Startled beasts indicate that a sudden attack is coming. `` * 
 
 Once more he cursed under his breath that he listed forester as a prior career.
