Post by Hilda ("Hildy") on Nov 17, 2012 15:14:37 GMT
Country: France
Current Time: 12:08 (Military Time) - 1940
Weather Conditions: Windy autumn day, moderate temperature w/ no precipitation, winds at 20 kilometres per hour
«By the light of the moon
My friend Pierrot
Lend me your pen
To write a word
My candle is dead
I have no more fire
Open your door for me
For the love of God .... »
Current Time: 12:08 (Military Time) - 1940
Weather Conditions: Windy autumn day, moderate temperature w/ no precipitation, winds at 20 kilometres per hour
«By the light of the moon
My friend Pierrot
Lend me your pen
To write a word
My candle is dead
I have no more fire
Open your door for me
For the love of God .... »
Came striding down the pathway, amidst tatters and rags fit for no king, an urchin of European blood. With no claim to a home or a country to own, she walked and sang as she pleased. This little urchin was utterly alone, as she liked things to be, and cared not for the troubles of the world and the day. She was thirteen, she was free as the blustery wind, and she could give a damn about Germany or invasion or occupation.
The French countryside was as empty as Napoleon's height complex, and save for the wind, only birds sang. These were the days of a France she knew untouched; in time, the scream of shells and the dying wounded would be as familiar as the road. For now, she basked in the freedom that the settlement-free knew; she soaked in her adventure like a cat in the sun. So pure and perfect was her world, she cared not of things to come, and would keep running and walking and dashing to the ends of the Earth.
The year was 1940. Hilda — a girl not by any other name, except maybe "Hildy" — was living in the early days of the Second World War. France was occupied, the Germans were rounding up people like dogs, and she had become used to the initial shock. Her plan was simple: stay out of the soldiers' way, don't go to Germany for some time, and wait to see who won. She was on nobody's side, and no one claimed her as their own. All was well; it was the worries of politicians and settled folk that the war was tied up with. Hilda might as well have been one of the larks overhead, for all she knew or bothered with.
That would change, one day or another, just as the scenery began to. Ahead of her was another French hamlet, small enough that nobody gave a damn but it still had a pretentious name. Someone looked like they were selling vegetables at the side of the road; that was good. Hilda didn't have any money, but maybe she could yell, «FEU!» and get everyone to run away and panic. That would give her enough time to swipe something and stuff it under her shirt.
