Name: Weasel
Gender: Female
In truth, it had been meant as a cruel mockery of her meagre appearance by her foster siblings several winters ago, and yet she had grown fond of the nickname, and even adopted it as her own. Somehow, "Weasel" had a nicer ring to it than her birth name... and it reminded her less of the fact that her parents were dead. Largely as a result of the Novemians' gluttony, if she could trust the city officials. She counted herself lucky even to be alive at this point, after so many blizzards and famines ravaging the northern plains. Weasel was glad to be able to finally serve in this war, even under the command of her brutal artillery sergeant, whose name she had never chanced to learn in her months of training since joining the militia. She didn't imagine orphan girls were afforded the opportunity to serve often, so she felt it best not to object to his harsh treatment of the troops.
Weapons: regular + fire arrows, 1 catapult and 1 trebuchet
Faction: Decemia (warrior, not commander)
Their leader had made the decision to march up the western side of the mountain pass, hoping to gain a better vantage point over the fortress, but it took the better portion of a day to haul the siege engines and ammunition up the rocky slopes. Thankfully, the snow was falling hard enough that no one had seen the scrappy squadron on its grueling trek up to the little ledge--or, at least, nobody had bothered to fire upon them.
Weasel was able to catch short and infrequent glimpses of the Snowflake Keep, glowing with torchlight, in between periods of heavier snowfall.
So magnificent. There was something beautiful in the sight of the snowy castle, with the dark silhouettes of blanketed mountains periodically emerging through the blizzard across the way; it almost made her a bit sad that they were going to attack it... But war was war, and this was for the sake of all her friends fallen, and all the strangers starved, all those Decemians who had perished at the hands of the selfish southern rule.
For Mother. And for the father I never knew. They reached the ledge by sundown, she judged by the darkening of the snowy air, and Weasel was left to man the trebuchet with another soldier as two more were put to work on the catapult and the rest, six bowmen and the sergeant, sought higher and better protected ground on the mountain face. She patiently awaited further command, and sat down to sharpen her knife in the meantime.
OOC: I assume I'm allowed to use this perspective?