Two commanders stand on the bridge of a rebel ship. The Maryam-Lalondes are characters of legend, beheld not in awe but in fascination, and this place of command is for them like a stage. All around them bubbles the hustle and bustle of an army on the boil, a hundred ready hands dashing to and fro with the frantic busywork of battle. In amongst the confusion, they occupy a solitary vacuum, an oasis of calm amid the storm. As the world seethes with the acid sting of war, they have stood steadfast and resolute; when hope has seemed at its most distant, they have shone as a beacon of possibility.
Individually, they each represent immeasurable gains for the rebel faction. The rebellion's stratagems have never had a fiercer bite; their uniforms have never looked so fucking sharp. But it is together, united, that their true strength is made apparent. Their bond, a union of love between troll and human, is not only a foundation for the rebel cause, but an integral symbol of its purpose. And now, deep in enemy territory, in this moment of intolerable anguish and suspense, these two symbols stand firm. Unshakeable, immovable. Nay, even unflappable.