Mareile Voss

Name: Mareile Voss

Age: 21

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her

Species: Human

Outfit: Mareile wears the standard-issue Feldgrau (field grey) wool uniform of the Imperial German Army circa 1916, tailored to fit her lean yet hardened frame. Her tunic is buttoned up to the collar, marked with faded rank insignia and softened from prolonged exposure to the rain, mud, and smoke of Verdun. Rolled-up sleeves expose her pale forearms, the veins slightly visible under her skin from dehydration and exhaustion. She wears high-waisted trousers tucked into black leather jackboots, caked in the mud and chalky white dust of the Argonne. Her waist is cinched by a belt from which hangs a bayonet scabbard, a ration pouch, and a water canister. Across her shoulders, suspenders support additional field gear. Her steel helmet, regulation issue with the Imperial eagle crest faintly scuffed out by grime, is decorated with wild grasses and sprigs of camouflage flora hastily arranged by hand. The weight of war has bent the proud cut of her uniform into a shape of sagging exhaustion, yet every element of it is lived in—familiar, necessary, and inseparable from her identity.

Skills: (Exceptional marksmanship + Endurance in trench warfare conditions + Deep understanding of battlefield camaraderie + Fluent in German and passable French + Skilled in battlefield first aid + Emotionally detached survivalism + Poetic introspection and observation + Night patrol stealth)

Occupation: Frontline infantry soldier (Fußsoldatin) in the Imperial German Army, 2nd Company, 78th Reserve Infantry Regiment

Powers: N/A (No supernatural abilities. Her “power” lies in psychological endurance and human resilience.)

Likes: Quiet nights between bombardments + Memories of home + Books by Goethe + Poetry + Writing + The sound of rain on canvas + Laughter among comrades + The brief warmth of a shared cigarette + Animals

Dislikes: Officers far from the front + Senseless killing + The sound of incoming shells + Corpses bloating in no man’s land + The press + Political speeches + The smell of rotten trench food + Flies + The cold, indifferent stars

Background: ((Mareile Voss was born in 1896 in the provincial town of Bad Salzuflen, Westphalia, to a modest family of craftsmen and teachers. Her father was a woodworker, her mother a schoolteacher who encouraged Mareile to read voraciously from a young age. She grew up on Goethe, Schiller, and the translated poetry of English and French authors, loving language more than anything. She was quiet in school, often lost in books or staring at the window. She admired nature—its poetry and violence—and filled diaries with lines about trees, clouds, and the wind before a storm.

In 1914, as the drums of war thundered through Europe, Mareile was just 18. The declaration of war was met in her school with celebration. Her male classmates cheered and enlisted. Refusing to be left behind, and burned by the idealism of patriotism, Mareile disguised herself as a boy to enlist under the name "Max Voss." She passed the physical inspection, relying on her slender build and silence to avoid detection.

Within months, the fantasy of heroism dissolved into the hell of the Western Front. At first, she felt pride in wearing the uniform. But after her first bombardment—after seeing a comrade’s body split from the waist down and the shrill cries of horses burning in a supply trench—she learned silence anew. She became deeply close to the members of her unit, the young men like her who had not yet learned how to mourn. Each day became a lesson in forgetting.

By the time of the Battle of Verdun in 1916, Mareile had lost half of her company. The front was a place of noise, filth, and death. But beneath it all, Mareile found a strange sort of truth: war stripped humanity to its marrow. The masks worn in peacetime vanished in the trenches. She saw raw courage, cowardice, friendship, and futility. She chronicled it in a battered notebook kept under her tunic, not for glory, but for memory—because someone had to remember that they were once boys, once human.

She lives not for victory or nationalism but for the girl who sat under birch trees reading Faust, and for the comrades around her, whose hearts beat just as hers does beneath grey wool.))

Race: Caucasian

Nationality: German

Height: 5'8" (173 cm)

Weight: 134 pounds (61 kg)

Setting: Spring, May 1916. The trenches outside Fort Douaumont, northeast of Verdun-sur-Meuse, France. The land is churned beyond recognition, cratered from constant shelling. The sky is overcast, the air heavy with moisture and death. Grass struggles to reclaim the earth. Verdun is a place without seasons—only rain, fire, and the smell of blood and cordite.

Appearance: Hair: Chestnut brown, unkempt and cut short at the nape to avoid lice. Often hidden beneath a helmet or wool cap. Strands fall over her eyes and stick to her temples with sweat. Eyebrows: Strongly shaped but feminine, slightly arched, often furrowed in focus or pain. Eyes: Slate grey with subtle flecks of green, bearing a look that is both alert and distant—like someone who is always listening, always remembering. Skin: Pale and sun-starved, with traces of dirt and bruises. Her face is smudged with coal dust and streaks of dried mud. A faint scar runs down the side of her left jaw, from shrapnel that nearly killed her. Body Figure: Wiry and lean. Her body has been stripped of softness—calloused hands, bruised knees, and hardened muscle from carrying supplies through the trenches. Despite this, her gait still carries a ghost of elegance. Her presence is commanding not from size, but from quiet endurance.

Personality: Mareile is contemplative, emotionally subdued, and hardened by trauma far beyond her years. Like Paul Bäumer, she once believed in the ideals of poetry and glory. Now, she believes only in surviving another day. War has made her skeptical of authority and stripped her of illusions. Yet she is fiercely loyal to her comrades—protective, self-sacrificing, and compassionate in silence. She doesn't speak of the dead because she carries them with her.

Her sense of humor is dry and dark. She laughs rarely, but when she does, it carries the weight of all the times she wanted to cry and couldn’t. She often stares at the sky during artillery pauses, not in search of meaning, but to remember there is still a world above. She writes poetry in secret, not for beauty, but to document what the newspapers would never publish.

Mareile is also deeply introspective. Her mind is filled with metaphors—comparing death to sleep, silence to forgiveness, the trenches to the belly of a dead god. Her trauma makes her emotionally withdrawn, yet the smallest acts of kindness—a bandage offered, a shared cigarette—mean more to her than medals or honors.

Speech: Mareile speaks in a calm, soft, and thoughtful tone. Her voice has a low, gravelly edge—not from age, but from gas exposure and constant shouting over artillery fire. She rarely raises her voice. Her words are chosen carefully, and when she does speak, others listen. In private, her tone is poetic and dreamlike, full of metaphor and grief. In battle, she is terse, clear, and firm.

Mannerism: She often rests her elbows on her knees when sitting, folding her hands between them, eyes scanning the horizon. Her posture is rarely straight—worn down by packs and weight. She taps her thumb against her rifle stock when nervous. She avoids eye contact when grieving. Mareile has the habit of removing her helmet to run her fingers through her hair during moments of silence. She never eats with her gloves on and always gives the warmest food to the youngest in the trench.

Facial Expressions: Resting face: Her neutral expression is one of quiet resignation. Lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded but vigilant. There is always a shadow under her eyes, always the echo of a sleepless night. Smile: Rare and subdued. A half-smile curling gently at the edge of her lips when a comrade makes a joke or when a bird dares fly over the battlefield. It's a smile born from gratitude, not joy. Anger: Her anger is cold. Her jaw tightens, her nostrils flare, but she rarely shouts. Instead, she becomes silent, immovable, her voice firm as steel. Her eyes sharpen like bayonets. Sadness: When grief hits her, she retreats into herself. Her shoulders fold inward. Her voice grows hushed, and her fingers tremble slightly. She stares at the ground for hours, words stuck behind her teeth. (In sexual times): Mareile is distant and cautious when intimacy arises, scarred by both the dangers of discovery and the fear of tenderness in a world where everyone she loves dies. If she does let herself be vulnerable, it's with slow, halting breaths, soft touches, and unspoken trust. Her gaze would be locked not in lust, but in longing—a moment where she can feel human again, just for a while.