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I am so looking forward to completing one of my pledges - the Night Rovfugl, Barcza, and his team of Kasrkin. I will get this done this weekend. It is, quite honestly, one of the most adventurous models I have taken on. You ain't seen no Valkyrie yet, guys. And, in keeping with my mixing of languages and giving my vehicles some character, 'rovfugl' is akin to 'bird of prey' in Danish. The Night Rovfugl flew blacked-out, its matte hull cutting low across the desert. No lights nor insignia. Just the shimmer of heat bleeding from shielded exhausts, briefly visible, then gone. Inside, the troop compartment was dim and red-lit, casting the squad in blood and shadow. Ten troopers sat in silence, visors down, weapons held loosely across their laps. Straps swayed faintly with the motion of the hull. Barcza sat near the rear ramp, his helmet resting between his boots. He scanned each figure once, methodically, then tapped his throat mic. “Roll call.” The replies came clipped, one after another. “Lis.” “Raven.” “Slate.” “Gauge.” …others followed, each punctuated by a nod, a pat on the side of their weapon. They were ready. Weapons were checked again. Magazines seated. Grenades counted. Las-sights flicked on, then off. Barcza slid his helmet on and locked it tightly. His visor polarised with a faint click. No one spoke. A red light above the side doors pulsed twice. The cabin shifted subtly as the Rovfugl dropped in to hover. The sound wasn’t a roar, more a pressure. A low, rhythmic throb, felt more than heard. Fast and tight as it neared the drop point. Each pulse landed in the chest like a second heartbeat. The red light turned amber. Then green. The doors slid open. Barcza stood first. One hand up, a closed fist: hold. Two fingers pointed forward: on me. A flat palm, sweeping left: form wedge. The squad moved. Ten black shapes dropped into the dark. No comms. No noise but the soft grind of boots on dry grit. The Night Rovfugl lifted behind them. There was no flare nor aftershock. Just a lingering pressure in the air, then nothing. Barcza gave a short circular signal: check arcs. Two peeled left. Two right. The rest swept forward, low and methodical. He tapped his mic once, low gain. “Follow me.” And they moved into the dust, into the dark.