Somewhere in the Cask Mountains, between Fort Cask and Freigrad
Caskhomir SAR, Candanadium
The southern borders of the Caskhomir Special Administrative Region was a turbulent region, with Dimonia looming to the east and Sonvarim to the south. Border patrols were sent out daily, from Fort Cask to Freigrad, then on to Golding, patrolling the entirety of the southern border, which had been sealed ever since the fall of Karelograd. Here, high in the Cask mountains, the border was nothing but an electrified fence and a few signs here and there, written in Kanadiaans, Caskaans, Oseanian, and Dimonian, warning any potential border crossers to stay away. Now, in the height of the Caskhomirian winter, the border was a frozen hellscape, where no sane man would trod voluntarily.
This was the reason that the Caskhomirian Regiment was seen as an oddity to the rest of the Candanadian Defence Forces, with their heavy fur hats and padded jackets, bearing the lion and leaves of their region instead of the crowned maples of Candanadium. Caskhomirian boys were taught growing up that serving on the border was a great privilege, a service to folk en vaderland. This couldn't be further from what Korporaal Johan de Klerk felt, trudging along the dirt track that ran parallel to the fence. His thirty-man patrol had set out from Fort Cask at six in the morning, and after five hours of tireless marching he was beginning to feel his muscles cramp up. His feet were freezing, and the tea in his insulated canteen had grown cold.
"The gods were cruel to make us Caskhomirians." He muttered to himself. "Our days are spent mindlessly pacing back and forth in the mountains while the border patrol in Westland sit in heated booths and stamp bloody passports all day."
"Don't be such a draadtrekker about it, de Klerk. It's only four years." A private behind him seemed to have heard his muttering.
"Four years of freezing my balls off." He scoffed. "And they say they're giving us too many privileges."