The circumstances of the Great War stood now for about three years; and with only one year of plucking European countries out of the air. They have surmounted the French, and up until now, Great Britian had long glazed the socialists' eyes. The health of the respected fascists was great. To Daniel Balint, the notion that the Great War stood was a little less than implausible. However the fact that it did exist was undeniable. His immediate surroundings by the heartland of Germany could be measured in a relative state of peace -- all others that resisted were no greater before or after their 'sudden' death. The occasional revolts here were less than nothing compared to the World War's fight. He had been out vulnerable on the battle field once before -- needless to say he cannot recall it now; he was shot multiple times -- and so, the tedious work: to constantly interrogate, abuse, and persecute his personal demons, was all up to his manner of politeness and love.

And it was here that the middle-aged man had often fell into a vein of musing -- romantically and immediately perched by his frost-bitten window. It was the virgin snow of the first fog of winter; in its own simple nature, it was beautiful, but the season was hiemal and intense; far colder than it had been in Balint's flaking childhood memory. Of course, that was the time far before the war, far beyond the conflict and complications in the world. Life then was at a gross simplicity. But as a gentleman truly his nature, he has grown sharp through the ages.

Daniel Balint had the look of a man who lacked the pits of leniency. He had a somewhat tall stature and was a relatively average man; blessed with some muscle and grace. His fascist clothes hugged intimately around his rather robust figure. For his nearing age of forty, he was, indeed, of generous health. His front only bore some wrinkles; specifically curling at the corners of his dry lips, remarking the discontent he had so far in this life. Aside from that, Balint was bestowed with awesome, soft features. The face, overall, was a gentle oval paired by a very delicate jaw line complimenting it. The man's mouth was angelically chiseled at the top and was further defined by the character's lack of ability to shave this week. His nose was sharp, strutting out dominantly on his face, and his eyes were round in with a deep brown. He was birthed a natural brunette, but Daniel shaved his scalp clean and only little weeds of burnt bronze struggled to stay.

To an untrained eye, Daniel Balint looked like a cordial character in fashion. He failed to drop his set composure; although, in actuality, he was at a constant battle with himself. He drifted away from work often and instead caught himself lurking mysteriously at his precious window, at a wonder; maybe at a constant denial to the circumstances at hand. His appearance, somehow, went stoutly against the quaint disposition of the room -- looking somewhat unfitting when standing next to the swatstika stitched into his arm. It was no time to analyze the meaning of life now, however -- when there was work to be done. With a dangerous wing of his best arm, the man snapped up his precious, polished, MP44. It was an almost pretty thing, although half-rusted and unsteady at the handle. With a stuff blow of air, Daniel Balint swung it over his shoulder, erecting his self to inexplicable outcomes.