"I swear that your family will find your roasted hands in the cooking fire tonight."

"If you do not kneel, it's a guarantee you'll be taking my blades to your knees."

"Looks like you're about to have my foot for lunch."

Yudefa had long understood the powers of promise. Threats he made, threats that were made to him, they were all just oaths to do conditional harm. The Kvill family may have been cutthroats, bookies, and legendary streets toughs, but wordbreakers they were not. Yudefa had learned from the time he was taken in as an orphan that the Kvill family followed through. It's what kept them strong. It's what allowed him to assimilate into their own ranks.

Through promises, power, and practice came the prestige; unlike those lazy-limbed Lotikos or the mangy-mouthed Muls, the Kvill clan knew how to follow through. No threat went unaswered, no promise went unpaid. No matter the cost, Yudefa had been loyal to the code of the Kvill. The same honor made Yudefa flee his famous family.

Now Yudefa was dead, and Moonface had a new family.

It wasn't hard to swear his allegiance. It was all he had now.

---

The next ten days had been...invigorating. Moonface's body was sore from training, his head stung from the thumps he received for his remarks. He wasn't stupid, but he often chose not to use discretion. Passive-agressive quips seemed more honorable than acting like he liked being treated like a war mount. He'd always thought he was in good shape until he was run ragged every single day. They didn't even give them wine: he had always enjoyed his wine before he went to sleep.

Yet those first ten days saw some changes in him. Now he had more stamina to quip under his breath during their runs rather than slipping sarcasm between lungfuls of desperate breaths. His perpetual smile - having temporarily regressed on their first few days of training - returned with a new curve of mischievousness. After awhile his trainers stopped thumping him for it, as long as he didn't get caught running off at the mouth.

Then there was the fighting.

It was so...different. Not the back alley ambushes, or the competitions of who can get who's knife to the other's throat faster. Moonface rarely had armor on in his past life - padded cloth and stylish slips of leather beneath silky shalwars were not nearly as fanciful as chainmail and tunics. The chainmail had slowed him down, and the shield...why weigh his hand down when he could be using it to punch someone?

He quickly learned that his martial prowess, though superior to many on the streets, was less adaptable to the fields of war. Working in tandem with others, staying alive as opposed to killing the others, the basics of these concepts were something he made sure to absorb. Who knew you could use a shortsword like that? You mean the shield actually can free up your space to move?

He made sure to work hard at swinging around his sword and shield. On the front lines or policing in the city, he'd need to learn how to fight in this uniform. Surely the way of the blade would keep him alive. Surely he would be both protected and capable in service to the Black Company by mastering these skills. He believed all this until he realized they had archery practice.

At first, the big bow was a cumbersome affair. His forearms felt like they were bleeding with each repeated draw. However, years of mastery with the longbow's smaller cousin had seemed to pay off for him; it didn't take long for him to master the sighting of the weapon. Before archery, Moonface had believed the Black Company were simply butchers. Knowing that they held the touch of the assassin was comforting. The best way to stay alive had always been not to be in a position to be hurt.

He could get used to that any day.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:38, Sat 12 Dec 2020.

Boots could barely get up from his sleeping area after that first day.

His had been in an active enough profession, a Groom at a major stabling operiation apparently, with plenty of pitching hay, mucking stalls and other manual labor. But nothing had ever come close to the training regime that the Black Company had in mind.

He was near the bottom of the pack when it came to the runs, being a bigger man it seemed to take him that much more effort to haul his two hundred plus pounds along near the end of the formation pounding away at the ground with a lumbering stride. He gasped and sweated, red faced, and although he made progress along with the others who had not been drummed out, he was never outstanding in that regard.

And while he had a muscular build, he had to rely upon that strength to supplement skill as they moved into the weapons drills.

If he stood out at all, amid the mass of miserable wretches harried along with a kick or a switch, it was that he always seemed to be able to put on a smile. It was not a manic smile, no laughter really, just a calm, easy smile at the end of the day despite exhaustion, smashed fingers, sunburn and blistered feet.

When the day came when they were divided by their role in the formation, Boots queued up with the Infantry.

He seemed to do this for a few reasons. One, he was built for it, and two the training cadre had made sincere threats about people shirking in the back. He could more easily wear the heavier armor than many of the other recruits, and he had always been fair to middling in their archery drills. But he could center punch a training post with a short sword more often than not, and with real effect.

He moved down down the line with the others, accepting the gear that was handed out into a large bundle in both arms supported by his shield. The helmet he perched on top before he meandered away with the others to adjust, fit, trade and otherwise inspect the equipment that his life may depend upon in the coming days.

Frost lived up to her name.  She wasn't the best in the group, she wasn't the worst either.  She disconnected her mind from her body, setting her body to the tasks.  If it stumbled it stumbled.  If it got whipped it got whipped.  She didn't lag much, she was far more active than her frame suggested, but she was certainly not the sheer physical specimen some of them were.

She did most poorly at the drills and training.  That had never been a part of her life until now, and it showed.  Still, she tried.  She did badly, but she tried.

Frost wasn't there, Frost was off to the side, contemplating the emptiness and wonder of the universe.  Still, she slipped in every once in a while, she could not help it.  There was something about being abused in a similar way together.  She even knew that was part of the reason this was happening to them, yet wasn't immune to it.

She found it interesting that everyone was a soldier.  It made sense, but it was unique.

She wasn't sure whether it was because she hadn't completely embarrassed herself at the archery range (she hadn't done well, but she'd done no worse than many) or that she had embarrassed herself completely otherwise, but she was ordered into a line.  At the end of it a sergeant was handing out bows, quivers and spears.  She was not relieved, for she did not see it being any safer either way.

She liked the tunic at least.  It suited her and it suited her new reality.

Lancet stripped with the rest, showing no hesitation in baring her body. There wasn't much to bare, if truth be gold, though her back had scars - she had been whipped before, and not just once. She knew how to take a beating, and the switches did little to really upset her.

She liked the tunic. It made her feel like she belonged. It was a lie, but it was a pleasant one, and she luxuriated in the feeling of it.

She ran well, and her stamina was good. It improved over the course of the training. She spoke little, and not at all about her past, nor really what skills had convinced the recruiters to bring her on. She had a tendency to fade into the crowd of recruits, all but forgotten. Her performance was so thoroughly average that it was difficult to pick any single thing out about her, though her agility was notable when they ran through obstacles. She could jump, climb, swim, and clamber as well as anyone in the group.

When it came time to take her role, she had a short talk with one of the officers before joining the queue for archers. In truth, it seemed an ill fit for her - despite her grace and agility, she handled the short sword with more skill than the bow, and lacked the precision to be a truly deadly archer. But the heavier armor of the infantry would just weigh her down, and so, she opted for the other line.

She nodded slightly to Frost as they stood in line, though she said nothing. She had recognized a sort of kinship in the pale woman early on. They were both...well, they were both inclined to retreat inside themselves and keep their own counsel. She appreciated that about the other woman.

The recruiting officer was about to wave Paul away to the square and food waiting until the silver object lighted up in his possession.  He had subconsciously run his fingers over the scar on his neck.
The healer you say.  Can your god never have the same name.  Not even once?Shaking his head.  Ah I don't care.  Just get yourself over to the barn.  You're in the Black Company now and don't you forget it.
Without a word Paul headed over to the barn and found a small spot at the back to curl up and watch and wait.  He looked around and did his best to take everybody in.  Making a mental notes as he did.

Then the speech came.  For most it was uplifting.  Paul it just made him more fearful and he just for a moment berried his head further into his knees.  Then came the oath.
He listen carefully.
I swear by The healer and helper and by the oath I swore before to my god, my own honor an unbreakable oath...
However Paul added a last line. One the old priest had told him.   I also swear that should my company abandon it's promise, abandon the people and abandon the gods I or my spirit will become it's judge and executioner if necessary.

Paul shuddered at his last words.   Why the old priest had told him to add the last lines he really did not want to think about it.  All he knew now was for good or ill of himself and the company he joined they where  bound both in life and death.  It was then Paul realized something.  The old man, the draw he never let Paul touch or see into.  Paul was sure now.  It had had a tunic in it.  Paul was now sure of it.  It was Black Company tunic.  The old priest had served and survived.  Was that why he had sent Paul here.  To do the same.

---

The first night Paul had found a spot to call his own and got his food.  Then settled down to his prayers and sleep.  Then the next morning the bucket of cold water came.  But unlike the others Paul reaction was to roll out of bed.  Onto his knee and looked up at the soldier and said. Prayers father? The two looked at each other in surprise.  Oh.  I am not at the temple anymore.  Was Paul passing comment when he realize what he done.  He said a few words before getting up.  Then again if any of his trainers had laid any bets on Paul falling behind on the run they been out of pocket.
Although not use to run for that long or over that distance, Paul's life at the temple was one of work and prayer.  Prayer and work.  It seems he had been conditioned to this life by someone.

Lastly at the end of the day when everybody even Paul was tired he had insisted on the group of 7 he was with sit and rest.
He went and got them there food but insisted in saying a little prayer before they could eat.
Once they had all finished the boy check each of the seven over before returning to bed.  As he did these three odd things for his little group he looked each one in the eye and somehow they got feeling maybe it was just better to let the boy do what he was doing.  What harm would it do.

When it came to weapon training it was the one area Paul really had issues with.  Wheeling a weapon, trying to kill someone.  His heart was not in it.  He learned the skills but only just.  The only time he did seem to be ok was when he had a shield and a shortsword in his hands.  It was not so much the attack but defense that worked.  It was not unknown for Paul to win a battle.   Not from the blows he made but from the fact the opponent ended up dropping his or her guard out of share exhaustion.

OOC: if you want end up in Paul group let me know.  (subject to GM happy we can sort out our own groups).
This message was last edited by the player at 01:32, Sun 13 Dec 2020.

For some reason Snicker hasn’t made many friends. Something about being creepy or what she finds so funny or why she’s trying to kill that cat. Conversations usually end with some variant of “goddamn wizards.” But that doesn’t bother her in the slightest. Requited or not, her affection for the Company trickles down toward its members and that is more than enough.

But with how much she enjoys violence who could have guessed she barely knew her way around a kitchen knife? She assumed that ensorcelling her new brethren would be out of the question and neither wood nor hay bales are receptive to her charms. And so believing herself temporarily muzzled she tackles weapons training with gusto despite failing to excel across the board.

However, she did become fascinated by the idea of death from a distance. It’s not as visceral, but it certainly has advantages over improvised close-quarters brutality. After getting accustomed to the longbows’ pull she took to practicing her aim on cats. They always make Slate nervous which pisses her off. But are those things ever hard to hit. Worse, they learn to avoid crazy women who hurl pointy sticks in their direction. At least she hasn’t gotten in trouble for attacking the camp’s pest controllers yet.

The one piece of gear she can’t abide is the shield. There’s no way she can spread her wings strapped to one of those godforsaken chunks of wood. She’s better with a bow than a sword anyways, and the Company seemed to agree. She just hopes the vanguard appreciates their privilege when soaked in an enemy’s blood.

What’s more, she’ll have a better view from the back for when the goddamn wizard gets to be one again.

Before retrieving her arms she stares into the sergeant’s eyes for a full two seconds and, ever true to her name, chuckles to herself about whatever it is she had just seen.

Rat threw himself into the training, almost as if his life depended on it.  His body remembered the morning run from his time in the militia but they were never this fast and there were no breaks like before when the group formed hedgehogs against cavalry.  The training here was in standard weapons, not the levy bring what you have and make it work.

He hated the shield training but learned to at least not block his vision when blocking a sword or spear.  The metal armour was too heavy and limiting, even the studded leather was cumbersome compared to the leather he had gotten used to before.

Still by the end of what felt like the longest week of his life he became an average soldier.  He grew more confident in himself and the company, secure in the knowledge he was not just there to slow the enemy down until the professionals arrived.  His life had value to the unit.

He joined the Archers line and took his equipment away to examine and evaluate its condition.  He did so in private, mumbling quietly to himself as he used minor magics to improve and clean it.  An odd thought went through his mind as he thought about Snicker and the prisoner outfit she wore, and he chuckled at the thought, wondering if he had the courage to cross the witch  execute the idea.  Rumours were she was nuts.

The naive smile never left his face as he learned the strengtbs and weaknesses of his fellow recruits.  He let Paul bless his food because it really couldn't hurt and if he wanted to do a good deed who was Rat to stop him?  The outgoing Priest was so nice and it made the atmosphere more comfortable.

It made him want to do something nice in return.  Like a moth circling a torch the idea wouldn't die.  He was sure the dreaded circle and its army wouldn't take interest in it and death would be preferable anyway.

OOC: Paul, I would like being in your group of eight.  If you think there are better opportunities to roleplay others in your tent I will not be offended if you choose them.

GM and Snicker - given the opportunity Rat is about to play his first prank.  If there is an opportunity when her prisoners uniform is alone and unguarded (not counting the crow, whom is unknown to him) Rat will use the Mending and Prestidigitation cantrip to repair and clean the prisoner uniform.)

Orville took to the training like a duck to water, especially since it was akin to what he previously gone through. Having this training advantage afforded Orville the opportunity to provide a few pointers to others in the group, that didn't impression on the training they were being given. He enjoyed the morning runs, during which he ensured he was near the end of the group to provide the runners who lagged behind with comeradic support. Each day was a challenge both physically and mentally and Orville emphasized with those who had no prior exposure to the rigours of this form of training.

The ten days of training with sword and shield was like bread and butter, this was quickly followed by training in archery. Orville appreciated the need to have everyone in the company received instruction in melee and missile weapons, simply because doing so ensured each member the knowledge that all others in the Company knew how to handle themselves.

Orville's skill with bow were comparable to that of the majority of recruits, whilst his proficiency with sword and shield were much better. When it came time to be assigned to Melee or Missile his instructors recommended he was best suited to the line role.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:12, Sun 13 Dec 2020.

Marching, Blackfinger had discovered, sucked. It especially sucked when he had to stop halfway through a run to vomit out a black ichor that had to have come from his lungs, only for the corporals to gleefully whip him back into line hacking a wheezing the whole way. Even still he could not even think to stop smoking in the few hours given to rest, he knew that way led to a hollow emptiness where his magic once was.

The weapons training was much preferable to swift fingered man, the stinging bruises and searing cuts were much preferable to the anguish his lungs saddled him with when running for so long. The shield and armor weighed down his nimble feet and made his every movement a cacophony of metal, ensuring that he could no more stay silent than fly. At least, he thought, I enjoy wielding the blade.

Surprisingly his initial curiosity at considering the others as allies had cemented through the training and his struggles. If they were willing to suffer along side him, that was a bond in blood. In particular he took a shine to the bright faced cleric as he reminded the laborer of there being a world outside of these camps. The prayers were not uncommon to him, seafarers tended to be a superstitious bunch. He kept a close eye a fair berth to the other magic wielders, Blackfinger's only a novice but he knows it's best to keep others like him at arm's length. Not too far away to help and be helped, not too close to be threat or be threatened. Lancet and Boots at least he enjoyed the company of, one for their wit and the other for their calm.

In the end he joined the infantry, desperately hoping that that would entail less running, though he knew his wheezing-filled fate was unavoidable.

Hush was not the strongest. She barely cleared being the weakest in terms of raw strength. She was not the swiftest, however nimble she was. But, she could endure. The physical hardship was familiar- the pain of channeling too much power wracked the body in much the same way that drilling or marching did, beatings included, condensing an hour into a moment. The verbal abuse was instructive, a refining force.

She hated the yelling, of course- her new name had been chosen intentionally. But she was long-sighted. The uniform was more than enough payment for that; it meant nobody outside the Black Company would shout at her now. Everything in life was a matter of trade-offs. She knew precious little about the Taken, but she suspected that even they made such decisions on a far, far grander scale. Certainly, she saw that at least Lancet seemed equally pleased with what the uniform meant.

Most of the yelling came during weapons training. She was a mage, and even if she was a far more specialized talent than the versatile arcane or divine practitioners, she'd had little cause to use weapons before. Precious few tricks carried over even with the bow, but she could at least take advantage of nearby targets and knew how to pick targets in a fight. Once she'd learned the basics of using a bow well enough for the more subtle competencies to show through, things went smoothly. The sword… well, she was fortunate that she at least wasn't the weakest so there were others to get more yelling than her. The shield wasn't as difficult to learn, but it was a strangely anxious thing to use. She was used to having her arms free to gather energy, and the shield interfered with that while also being much more cumbersome to remove than the sword or bow. That was a matter best not made widely known, so she suppressed the unease.

When placement came, the archers' line was the natural choice.

The training was.....surprising. Stitch had wondered how the days would begin, but the cold bucket of water that first morning had been an unpleasant surprise. When they were ordered to wash he had no problem. He understood that lice and other disease carriers were less of a threat to those who kept their bodies clean on a regular basis. Then came that first run. He was used to the hunt, often having to run down a stag after wounding it, but never had such a chase lasted more than 5 miles. He was breathing hard by the seventh mile, but wasn't lagging. At least, not until he encountered a recruit that had twisted his ankle. He stopped to apply first aid to the ankle, ignoring the quirts being applied to his back, trying to get him running again. At one point, he turned to his tormentor and growled "I thought we were supposed to be a unit. If your message is 'every man for himself' I don't think you'll gain any praise." With that, he finished wrapping the ankle and rejoined the run, glancing briefly at the Corporal, who had an odd look on his face.
When the run was finished, and they went to the practice field, Stitch proved himself among the best of the recruits, easily taking to the use of a gladius as if it were an old friend. He had no problem with fighting with a shield, and could beat aside the defenses of most that he faced. When it came time for archery, again he was familiar with the weapon. The drilling only sharpened his skill with the bow, although he wasn't as accurate as a few sparse individuals. He asked the rangemaster what was done with any broken arrows or damaged bows, offering to do any repairs needed. He showed  his fletching tools and told the officer that he had apprenticed to a bowyer, and knew the craft. When the end of weapons training was announced, Stitch applied himself to the Infantry.

OOC: Any raw materials for bows and arrows that otherwise would be discarded?

Later that day a sergeant pulled Stitch out of line and walked him a hundred paces away from the others.

"Drop and give me ten push ups," he demanded, not even bothering to be loud about it. Push ups were pretty standard punishment for minor infractions of the rules by now and Stitch had little problem with them until the sergeant put his foot in the middle of his back and pushed down hard.

"The point of the training, son, is not to be a band of merry men. If you break formation in a battle because your buddy took an arrow in the leg, you're useless to us. If you question the command of your superior officers, you're useless to us. The strength of an army is that it acts in accordance to the will of the man in charge -- as best it can. That's why we can stand against a barbarian rabble with twice as many men as us. Because, Everybody! Does! What! They're! Told!"

Each of the last words is emphasized with a shove down into the dirt.

The sergeant lets Stitch roll away after this and squats next to him.

"It's nice that you're a gentle soul who wants to help your friends. It makes you a decent human being. But when you disobey a direct order, you're a useless soldier. One more infraction and you're out."

OOC: There are bowyers and fletchers among the veterans who work with the arms masters to maintain the weapons in good condition. If you express an interest and demonstrate skill this may be a path forward as you join the ranks. During basic training gathering up the bits of broken weapons is not allowed.

After six more days of weapons training and various scut details around the camp, you are finally issued your own weapons and armor along with a detailed routine for keeping them in good repair and ready at all times. You are also moved out of the training camp and back into the city where you start being assigned to street patrols. This is not the real work of the Black Company and many of the veterans complain bitterly about being reduced to town watch, but it is a chance to get back in touch with what is going on in the city. You have been very isolated for two weeks.

Patrols are formed of both infantry and archers in a seemingly random mix.

OOC: Have you decided who wants to be in which group of eight? This a decision made as players, as characters you will just be assigned to one group or another.

Any character who has any ranks in Local Knowledge is assumed to have contacts in the city and they may now reach out to them to get details on what has been going on while they have been in boot camp.

Like the others, Boots gradually faded into the mass of steel and black cloth as the full days continued to fly by.

With the infantry he found himself doing all the exercises one would expect. He already looked a little harder, a little leaner, although his tanned complexion retained that friendly, attractive quality.

Among the other front line members of the Company his size and build were not as notable, and he seemed to make no particular effort to stand out.

Despite that, during one of their more comprehensive drills forming a defensive formation for crowd control purposes, Boots was assigned as the formation leader. A position that was switched out every repetition for the sake of familiarity.

He did fairly well. His voice was loud and easy to hear, his direction simple, clear, and timely and he benefited from an in-depth conversation with the member of the training cadre leading the exercise. By the time he came away, he was fairly confident he could actually attempt such a formation in the field.

If anybody would actually listen to him, well, that was another story.

No great fan of spit and polish, he kept his issued gear in good working, functional order and participated in the local patrols without complaint. Although the sensation of being stared at intently by every local they came across was unfamiliar to him.

Stitch, who would never think of himself as a gentle soul, takes the rebuke and punishment in silence and nods. He expresses an interest to the Rangemaster in employing his skills at bow and arrow repairs. When the camp returns to the city, he uses his contacts to see what had happened in his absence.


08:44, Today: Stitch rolled 14 using 1d20+6.  Knowledge Local .

Bereft of his facial piercings, headband, and jewelry, Moonface felt like a different person every time he put the uniform on. The weeks of training may have shaped his mind towards the ideas of cooperation, following orders, and battlefield mindfulness, but it did little to kill his sense of aesthetics. Trends were traps of their own, and Moonface considered himself a connoisseur of beautiful fabrics. At least unlike that Stitch guy, he didn't have to wash a dirty footprint off his back. He wondered if someone like that would have ever been fighting family material.

By the way he could swing a sword, he figured the man would've gotten by okayishly. He really didn't seem to have the...ruthlessness, considering that he helped their fallen brethren. There again, Moonface himself had never been one to give up on a comrade; he was, however, more intent on finishing their opponents. It was an endearing Kvill family trait.

Boots was big enough to earn his place, Moonface figured. At least they were almost close to the complexion of the Muls, though he held a smile as easy as his own. Muls would take anyone though. Especially the bigger ones.

Of course there was Snicker, who would have probably stood out like snow on soil amongst the families. The woman didn't seem to have much skill with sharp things, but Moonface would be damned if she didn't have a killer's heart. He felt as though he could smell the death about her. It was probably his imagination, though. Either way, he found her amusing.

Her and Lancet at that. That one seemed practiced in not making a scene. Of course, from practice living a life of subtle aggression, Moonface would notice, and approve. As though she needed any of his. Classically Kvill, Moonface decided.

Paul was...well...Moonface never had place for religion in his practice or method, but that man seemed to only make room for it. Whatever god they served should have showed up when his mom decided to leave him in a trash heap, or maybe when Moonface was ending that Lotiko's life. Maybe he'd ask the man about that. With a smile, of course.

Moonface got dressed for his patrol as he slotted the rest of his crew into, what he considered to be, fighting family familiarity, and by the time he tied his boots up he had grown rather sour. It often dawned on him that the fighting families were the only lens through which he had seen the world he knew. It was compounded by the fact that his world had always been within the confines of this city. The realization was overwhelming, as was the concern that he was surely a wanted man among clans of criminals. He helped that his oath of bonds to the Black Company would keep him. His uniform would be more refuge than regulation.

And it was still ugly.

"Certainly not the most charming wardrobe for an outing," Moonface said to whoever was listening as he slid his issued helmet over his head. At first, the padding inside had felt like a sweat-drenched sponge. Now he didn't sweat so much as the helmet seemed to begin the inevitable process of fusing with his skull. The whole uniform was becoming a part of him, actually; it was a strange symbiosis of leather and black linen. The vibrant marks of his vitiligo stood out his limbs, and for a moment Moonface could remember the shame that came with his namesake. Though he smiled, as he always did, he reached up to touch at his snow-stained mouth.

"But after a few weeks eating dirt and guzzling punishment, I'm rather excited at the prospect of partols." Moonface spoke in soft, relatively refined tones as he spun his spear into the sheath on his back. "Though I'm perfectly fine with not finding any problems for today; it's the first time our uniforms have been thoroughly cleaned in weeks. No use getting it messed up on account of some bawdy barroom belligerence." He neatly cinched his quiver to his belt, and adjusted his pugio so that it sat just a little behind his hip, as opposed to his side. It was just habit after all.

He gave the longbow a spin in his hands as well, as though he couldn't resist. "Perhaps we could stop by a meatstick vendor? Or maybe see one of those shadow plays. The music is rather appealing." As he plucked an atonal tune on his longbow's string, his grin held another meaning.

Their was a minstrel who would pop in from time to time - a personal friend of his, and one of his ex-family's - with information that he was more than happy to share. Perhaps a quick exchange would bring him up to date on Beryl's latest in-the-knowings.

13:01, Today: Moonface rolled 24 using 1d20+6.  Know: Local.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:47, Mon 14 Dec 2020.

Being back in the city made Beith feel much more at ease, he had not realized how much the atmosphere of the place was a part of him. Still, doing the patrols were dull, slow, and just the perfect time to catch up on all the rumors he'd missed out on. Making small talk was a hobby of his regardless, doing so while patrolling was a great way to burn the time provided his partners didn't mind. And if they did, well, he's got a great habit of carrying his tobacco pouch and pipe with him.

Sweeping through the docks he once made his ground Beith talks to all his old dockworker pals. They swap news from the sailors for news about what being in the Black Company was like, and he swapped the antics of his new Cohorts for changes in the markets. Sadly for him it seems tobacco wasn't due to get any cheaper any time soon, for all that he was liable to run out soon.

15:08, Today: Beith Kerdak rolled 17 using 1d20+7 ((10)).

Earlier

---

Snicker is sitting cross-legged staring at sack/garment. From certain angles her eyes flash a silvery white vaguely reminiscent of the eyeshine produced by a dog or cat in the dark. It’s a subtle effect, but most of her brethren suspect she’s started to let a trickle of sorcery leak out. No one had noticed anything weird in her vicinity since her recruitment. Well, witch-weird. Most everything else is weird, even by Company standards.

Everyone has heard some version of the story of her audition although not everyone totally buys it. Now, the viciousness was too appalling to warrant much exaggeration—particularly from a spindly young woman in manacles—but those bloodstained clothes were definitely real. Well, she looks young, anyway, but you never really know with wizard types and she hasn’t said a peep about her background. That’s par for the course, so at least one normal thing about her.

A fair number of tellings do embellish the magic like your typical rumor. However, the firsthand reports leave even the mages in the dark regarding the extent of what she can conjure up. Protocol is followed so she goes through the same training as the other recruits, depriving real opportunities to interrogate the matter. This feeds the whispers that start making their way throughout camp when those shimmering eyes are spotted. Few would admit it, but the greener soldiers are definitely a tad spooked. Can you really trust someone like this? One of the veteran wizards is idling nearby. Fear is dubious, but it’s possible there are senior members with their own concerns.

That bird is opposite her. It almost looks like it is studying the thing too. Occasionally she mutters and, oddly enough, the bird emits soft caws as if in reply. After several hours she gets up and makes a round of the camp, attempting to scrutinize its personnel covertly and failing miserably. The crow is circling as if conducting its own survey from above. OK, seriously, what is going on?

Eventually she returns to the article of clothing with furrowed brows. It is only seconds until her soaring pet dives down to rejoin her. Then, a miracle. Her eyes return to the normal grey and only the normal grey. A collective sigh of relief. It’s finally over!

It doesn’t take long for her to fetch a needle and thread. Now she’s stitching the object of her obsession. It soon becomes obvious that she is a terrible seamstress, but the modifications are simple enough to get the job done. After that ordeal there is no one altruistic enough to offer her help.

Hmm . . . If you squint your eyes it almost looks like- Wait, is that her prison uniform?

It eventually starts looking like a coat or a poncho or a scarf or something. Ah, scarf it is. She starts wearing the thing off-duty. A weird witch indeed.

---

Even after the event it is clear Snicker hasn’t abandon her mission, whatever that may be. The one good thing is the entire Company has witnessed her ability to fully commit. Even when committing to whatever the hell this is.

Frost was... well, cold, but not cruel.  She began to relax just a little after all the dehumanizing drilling.

The truth was, she had no idea what she was doing, so she just did what she was told.  Luckily for her, that was the correct answer.  She was a genius at the military life and didn't even know it.  She was at least attentive, just not very apt.

Being in a smaller unit, she began to inspect her fellows more closely, still not saying much, but not being a bitch either, which was something.  It was a strange vibe she had, like she wasn't shy, she was just uncomplicated, and just had nothing to say.  It was actually very honest, because after what had happened, well... this was a fresh life, practically speaking.  What happened before, she could agonize over it, but why?  It didn't matter any more.

Her strangeness began to leak out just a bit.  She would look up and beyond sometimes, seeming to completely leave the moment and her surroundings.

Weasel wasn't the best nor was he amongst the worst of the recruits.  He maintained himself in the middle of the group displaying a quiet competence yet he always seemed to be watching the rest of the recruits.

This was like many of the workgangs he had been part of on the docks he even recognised Beith but kept his distance, just in case.  He had been a petty thief stealing from ships while working as a longshoreman until he had moved up in the criminal world under Sharky's tutelage.  He could still picture the disbelief the mans eyes as he had gutted him.  He smiled at the memory that man had it coming and he never expected the young man he had been grooming to be the one to do it.

Weasel took to archery training with surprising ease, he had always had good hand eye coordination and it stood him in good stead with the rest of the archers.  When asked he volunteered to take up the bow though he was handy with a gladius as well, just not as much.
So this was soldiering he thought.

Rat endured the remaining training time with a smile until the last day.  He became preoccupied with the flute in his possession, rotating in his hand and cleaning the metal until it gleamed.

His uniform was hung by the head of his sleeping area along with his weapons.  So training was over and he had survived.  The whole tent had thrived and he felt relieved.  This group had a much better chance of living through their first battle than his last.  He liked them and it was going to hurt when one of them didn't make it.

Tonight he grabbed his food and stayed near the fire, staring into the flames while he thought of the future.  When the crowd had thinned he pulled out the flute and started to quietly play.

He was terrible, the notes were ok but the timing was way off as he searched for the tune.  Rat pushed through, the country peasant song reminding him of a simpler time.  He smiled thinly as the last note finished the ditty.  His brother was the bard and could have done it much better.

Rat survives.  He always did.  Play time was now over.  The fire is his heart destroys but it also purifies him and focused him on the things that were important.  Now it was his new comrades and finding his place.

Orville sat by the campfire watching the flames playing with the burning logs. Somewhere in the camp a poorly timed tune wafted over the pond of tents. Ovill smiled inwardly at the though that whoever it was would improve if they were diligently, which he listened to the tune for a short time.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:45, Tue 15 Dec 2020.

The witch is unflappable. The pain and exhaustion and abuse of boot camp never put a visible dent in her contentment. How much is a façade is anyone’s guess, but the felicity is unambiguous. Becoming a full member raises the volume of her laughter for the day and she emits childlike giggles upon assignment. This is accentuated by an attempt to give each squadmate a loving caress before suiting up.

The physical contact is assuredly sororal in nature. It is plain her affections begin and end with her pet and the Company as a whole. But in her excitement she clearly hadn’t considered the potential collateral damage from this behavior. Particularly with her attractiveness growing in pace with her health. On the outside, that is. The inside is a different matter entirely.

Snicker has settled down, calmly leaning on a wall adjacent to the exit and chatting with the crow perched on a nearby sconce. Or maybe chatting at the crow. One could imagine there have been wagers on whether these are monologues or dialogues.

“. . . Don’t worry, you’ll be fine . . . This isn’t the first time . . . We already- I will be fine too . . . Promise . . . Yup . . . Just think about what you’re gonna say . . . Better be fun or I might cry . . . Really . . . C’mon, you can do it! . . .”
This message was last edited by the player at 20:40, Tue 15 Dec 2020.

OOC:  Back to first day.



The cleric took to to using a bow better than a sword.  However he realize that most of his group where using bows.  When he realized they be patrolling the city he turn his training to sword and shield to help protect them.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:19, Wed 16 Dec 2020.

Rat wasn't sure where he fit in exactly.  He  soon found out that acquisition specialist meant thief and not trash reworker of goods and evidently the unit thought his skills unworthy of squad leader.  He could heal and attempted to join Paul but his skill was less impressive.  The bards of the cadre were split on exactly what he was but agreed that his magical skills were similar, if not his musical talent.

He was classified as a Sorcerer after the second day and sent for training in the divisions of Arcana.  Know thy self, know thine enemy.  Learning the theory facinated him, and connecting it to the planes of existance proved useful.  There were others like him, and others who commanded magic in a different way.  He was going to learn much.