The harbor of Nikomedia bustles with activity as you step off the gangway of the Imperial frigate and onto the crowded pier. All the sights and sounds of Byzantine port civilization greet you: hawkers of every ethnicity shouting in a variety of languages; a procession of Diakons with a Holy Cross twice the size of a man held aloft; merchants sequestering all manner of exotic spices, furs, and barrels of liquor onto heavy-set cargo ships; and throughout, a seemingly endless tide of people travelling to and fro in a chaotic mess of humanity. You are pressed into the mob almost against your will, and once inside, it is most reluctant to let you go. You desperately clutch the sheaf of papers you carry to your chest, as written on the yellowed sheets is the only proof you possess on who you are.

An Imperial Dragoon, in service to the Duke Andreas Alcaeus of Optimates — whose provincial capital you have just arrived in.

As you move into the upper-quarters of the city, you nervously check the documents for the umpteenth time to confirm this fact. Along with the detailed bureaucratical nonsense placing you in service to the Duke lies an order to report to your Moira commanding officer, one Captain Michael Philolakes, at the Duke's citadel upon your arrival. With this order yet again confirmed, you shield your eyes from the sun's glare as you follow the paved road leading to the imposing structure of gleaming white granite sitting atop the city's crest.


Sometime later, you find yourself inside the cool interior of the newly-renovated citadel. Functionaries wearing the Duke's colors rush about, disappearing inside the labyrinthine passages of the massive fortification, while nearby a group of officers in the blue & gold of the Imperial Dragoons mingle smoking potent cigars. Some of the officers seem old enough to be your father, while others look barely a day past eighteen.

The threat of war with most of the Catholic world has drawn anyone with a commission or the funds to purchase one to regimental headquarters across the Empire. The Imperial Dragoons are evidently no exception; the promise of fame and glory attracts many, and those not consumed by these gentlemanly ideals are instead drawn to the ranks by the steady pay and the privileged postings inherent of cavalrymen in the Empire. You've even heard tell of some of the more famed cavalry regiments refusing to sell commissions, having become inundated with new officers. The entire Imperial tagmata seems to be readying itself for a war the likes of which has not been seen since the great religious conflicts that consumed Europe a century past. A war that some in the Empire fear it cannot possibly win.

Shaking such dark thoughts out of your head, you consider your options. The office of Captain Philolakes is on the opposite side of the Citadel, and with so many new recruits it likely will be a long wait before you have the chance to report in. You could head over anyway, but the good Captain would likely not be too averse if you did a bit of exploring beforehand. Perhaps you'd like to mingle with your fellow soldiers, or visit the enormous hippodrome which serves as the training grounds for the regiment. Whatever you decide, the Captain likely expects you in his offices within an hour, and any truly egregious tardiness will not be looked upon favorably. After all, your illustrious career in the Imperial Dragoons officially starts, as is typical for many things throughout the Empire, with paperwork. Paperwork which is naturally filled out by your commanding officer.

Lieutenant Karras

Milos wasted no time when he arrived in the city. Although it had been a long journey, having just come back from leave to visit his family, and he would have welcomed the opportunity to walk around the city a bit and perhaps even stretch his legs, his first and foremost priority was to see to his duty. At the moment, that duty was to report in to his new commanding officer.

His well-maintained uniform, orderly haircut, and serious expression making him look the part of a model soldier, he wasted no time. Stepping into the crowd, the young officer spent no time with "pardon" or "excuse me", nimbly stepping around citizens or gently nudging them aside, but doing his best to minimize the ripple as he waded through the sea of people. No doubt there were many who would disapprove of such rudeness, but he was an officer of the Imperial Dragoons and he was determined that his duty would not be obstructed. If he waited for others to move aside for him, he would not get anywhere.

---

Eventually he arrived at the citadel, the interior much cooler than outside. He noticed a group of Dragoons smoking cigars, and shook his head slightly, having never understood the point of those things. The first time he had indulged in one, a year ago, it had tasted terrible and threatened to choke him. Never again. The non-commissioned soldiers noticed his slightly disapproving glance, along with the Lieutenant rank on his uniform, and began to look uncomfortable even though there were no restrictions against such substances.

But Milos moved on just as quickly as he arrived, only taking a few moments to enjoy the the coolness of the air as he considered his next action and mentally imagined the building's layout. His orders had stated 'within the hour', indicating that he did have some free time. However, the Captain would likely prefer that he arrive as soon as possible. And that was fine by him - he was not one to mingle, and while training had its appeal, he would only have time for perhaps half an hour at most which would provide no noticeable improvement to his combat performance. Besides, he was already confident and his skills, and there would be more opportunities to hone them in the weeks and months to come.

So without further ado, he made his way to the office at a brisk pace, striding with purpose despite the lack of urgency.

Aro took a deep breath when he stepped onto solid ground. Finally, he was off that cursed ship. He hoped that there would be significantly less boat rides in his future. Aro looked around, holding tight to his papers. Within the hour was a bit of time, but he didn't want to be late. First impressions were everything and the last thing he wanted was to be seen as tardy and unorganized.

Aro skirted around people best he could, only knocking into a couple people as he made his way. His tall and slim figure made it easy to get around and see where he was going. Just another reason he was glad he wasn't short. Plus, no one took you seriously if you were shorter than them. Aro remembered the countless days of ridicule when he was child. He didn't grow as fast as the other boys and honestly feared he'd be tiny forever.

When Aro stepped into the citadel, he made b-line to where he was needed. He hoped if he got there before the board maybe he would be seen faster and could go out and explore his new environment without being late. That was the hope anyway.

Jakob stepped onto the shore, his arms supporting the bag balancing on top of the one currently on his back, like a large bag shaped T. The money his parents had given him had long since run out and the stipend he received while studying at the university had been barely enough to live on. Therefore, he had not been able to afford a porter to carry his bags for him. Not that he minded too much- despite a noble upbringing, he had dirtied his hands enough times back home in the crimea and thus did not struggle with their weight. His uniform was a bit disheveled from the work, but he hoped he could straighten it out quickly before his appointment with his captain.

Remembering the path to the citadel from his first time in Nikomedia, he made his way through the bustling streets in rather good time. Upon making it through the citadel gates, his first stop was to the quarters duty desk. A rather put upon corporal wound up sending one of troopers also on duty away with Cornet Konyk's bags to a secure room, until he could claim it after his appointment with the captain. Looking at the clock on the wall, he realized he had yet another hour until he was needed in the captain's office. Deciding he had time, he went looking for something he was unable to find last time- the library.

After thanking the crew and grabbing his belongings Johann strolled confidently down the gangway into the fray. Once out of the docks he leaned on a building and reread his orders he was to ascend the citadel and meet with his new CO, Captain Michael Philolakes, within the hour. Johann pushed himself back into the crowd and attempted to steer himself in the direction he wanted to go.

---

In his small pack he had some money, some assorted food he grabbed from the ships galley, blank paper, and a writing utensil.

---

Once he found his way into the Citadel, he strolled over to the CO's office but found a long line winding from the door. Johann gave a small smirk and got in line. Better to wait instead of becoming late, he was an officer now anyway. Once in line Johann attempted to keep himself entertained, by fixing his uniform into parade order, and fought the Impulse to fidget while he waited. After a few minutes, Johann forgot his rank and started making conversation to the men around him. He treated everyone equal, the men found that this Officer, was a quick thinker, and didn't act like Nobility, but how he stood gave it away to them. While in line Johann also focused on what he will say to the captain. First impressions were everything, especially with your CO.

"It was a brisk morn...." the words began, until they were quickly scratched out by an annoyed hand. John lay back and rubbed his eyes before trying to close them once more. It was nasty being in the ship's hold all this time. His long-ship sailing ancestors would most likely be spitting down on him but what could he do. It was cramped and there were rats, it smelled horribly and it took every shred of a man's attention to make sure nothing sullied your uniform. A man who came down and started banging the walls with a bell notified the Dragoon that they had arrived - naturally - just as he was hoping to get some sleep.

After a groan he got up before slinging his bag over his back. He disembarked from the ship and after a shaky few steps to adjust to the solid earth he kneeled and said a quick prayer. It didn't consist of words or anything, it was just just hope. A sort of meta-prayer for he knew not what to say. After that he briskly stood up and wiped a bit of sweat off of his brow. Already the heat was getting to him, but nevertheless he'd wear on his uniform.

The Lance-Corporal marched on to where he was to join his unit, gently but firmly pushing aside those that got in his way. He had heard on the boat that where he was being assigned it would be all fresh faced recruits. Most likely pompous little gits either running from something or thinking they'll get the pretty girls. Admittedly the former was a good reason and the latter was somewhat true, but it didn't make him feel any better. Still, duty was duty.

As John entered the building he smiled. Many men would be disappointed, because they'd be lead by someone younger than them. Then he frowned, realizing it was possible he'd be amongst those people. Worse yet, the person probably got there because of buying the rank. You need money to get money. Yet another thing to provide discomfort. Of course it was on top of the dawning realization the sun was already taking a toll on his pale skin and it was reddening by the moment.

Angry, sweating, flakes of skin falling from his nose, and all his gear clanging in a sack John prepared to meet whoever was running the theatre here.

Francisco approached the Citadel with some trepidation, though not nearly as much as he had four days before hand. His journey had been carried by favourable winds and a skilled crew who carried him first from the Island of Majorca, then to Corsica, onward to Athens, and finally into Nicomedia. Looking back on the journey as he walked into the great stone fortress he found himself glad that the journey had taken the better part of three weeks. The shock of civilization bigger than his little village had come in slightly larger doses until he arrived in Athens and had been firmly overwhelmed. Thankfully, with such a massive Empire to maintain, the ancient tradition of using symbols to guide new comers had not been done away with. On several occasions he had been forced to ask Priests to read the document he carried with him so that he didn't falter or end up somewhere he did not wish to be.

His arrival in Nicomedia had been a trying experience, the crush of the populace, the thousands, maybe ten of thousands of people, and the ever moving, sweating mass of humanity had been a new and horrifying experience. Thankfully he had managed to stay above some of it as he rode his fathers horse through the city, constantly guided on his way by various friendly soldiers who wished him lucky. Like every citizen of the empire he could speak Latin, though only a gutter version, but was delighted to find that Spanish was still very much common throughout the Merchant class.

He had used the past four days to explore the city. His horse had been welcomed into the Garrison stables to be held until such time as training commenced and he had been given a simple bed with foot locker in the long low room he was to share with his fellow recruits when they arrived. He had not seen the Captain but several of the senior cavalrymen had assured him that his early arrival was welcome and then attempted to get him horrendously drunk. It was impossible not to like Francisco. He was friendly, out going, and always smiled, no matter what. The grizzled veterans who had welcomed him wasted no time in including him where they could and taken the time to acquaint him with the Garrison and Citadel.

Now, after four days of exploring, drinking, carousing, and womanizing, he was seated outside the Captains door on a marble bench. He was clad in simple black riding pants and white shirt that he had brought from home, the finest clothes he owned. The cavalryman he had met had taken pity on his bare feet and he now wore a well used but fine pair of riding boots they had given him as a good luck gift. He had never been prouder of something in his life and polished them to a high shine. His papers were neatly folded in one hand, his other tapping along on his knee to some tune that only he could hear. He was on an adventure.

Paulus stepped off the ship, massaging the pain out of his jaw. The trip here had been a mixed bag for him. On one hand, he rather enjoyed the ocean air and found he dealt with the swaying rhythm of the sea. On the other hand, he did not get along with his fellow travelers that well. He was appalled at the blasphemies that they seemed to be spouting at every second. Naturally, as a defender of his country, he had a number of fights. Luckily the voyage was in the past, and he could begin to focus on his training. After turning in his papers and reporting to the captain.

A couple of women made eyes at him as he passed through the marketplace. Paulus did not notice, however, as he set out to make it to the citadel. The young man was used to the sights and sounds that came with a port, as he often found work at the one near his home. Paulus felt a slight tug on his pants, and he looked down from his goal to see a lowly pauper, holding his hands out for a coin. Paulus was sent with plenty of bronze and silver to sustain himself, and he gave the man a coin with and a smile. Then he continued along, almost forgetting the encounter.

Finally, he stood on the steps of the citadel, and he made his way inside. Paulus was filled with a rush of pride as he did. Deep down he had always known that he would follow in his father's footstep. He could almost hear the stories his father would tell him as a young boy. The majestic dragoons with their muskets blazing, and bayonets gleaming in the sun -- that was him now. Now was not the time revel, he had his instructions. Briskly, he made his way towards the captain's office.

As he stood in the ridiculously long line, Paulus overheard a group soldiers talking about their training in the hippodrome. He had caught a glimpse of the structure as he entered the citadel, and thought he might like to take a look. He could even work in some training, so long as he reported to the captain in time. He resolved to ask the men about the structure, and then figure if he should stay or go and train.

He made his way to the group, and politely asked, “I overheard you talking about the hippodrome, may I ask what kind of training goes on there? And if you think if I could make it there and back in time to report to the captain?

It is just over an hour before you are afforded the opportunity to finally report in to the Captain.

Captain Philolakes' office is a cramped affair reeking of cigar smoke and wood polish. The man himself is a dreary-looking fellow with a long, hooked nose upon which rest a pair of spectacles. He sits behind a well-appointed mahogany desk which sits nearly wall-to-wall in the little room afforded it, and as you enter he rises to greet you formally and offers you a seat. You exchange the standard pleasantries before proceeding into the meat of the matter: your status in the Imperial Dragoons.

What follows after you hand over your papers could be most closely related to a one-sided interrogation. As he deftly fills out a seemingly never-ending pile of paperwork, the Captain barrages you with dozens of questions on everything from your early life and motivations for joining the Dragoons to your finances and formal education. He is remarkably thorough, even at one point delving into your political loyalties and religious piety. His inquiries are sometimes exceedingly subtle and at other times possess a level of bluntness that would almost be considered insubordinate if said to a superior officer.

It is, put shortly, a most unpleasant way to spend half-an-hour.

A short lapse of silence and the last of your now-filled-out paperwork being set aside alerts you to the impending end of the meeting. Captain Philolakes clasps his hands together and favors you with a tight smile. "So, in sum..."

Simaia Leventis

In all his years of travel, never had the sight of port been so welcome and exciting. He tracked the flight of a bird overhead as it lazily drifted down to the stonework of the dock ahead. With a hand shielding his eyes from the glaring summer sun, Herakles marveled at the city and the people, knowing all too well the busy to and fro of city life. With his gear in tow he confidently pressed through the throng of citizens in order to report to the citadel, visible in the distance, as ordered. Navigating through the city with little issue, Herakles found himself with an abundance of time remaining until he was expected to report. Ordinarily that thought might have tempted him to occupy his time elsewhere, but the novelty of this experience was too much to resist. He was eager to begin his military career and felt more than ready to take the first steps. Meeting with Captain Philolakes would likely be the highlight of his day.

As it happened, he wasn't the only one with this line of thinking. He joined the increasingly lengthy queue, busying himself with making any necessary preparations as he waited. Presentation is key, he reminded himself duly as he worked in a moment to adjust his clothing and rifle through the paperwork. In the hour it took to be seen, his thoughts naturally wandered to what things must be like at home. He looked down at the case he'd brought along with him: a parting gift from his father. Inside was housed a custom made double-barreled carbine with beautiful silvered mounts adorned with fine engravings. It was masterfully done and the care put into all of its fine touches could be seen at even a cursory glance. He wondered idly how soon he'd be free to put it to use and relished the thought as he bode his time.

Lieutenant Karras

Milos nodded in understanding at the Captain's words, but up until now he had not quite considered himself a veteran. It was true that he was quick with a blade, accurate with a pistol, and possessed a sharp tactical mind, but the first half of his career was spent behind a desk and the second half he spent at a remote outpost in one of the far flung corners of the Empire, with little action aside from some unruly locals or the occasional skirmish with a band of brigands. This would be his first command over a platoon.

But despite this, he was not nervous. If anything, he was even more determined to prove himself worthy of his rank. During the voyage he had diligently studied training manuals and revisited books on military tactics.

After a respectful salute and a "yes sir", Milos walked out the door and made his way to the dorm.

-----

The next day, he walked down the line of soldiers that would be his new platoon, inspecting them closely. Most of them seemed to be fresh faced recruits, so it seemed that the Captain's assessment had been correct. He personally examined each man, pointing out any flaw no matter how minor or major, be they a slightly crooked helmet, a slouched stance, or a missing piece of equipment. Those first two flaws could be easily adjusted, but the last one would certainly be met with some sort of punishment later on.

Once he was satisfied, he returned to his position standing in front of them, with the Cornets by his side, and cleared his throat. "2nd Bandon!" He began, his voice loud and clear but carrying little emotion. "I am Lieutenant Karras, your commanding officer for the foreseeable future. Some of you lack experience, but that shall be remedied with enough time, experience, and training. I expect all of you to fulfill the standards and regulations of the Imperial army to the letter. I will not tolerate disloyalty or insubordination. Do I make myself clear?"

As the men let out a chorus of "yes sir!" that would inevitably follow such a question, Milos unrolled a piece of parchment and began reading: Omadon assignments. Cornet Konyx led 1st Omadon, and his squad included that peculiar Spaniard, Delgado. At first glance Konyx had not appeared to be overly charismatic, something that Delgado seemed to ooze. Cornet Leventis led 2nd Omadon - two men in particular stood out to Milos, one rather dour looking fellow named Danius, and another who appeared to be somewhat nervous but also deeply religious, with the name Speros. Only one man in Cornet Von Nyon's squad (3rd Omadon) stood out - his name was Ordo, and he seemed to be particularly loyal and devoted towards the officers, his salutes somehow more respectful than most. And on the list went. He would memorize most of the names eventually, but on that first meeting such a task was an impossibility.

Once they had been divided into squads, Milos allowed the Cornets a few moments to say their own words to their men, before dispensing with the formalities and getting right into training.

Milos led a rigorous training exercise, drilling his men by the book and coming down hard on failure or insubordination, just as he promised. At the same time, he would also take the time to acknowledge his men's successes, such as a particularly well-aimed shot or a hard-fought victory in the sparring ring, but he rarely offered more than a word or two, and he wore the same stern expression he had when he criticized them. In fact, that stern expression rarely left his face at all. He stopped directly inspecting the men after the first day, and instead turned that duty to the Cornets and NCOs, watching closely in case they missed anything.

The officers were not exempt from this regime. Most were newly commissioned, and Milos wanted to ensure they could hold their own in a conflict. However, he never had them directly spar with any of the enlisted men - it would not do if a lowly ranker realized he could best his superior officer in a fight. Instead, the Cornets sparred with each other.

He also kept an open ear to the senior NCO's advice. Having served in the Mamluk Rebellion, Ioannis was one of the most experienced men in the Bandon, and Milos would be a fool to ignore his advice based solely on rank and birth. The man also showed an enthusiasm for discipline, which Milos encouraged, although he still would reign him in a bit if he ever got too extreme.

Milos was aware that his methods would earn him little love from his men, but in his mind respect and discipline were more important.

As John entered the commander's room he saluted, and then dutifully answered all asked questions. The anger in him quickly drained away and luckily for him his face was red already; there was no noticeable change as he calmed down to alert the man. 

When all was done he gave a salute the text-book printers would be proud of with a "Sah!" before he left. It was now time for training.

---

As the recruits were assembled and the Lieutenant spoke a little, the Ouraghos stood but didn't pay attention. It would be the same usual manure spewed to people going off to die and he'd already heard it before, but that time from a real officer with real experience and knowledge to supplement "good breeding" and a title. All was well and good if men used money to get positions but the money should have bought them texts on strategy and swordsmanship, not a pip on your shoulder. 

As things were split up the Corporal grinned nastily his new victims. He stepped forth, cleared his throat and spat on the soil before him. "I am Lance-Corporal Ioannis Sveinaldsson, the man to teach you to be real soldiers." He decided not to say the rather amiable, lovey dovey - and absolutely Greek - paternal middle name of "Fabianou," it wouldn't help to ruin the quick image of a modern day Viking. 

"First, let me get some things clear. If I say ''ere's your sword, you will eat with it, drink with it, sleep with it...' and so on, do not try to be funny and say 'how? Do we use it as a fork, spoon or pillow?' because I will answer you and you won't like the answer." Rather proud of that line, the Varangian ended on the right side of the line up, spun and started pacing down the other way with arms behind his back. "I'm not here to make your life miserable (that's but a bonus) , I am here to make sure what happened for my ex-comrades in the Mamluk rebellion won't happen to you. Any of you used a weapon before?" He asked. The moment someone replied with 'yes' which they undoubtedly would he'd spin around and shout "No you haven't you stupid git. You've used a toy, you haven't had to properly shoot in combat, or have to slice a bugger's throat lest he try likewise. That is where a sword becomes a weapon, not something to impress the women-folk who weren't already swooned by your filthy gold or lies. If they even have that to be impressed by."

With a little indignant puff the veteran paused and swiveled to face the new men without much apparent movement in his legs. "Oh no you bunch aren't going to be able to learn that here. Most of your filthy hides will be shot or chopped up. But we'll do our best so you at least won't wet yourself... much. We're going to split you up for various parts of the training. You think you just might just be smart enough to manage that? Good."

A little bit of time would pass, before he stamped off to give personal... assistance in training. The first people to get his "help" would be Konyk and the Spaniard. The Lance-Corporal tried to remember what he heard and realized the Eastern looking lad had powers super-natural, and decided that he'd need a more clever way to mess with him lest he realized and decide to get retribution via magics. He turned to the Spaniard and screamed near his ear "A hundred push-ups in a minute, then perform the eighteen-count manual of arms in perfect form and order. You fail, you do it again. You do it right then you can have a drink." 

Then, the Varangian squatted down beside him and hissed "You a Catholic, Iberian?" with venom to make a snake envious.

The abrupt change from wandering about the city to the rigid training regime that came crashing down on his head was almost bewildering for Francisco. He familiar with being stressed, trying to round up animals that had stampeded in a thunder storm, hunting Wolves, running from his lovers fathers, but none of that had prepared him for army life any more than learning how to bath cats might have.

He had been very careful with his uniform when it was issued. Being of peasant stock he knew how to keep things clean and organized. While he could not read the Latin papers given to him, a helpful soldier he had befriended during his initial four days, had showed him how to properly wear the uniform so that when the inspection came the Lieutenant had only growled at him to fix his twisted chin strap on the helmet. It was a good feeling for Francisco to pass that little test.

He dutifully yelled "Yes sir!" with everyone else, though perhaps a bit late as he wasn't aware that Officers were called "Sir" instead of their rank. His lapse had been surely noted by a Lance Corporal who was eye balling him near by, or maybe it was a Sergeant, he didn't know the rank structure at all! He felt glad that the Lieutenant was in charge, he seemed serious but at least he was trying to explain things to everyone. Francisco had been warned by the friends he had made that the first four weeks would be the hardest of training as he got used to everything, but it didn't seem so bad.

Then the men were assigned and the units broken up and he understood what those warnings had been about as the soldier who had been glowering at him took over. He resisted the urge to try and smile at the man. He knew he was likeable but did not think that this was the time or the place. The military was a serious business after all.

With a little indignant puff the veteran paused and swiveled to face the new men without much apparent movement in his legs. "Oh no you bunch aren't going to be able to learn that here. Most of your filthy hides will be shot or chopped up. But we'll do our best so you at least won't wet yourself... much. We're going to split you up for various parts of the training. You think you just might just be smart enough to manage that? Good."

Francisco was surprised at the speech. It seemed strange to tell everyone they were going to die. Didn't you want people to stay in the unit, scaring them was hardly going to do that. He risked a glance down the ranks and saw that the others didn't look afraid. He stiffened his spin and stared ahead. If they could be brave, so could he. His arm was on fire from where the carbine sight was digging into his bicep and the helmet was heavy on his head, he'd never worn anything heavier than a hat before.

Eventually they were detailed off to begin training. Francisco was pleased to be assigned to a lad his own age by the name of Konyk. The man looked as much like a boy as he did, though he wore expensive spectacles which Francisco had only seen on Priests back home. The two had barely introduced themselves when the angry soldier appeared again and screamed in Francisco's ear.

"A hundred push-ups in a minute, then perform the eighteen-count manual of arms in perfect form and order. You fail, you do it again. You do it right then you can have a drink."

Francisco clumsy put his carbine down and dropped into a push up position. He knew that much at least and physical exercise was something he was used to. He was strongly built, fitter than most, but as he began to hammer out the push-ups he began to feel a burn in his arms. There was no way he would be able to complete one hundred push-ups in a minute!

Then, the Varangian squatted down beside him and hissed "You a Catholic, Iberian?" with venom to make a snake envious.

Fransisco almost stopped his push-ups to answer but caught himself at the last second. Sweat was already pouring down his face as he reach forty, his reply coming out between each push-up.

"I. Think. So. Sir." The rhythm of the push-ups was slowing as he went now but he had noticed that the man did not carry a time piece. Around eighty push-ups he began to fade and then, arms shaking, he crashed onto the stone of the parade square.

Still squatting and counting under his breath, Ioannis laughed loudly as the Spanish counterpart fell down after the impossible exercise. "That's all you got? I think you got a lower life expectancy than a fish in a pool of molten steel! You're going to keep doing it until you make it." With that, the Lance-Coporal had thought of something to make Kornyk's life a bit worse too without getting a fireball flung at him. "'ere, you! Yeah you the Crimean lad. Get over here. You're going to watch him do it and every time he fails you're going to add the amount he didn't finish to some more push-ups he has to do after he's done this drill. You hear me? Good...." He said, grinning. This would shift some peer-hate on the magician, even if he wasn't responsible for what was going on. Smug and self-satisfied, Ioannis walked off to the next bunch.

Whistling nastily, the Varangoi stamped off to von Nyon and Paulus. "What's a German doing so far from home, and on the side that's probably going to be enemy to his homeland, hmmmmm? Not a spy, are you?" The question was raised with much obvious malice despite the smile on the man's mouth. "Do you bleed the same red blood as everyone else? Perhaps I ought to make you two show a bit of unarmed expertise, yes?" A quick look at a watch retrieved from the man's pocket made him groan and then look back up. "Maybe later, I've got something faster. Put on your riding boots, perform two-hundred squats and then run a backwards mile. Then do a hundred more squats, and run back normally without the riding boots. If you don't trip I'll be bloody well impressed." With that, he made a hand motion to say "now."

Paulus came to the training grounds feeling confident, having been there earlier. Not to mention his meeting with Philolakes went well and had been trained in rudimentary combat from a young age. He listened to his superiors monologues with his chin held high and pride in his heart. Then the training began.

He had never been worked so hard in his life. The years spent doing manual labor to support his family did not come close to causing the same pain that the training did. A lot of the time it was not the physical nature of the training, but rather the stress that accompanied it. His superiors were like crocodiles, waiting for him to make a foolish mistake and the clamp down on him and tear his flesh to shreds. He saw a particularly ruthless northerner force one man to do push ups until he passed out. Later, he heard the same man made another run a full mile backwards.

Paulus’s resolve was tested, but at any point he came close to breaking he remembered his father. “Your duty is to serve the empire!” were the words that would ring through his head, and during particularly demanding exercises he would mutter them under his breath to stay focused.

The activity that challenged Paulus the most was the riding. He was very unfamiliar with the horses, and felt very uncomfortable while riding. Once, after falling off, he found himself face down in the mud. For a moment, he thought of his mother, whom he had cast out of his life so easily. That only lasted a moment. Soon he was remounted, and muttering his mantra under his breath.

Despite the stress, physical strain, and punishments for when he slipped up during some routine or exercise, Paulus noticed the work become easier as the weeks passed. He was ready to do his duty for his empire, father, and pride.

Lieutenant Karras

"They will do no such thing." Declared the cold voice of Lieutenant Milos Karras, stepping towards the abusive corporal. He looked down at the exhausted Spaniard. "On your feet, Dragoon." He ordered, before turning to face Ioannis and the two men he was attempting to 'discipline' for no discernible reason.

When he had originally witnessed the Spaniard performing push-ups, he had not seen the original exchange, and thus did not know if such a punishment was warranted or not. But upon keeping a closer eye on the Lance-Corporal and watching him approach then subsequently order a Cornet and an Enlisted men (one of whom was superior in rank, both had done nothing wrong, and the Corporal was not acting on Milos's order), he had to put a stop to it. His first day would not be marked by his senior NCO being allowed to so blatantly flout the Bandon's chain of command.

Besides, if the situation carried on like this, half the Bandon would be too exhausted to actually get anything out of the training, and at least a tenth of them would probably be considering mutiny by the end of the first day. He had to show the corporal who was in control here, and make sure that everyone else knew it too.

"You have no authority to give orders to or disrespect a commissioned officer, and I have not given you the authority to issue unwarranted disciplinary action. You will cease this behavior immediately. Do I make myself clear?" He said, giving the corporal a withering stare for good measure.

John was on the way to some more... poor behavior until he stopped dead in his tracks. The Dragoon didn't have long to think but he did so fast. He was being disciplined. The Varangoi spun around with an exaggerated textbook salute and a stern face of obedience. "Yeeeees-Sah!" he barked, staring just above the ridge of the officer's nose - or rather a few metres behind it, otherwise impassive. "Permission to discipline self, Sah!" he barked again. If the new recruits weren't going to make themselves battle ready, at least he'd do so. He barely saved his hide last time, might as well insure this engagement would only be better for him.

Cornet Leventis

Herakles began the meeting with Captain Philolakes with unbridled enthusiasm, but when expectations met reality, there was none of the glamour nor the excitement he'd hoped for. In fact the entire ordeal seemed more like an exceedingly formal move of bureaucracy and was, frankly, dull. That is, until the commander's closing remarks were uttered. Perhaps not exactly what was said, but more how he said it. It was as if Captain Philolakes were sizing him up, yet hadn't arrived at a decidedly positive conclusion. An expression of hope for his future success was made, but the doubt lingered heavily. A doubt so thick it fogged young Herakles' mind for the remainder of the day. Sure, he'd expected an.. unpolished induction into the military. It was, after all, rather unconventional for a man outside of the gentry to find the means with which to purchase a commission. Yet there was a weight to the unspoken judgment more cumbersome than the well wishes. A tone that seemed in that moment entirely inharmonious with the niceties presented. A tinge of disgust? Or was it contempt? More likely disappointment. There were better blooded boastful bastards bred and born brimming with bombast from whom he, a low born brigand, had robbed a perfectly good commission. It was evident that it would take much more for Herakles to "prove himself worthy" in the eyes of most than the other officers. They might get by with being good enough , but he would need to excel. As the undercurrent of this line of thought swept through his mind, it begged the question: Did he measure up? Would he be ready to lead these young men with whom's lives he'd been entrusted?

Herakles arose the following morning plagued by the same troubles. As he readied himself for the day, he felt a stirring borne from the the thoughtful reverie he'd been steeped in. Rather than dejected, he became defiant. He'd face their critical scrutiny and furtively masked low regard and make them eat every word; spoken or otherwise. He reported to Lieutenant Karras a half hour earlier than the others, freshly shaven and with every facet of his uniform in tiptop shape. No longer was it a matter of making a good impression. With his very worth now in question he could see clearly; if he wanted even half the respect due to him, he'd have to be twice as good as the rest.

And so the training began.

Standing alongside the Lieutenant he wore a look of gritty determination as he looked over the new recruits. His gaze set upon the men being assigned to his Omadon as their names were called. He watched for the look he saw in the Captain's eyes the day prior. None of them yet knew it, but he could have just as easily been any one of them standing on the other side of that intangible, yet stifling boundary known as opportunity. The haves and the have nots. Undoubtedly men among them knew his family name and the prestige that his father had worked so tirelessly to build. The wealth upon which his family's standing was founded was by no means a small feat, but it was his father's feat. He'd been lucky enough to be born into such a family — bad breeding or otherwise — but little more than that fact separated him from the men arrayed before him. Neither the prominence to which his family had risen nor the commission he'd purchased by its means made him any better than any man present. He knew this well, but it wasn't just important that he did. If he wanted the loyalty of his troops, he'd need to make sure that they recognized his acknowledgment. And it wouldn't be enough to simply state as much. Words are fluff. In that moment he resolved never to make any of his men do something he himself wouldn't. He would afford them respect as it was due and treat each man with dignity.

As each Omadon was sectioned off, Herakles addressed his squad in a clear and calm manner; a deep contrast to the Lance Corporal who'd just spoken.

"Good morning, 2nd Omadon. I am your squad leader, Cornet Leventis. I'm sure that for many of you these coming weeks will be trying beyond belief." He paused a moment, looking at each trooper carefully. Among them was a rather pensive looking fellow at least as tall as himself, Danius. He'd certainly be easy to remember. "You've just heard our commander and senior NCO set their expectations, so I won't overwhelm you with a list of my own. As I come to know you, you will become familiar with precisely what I expect of you. Instead, I'll leave you with this thought before we begin training. The world is plum full of different types of people; primarily the thinkers, the dreamers, and the doers. Some of you may have noticed that the two men who spoke before me might be classified as doers. If so, you're absolutely right. Warriors are doers. They must be. Whoever you may have been in your past life is behind you. You have a clean slate, for all the good and the bad that brings with it. No matter what you were yesterday, today you become doers." At this he settled his gaze on Speros, the final man in the formation. He approached him first, "Let us begin."

Despite any shaky dispositions, hope was given to Theodoros through the Captain’s pious regards. The young Greek man’s fidgety fingers felt stronger this morning, having worn themselves over the black wool of his parting gift into the late last night. He was not so much the newest of recruits, but resting his mind seemed to be an impossible feat the night before. A shot of vodka, perhaps, would have calmed his soul, but he was not ready for such measures. Such measures! Theodoros jokingly scoffed in his mind. He knew better. His life as a farmer had reared him to rise early in the morning, and so, this regime seemed less stressful than his thoughts had lead him to believe. This is why I am here, after all. He raised his right hand and crossed himself, right-to-left. His three fingers, pinched together, pressed inward as his fist molded over the center of his chest. There was no such time to waste, he knew, to lie idly in awe of the moment.

Swiftly, Theodoros sat his body upwards from his sleeping arrangement and rushed himself to the lone standing triptych iconography of the Most Holy Theotokos holding the Divine Infant. The two Archangels were on either side. The icon had actual gold leaf. Although, it was assumed to be some copy of an original. Nonetheless, Theodoros was quite proud of it. It shined radiantly in his little quarter. The triptych was no more than two inches tall, but if even the faith of a mustard seed could move a mountain, then Theodoros saw no reason why his window into heaven needed to be much larger.

His waist bowed before the artwork, and his fingers touched the ground. His chapped thirsty lips parted and mumbled quickly the Trisagion and those other morning and personal prayers to follow. Through the prayers of our Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy upon us, and save us. Amen. Again, Theodoros’ three fingers pinched together and crossed over his body. A militant arm stiffened as his hand fell back to his side. His eyes stared at the Holy Lady, and quickly shifted to the left Archangel, clothed in chainmail and cloak and armed with a sword and sheath. Nervously, the man crossed himself again and quickly turned from the faces to better arm and protect his own physical body before joining the platoon’s morning procession.



The militant line appeared to be nurtured in phrases and tones that he knew somewhat in a strangely familiar way; their pitch was not as high as his mother’s -- something similar in seeming to that of a viola, perpetually strung and wavered in A (of course, Theodoros has no knowledge of viola’s aside from maybe their shrilling sounds and similarity to that of a violin). It was the presidence of the octaves he knew. They were drilled into the chambers of the voice and Theodoros could not help but feel slight guilt trickle down his tan face, as his muscles flexed to keep afloat with the training. It appeared, his body was astute in persevering through the physicality of the labor, where his grunts were steady and knowledgeable. However, amongst an army of men, his biggest regret was that of how he had spent most of his upbringing pestered by his nagging mother, only to realize the truth behind his disrespect.

However, second chances were second chances. Theodoros was a doer. Regardless of what he was yesterday, starting at this very hour he was of the Imperial Dragoons. It was not a new chapter in his life, Theodoros decided, contemplating some mischievous competition with his brother, Kodros (now Brother Athanasius). This was entirely a new beginning for him. He thought of the book held in abstraction in Christ's arm. His past would be washed away, and he imagined his name being written inside the Eternal Word and kept for Memory Eternal. He was no longer a farmer from Hellas. He was a warrior of the Triune Godhead. The Father was his hope. The Son was his refuge. The Holy Spirit was his protector. He would not forget from where he came, but he would not let it burned him, any longer.

Holding his sword tightly, Theodoros’ eyes gazed back with determination at Cornet Leventis. It took his parents decades to gain respect for the Theotokos (and flashes of his morning prayer resonated in his mind), and today, the Greek decided, he would begin magnifying her. He would no longer fight her, but fight to defend her stainless honor. His sword would be a weapon to preserve her most-purity and the fruit of her womb. He would sacrifice whatever he need, as an impure as he was, to sing praises of her to God through his works on the battlefield against the Catholics.