I.
Heroes Sleeping
“I should have brought a book.”
Viluppo quietly admonished himself as he sat, beset on all sides by strangers sitting in the same type of uncomfortable wooden chair. They had all been waiting in those chairs for quite some time, as the numerous groans and the impatient shuffling of feet suggested. Viluppo ignored the rabble and looked back at the stone wall to his left. Over the past hour he had made something of a game out of it; he would pick a spot on the wall that looked particularly cracked or worn and then stare at it until it started to resemble something else. So far he had seen a lightning bolt, a stable that was starting to collapse, and a man wearing a ludicrously large hat. Before Viluppo could begin his fourth game something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
It was the tattered remnants of a large veil. It makes sense, Viluppo thought. This building probably used to be a temple. Worn from age, the snow white veil had begun to give way to the darkened hue of rot. Looking closer at it the young man could barely make out the holy seal. The seal was a peculiar symbol that wouldn't be recognized as holy by anyone unfamiliar with it. Its top half resembled a walking cane, the curved grip pointing to the left. The bottom of the cane led down into something shaped like the letter ‘U’, but wider than it was tall. Below that was a diamond shape that pierced the middle of the shape above it.
Viluppo thought back to the first time he had seen the seal in his youth. He could almost hear the lilting words of his mother explaining it to him...
‘At first glance it resembles a sword, which signifies Alberon’s wrath against the wicked. But if you look at the curved part by itself, it stops looking like a sword. And if you glance at it a certain way it looks like a finger. This represents Alberon’s mercy and love. You see, there used to be a ritual where priests would lay on the ground and extend their arms, reaching out to the symbol. Kind of like how a baby reaches for the finger of his mother.’
The seal meant little to Viluppo these days, and he suspected that many of the people in the room with him felt the same way.
“Viluppo!”
An authoritative voice banished the young man’s reminiscent thoughts. A short, gruff-looking older man appeared through a door, the leftmost of many, and impatiently beckoned Viluppo inside. As he followed the man in he looked back at the crowd, glancing at a middle-aged balding gentleman. The gentleman returned his glance and muttered something that sounded like ‘lucky bastard’.
That’s odd. I’m certain that man was here before I got here, Viluppo wondered as he walked.
The narrow dimly lit hallway behind the door soon led to a small room. With its stark ivory walls and cold stone floor it resembled an old punishment room, where particularly disruptive church-goers were escorted to. The plethora of papers and forms covering much of the floor suggested that the room was now an office.
“Will the officer be…” Viluppo’s question was met with the slam of a door as the gruff man abruptly left. The young man sighed and looked around. Only a large wooden desk broke the monotony of the endless mounds of paper strewn about. He dared not touch anything and just stood as still as he could.
“At ease.” Another man soon appeared through the door, meeting Viluppo’s gaze with stern eyes. His chainmail clinked quietly as he marched to the desk. He reached into a pile of papers and pulled one out, apparently knowing exactly where it was. “You’re the first one I’ve seen today that didn’t mess with my forms.” The merest smirk crept onto the man’s face. “Normally you would have waited a lot longer and then met with some State grunt before getting to talk to a registration officer. But I’ve taken an interest in you, boy. Just don’t let that go to your head.”
Viluppo’s calm blue eyes hid his confusion. He looked over the officer trying to figure out if he’d seen him before. He had large powerful hands caked with dirt, very short-cropped hair not unlike Viluppo’s own, and an obvious soldier's gait. But the man’s face stood out more than anything; three large scars were carved into it, two on the right cheek and one just above his left eye. Viluppo felt that he had stared a bit too long and decided to break the silence. “I did not catch your name, sir.”
“I didn’t give it,” the officer scowled in response, his commanding bass voice filling the room with ease. “Let’s get down to business. I’m sure you’ve gone over the introductory papers, but I’m required to summarize them.” The officer dug through another pile and pulled out a small packet. He cleared his throat and began to read. “’As established by Our Lord Anderson, a Band is a small squad of civilians who are legally bound to the State of Coleander. Though not officially recognized as soldiers or peacekeepers, the civilians that constitute a Band will be assigned various tasks to improve the lives of the State’s citizens and assist the ongoing restoration and protection of the State and its allies. Bands are to follow orders to the best of their ability… compensation, monetary or otherwise, may be awarded to Bands following a successful mission… Bands may be subsumed into the State military during war time activities and emergency situations… the State is not responsible for any injuries or deaths sustained during missions…” The officer threw the packet across the room. “You get the idea, I’m sure. If you still wanna do this, you need to recruit others to your cause. You, by yourself, are nothing. Remember that.”
“Yes sir. I will take your words to heart,” Viluppo answered eagerly.
The officer’s smirk returned for a moment. “They taught you respect, at least.” The officer picked up another form and a wooden plaque and handed them to Viluppo. “That plaque has the insignia of the Band on it. Use that to let others know that you’re legitimate. Anyone interested in joining a Band will know what it means. Once you’ve assembled your men, have them sign that contract and bring it back to me. Again, you’d normally have to go through a couple of State men before an officer would review your contract and make your Band official. But just bring it back to me and I’ll take care of it.”
The officer walked back to the door and opened it, pausing before he went through it. “By the way, my name is Forze. But it’s Hossar Forze to you. Now get going, trooper.”
That last word caught Viluppo off-guard. He was certain he had heard it before, but he couldn’t quite remember where. He also didn’t know anyone by the name Forze, much less one as high-ranked as a Hossar. Viluppo decided to ruminate on these things later and exited the office.
Soon he was outside, the blazing rays of summertime rapidly descending upon him. The court in front of the State building was alive with townsfolk, many of them peddling their wares in scant hopes of earning some gold or carrying bundles of food and other goods back to their homes. Viluppo scarcely noticed them as he slowly advanced down the cobblestone road, staring vacantly at the wooden plaque Forze had given him. Carefully carved into the wood was the Band insignia, a vaguely triangular shield adorned with five eyes. Holding the plaque imparted the young man with self-assurance that he hadn’t felt in a long time, a confident feeling that he truly could make a difference.
After wandering around the courtyard a bit Viluppo got an idea. He knew deep down that the best way to attract potential Band members would be to set up shop somewhere, perhaps near the more desolate farming fields or outside a recruitment building. He knew that he should purchase a cheap roadside stand and flag down anyone who seemed remotely interested. But instead he raised the plaque as high above his head as he could, in hopes that some brave adventurer would see.
“I suppose this is as good a place as any to start.”
