Member
N A M E
Edgar Sarohardt
T I T L E
The Wolfhound
N A T I O N A L I T Y
Thelan
A G E
34
G E N D E R
Male
S E X U A L I T Y
Bisexual - 80-20 in favour of women
A P P E A R A N C E
Edgar is an attractive, rugged man, his body hardened by the strict regimens of Thelannian military training. He stands at almost 6"2 in height, weighing approximately 90kg, most of which is muscle. He is broadly and solidly built, his ascent to leadership lined with the rigors and strains of the life of the common man - a signature of the fact that his commission was earnt, not bought. His skin is fair and his hair is dark - both with the exception of his hands and forearms, where the natural color of his skin is disrupted by obvious and unnatural looking burn scars, patchy white and pink scar tissue shot through with irregular black marks where some part of an old threat stayed with him.
Aside from these, he also bears the scars of a man who has survived more than most - from a faint line on his throat where a criminal acted too slowly and too imprecisely, to fading slashes across his chest and arms where his opponent in training matches drew blood first. As for his usual style, he is most commonly seen wearing more or less the armor and uniform of Thelannian assault troops, as he is on duty more often than not. When in civilian clothes, however, he wears loose cotton shirts and cheap quilted jackets and doublets - he has no great love of finery, and actively looks down on those who revel in decadence. If pressed by circumstance, though, he does look good in formalwear - if you can get him to stop fiddling with it. And if you can get him to sit still long enough for measurements. It used to be that he would wear gloves to hide his scars, for the benefit of the weak-stomached if nothing else; but now he almost revels in them, in the fact that he survived, and wears gloves of any kind only as part of his armour in combat. Under his clothes, he is scarred and torn by the intensity of his training and by his history in combat - but more interestingly, the space over his heart is adorned with a distinctive, if cryptic, tattoo; the tattoo is a sharp and well defined image of rich blue and black, composed of two large, vicious dogs, rampant beside a long dagger, itself dripping blue. It is the unofficial tattoo of the Wolfhound Commandos, and known only to very few.
Aside from these, he also bears the scars of a man who has survived more than most - from a faint line on his throat where a criminal acted too slowly and too imprecisely, to fading slashes across his chest and arms where his opponent in training matches drew blood first. As for his usual style, he is most commonly seen wearing more or less the armor and uniform of Thelannian assault troops, as he is on duty more often than not. When in civilian clothes, however, he wears loose cotton shirts and cheap quilted jackets and doublets - he has no great love of finery, and actively looks down on those who revel in decadence. If pressed by circumstance, though, he does look good in formalwear - if you can get him to stop fiddling with it. And if you can get him to sit still long enough for measurements. It used to be that he would wear gloves to hide his scars, for the benefit of the weak-stomached if nothing else; but now he almost revels in them, in the fact that he survived, and wears gloves of any kind only as part of his armour in combat. Under his clothes, he is scarred and torn by the intensity of his training and by his history in combat - but more interestingly, the space over his heart is adorned with a distinctive, if cryptic, tattoo; the tattoo is a sharp and well defined image of rich blue and black, composed of two large, vicious dogs, rampant beside a long dagger, itself dripping blue. It is the unofficial tattoo of the Wolfhound Commandos, and known only to very few.
I N T E R E S T S
- First and foremost, and appropriately to his profession, he enjoys fighting. In particular he relishes the use of novel and unconventional techniques and tactics, delighting in the simple pleasure of being able to outwit and defeat an opponent, whether it be in person or by command. He finds risking his life to be thrilling, and doing so in the name of Thelan supremely fulfilling.
- Second on the list of his interests would be drinking; like most soldiers, he is voracious in his enjoyment of his beer, his wine, his whisky and his gin. It takes a lot to get him truly drunk, but he does drink an awful lot - at least in part because it makes the interim between deployments pass by a little quicker. He tries his utmost to pass his time with either a beer, a weapon, or a woman in hand.
Which brings us to the next pastime. This also, technically, includes the various other activities included in carousement, like dancing and singing. - Sex. Edgar is as terrible a womaniser - and, technically, a non-literal mankiller - as he is a dedicated soldier and adept swordsman. When he was younger he tried to avoid stringing anyone along, or leading them on into thinking he wanted more than a fuck out of them - but now he finds that he doesn't mind so much if his partners stay around in his life. It makes them all the more accessible, at any rate, even if his brothers in arms will never truly let go of the idea that Edgar is finally getting soft.
- Edgar does also enjoy a good conversation - or, even better, an argument. It's not something he generally acknowledges, but he tries to select his company as much for their ability to carry an interesting debate as he does for whatever other abilities of theirs he has an interest in. Indeed, it's as likely as anything that Edgar doesn't truly realise just how much he needs to talk - or, in fact, how lonely he really is.
- Reading is much the same. Edgar is usually too busy to find anywhere in the region of hours to spend burying himself in a book - and it's also true that staying still and inactive for too long eventually begins to rub on his mind - but he tries to steal snatches of time to himself whenever he can to catch up on a few pages of his current reading material. Most of it is nonfiction - which is also the place from which he draws his civilian education - but he does also allow himself fiction from time to time, if he can get hold of it. Once, he even read a romance.
- The last of his major interests is... singing. Not merely drunken screaming, or the bawdy ballads his men teach eachother, but real, artistic, expressive singing. He has a lovely voice, soft and rich and well pitched - though this one he truly does keep to himself.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Edgar Sarohardt is courageous, intelligent, and patriotic - a model officer for the Thelannian military. He does not hide his low birth and holds no shame that his surname is of his own choosing, with none to inherit from his parents, and his men adore him for it. One of the few commoners chosen to lead commoners - albeit in unorthodox pursuits - their devotion to him is matched only by his devotion to them in return. He is loyal and bold, daring to go where few others will, trying to do the things that few others could, and it is therein that his greatest asset truly lies; his almost reckless will.
Beyond this he is also a charismatic and strong leader; it's helped by the common ground between him and his company of men, and his fair treatment of them all, but when an order is given it is damn well followed. He is charming, with a wicked sort of suggestive grin, and a shameless tendency to flirt wildly. His tendency to start arguments is sometimes looked at as petty, or annoying, but it's usually at least entertaining to watch so people don't often mind that either - and indeed, if he cared to apply himself properly he would no doubt make a good negotiator.
In private he is different. Not completely, not radically, but enough to notice if you've somehow managed to earn his trust. He speaks more softly, drinks less at night, and smiles differently. His appetites are still interesting, and occasionally odd, and he still enjoys his debates - but in the quiet of the evening, away from the noise of the world, behind drawn curtains and closed doors, by candlelight alone, he becomes curious and gentle. It is not unlike unwrapping a present.
But then, of course, there is the matter of his convictions regarding Witches. He loathes magic. He despises it, and all its vile practitioners. The strength of this opinion is jarring compared to the rest of him, especially if you'd somehow gotten to know the deeper, quieter, calmer parts of him first.
But then there is the other side to him. Only on the topic of witchery and magic is he ever truly hateful - but even despite this he has a perverse curiosity for the stuff. In private, he reads from the same books he wishes to see burned; in private, he considers the nature of the unnatural, the stuff of his nightmares. Magic aside, his appetites and lustful nature are also the subject of a taboo in society; he has only rarely frequented brothels, and only with his closest friends and comrades if anyone at all - but he is still regarded as immoral for his copious attractions and their varied natures, and some would suggest that he is so bad as to be unbefitting of command. He spares little care for his detractors, knowing that his work does not demand the same etiquette that a conventional captain or commander's might - but he knows that there are still limits, and he knows that there are times he pushes them.
Beyond this he is also a charismatic and strong leader; it's helped by the common ground between him and his company of men, and his fair treatment of them all, but when an order is given it is damn well followed. He is charming, with a wicked sort of suggestive grin, and a shameless tendency to flirt wildly. His tendency to start arguments is sometimes looked at as petty, or annoying, but it's usually at least entertaining to watch so people don't often mind that either - and indeed, if he cared to apply himself properly he would no doubt make a good negotiator.
In private he is different. Not completely, not radically, but enough to notice if you've somehow managed to earn his trust. He speaks more softly, drinks less at night, and smiles differently. His appetites are still interesting, and occasionally odd, and he still enjoys his debates - but in the quiet of the evening, away from the noise of the world, behind drawn curtains and closed doors, by candlelight alone, he becomes curious and gentle. It is not unlike unwrapping a present.
But then, of course, there is the matter of his convictions regarding Witches. He loathes magic. He despises it, and all its vile practitioners. The strength of this opinion is jarring compared to the rest of him, especially if you'd somehow gotten to know the deeper, quieter, calmer parts of him first.
But then there is the other side to him. Only on the topic of witchery and magic is he ever truly hateful - but even despite this he has a perverse curiosity for the stuff. In private, he reads from the same books he wishes to see burned; in private, he considers the nature of the unnatural, the stuff of his nightmares. Magic aside, his appetites and lustful nature are also the subject of a taboo in society; he has only rarely frequented brothels, and only with his closest friends and comrades if anyone at all - but he is still regarded as immoral for his copious attractions and their varied natures, and some would suggest that he is so bad as to be unbefitting of command. He spares little care for his detractors, knowing that his work does not demand the same etiquette that a conventional captain or commander's might - but he knows that there are still limits, and he knows that there are times he pushes them.
H I S T O R Y
Edgar was born on the 1st day of the Month of January, in a part of Thelan north enough for you to really feel the cold, in a town just big enough for scandal and taboo to be missed, but just small enough that what rumour there was wouldn't go far - if it went anywhere at all. It was just as well, too, because Edgar's parents - a pair who didn't stay in his life for long after his admittance to military academy - weren't the sorts most people would want to be tied to. His father was a former soldier, dishonourably discharged for misconduct in the line of duty, and his mother was... well, someone he met while he was on tour. Technically. The affair was solid, their attraction genuine and their love real, but that didn't mean people approved. After Edgar was born - and Edgar is the name they gave him - they knew that staying around would be more trouble for him than they ever wanted to cause, and they left as soon as they could. Edgar half understood why, but it didn't stop a deep resentment from brewing in his heart as he grew up. He dropped his former surname as soon as he could, and took up Sarohardt instead - he barely remembers what it was before that today.
In part due to the strength of his anger, in part due to his devotion to Thelan in place of his family, and in part due to the kinship he had with the other bastards in the common ranks, he excelled in war school. At first he was violent and poorly controlled, restraint all but unknown to him - but, over years, through combat experience in the small skirmishes that sometimes lit up the border, even in times of peace, he learned discipline. He learned to beat his anger into punching bags at the crack of dawn, he began to turn his devotion into power, and he grew to see the other troops not just as comrades but as brothers - and occasionally sisters - but more importantly, he learned to see the Thelannian state for what it was.
His saviour.
It rescued him from poverty, it taught him who he was, it gave him training and skills and an enemy to fight, and it paid his wages. He was a young man with a hole in his heart where his parents had left him, a gap where society had stepped away and abandoned him, a sinking pit where his anger would bury him - and the government fixed it. The government filled those holes. The army gave him purpose.
Without Thelan, his nation - his beautiful nation - he would be less than nothing. He would have died young, and been forgotten.
Instead, he got to grow up - and as he grew up, he matured, and slowly became a soldier - and as a soldier, he shone.
He graduated with flying colours, and was given a rank in one of the few remaining active battalions. His job involved more shouting and repeating a real officer's orders than doing any actual mind work, but he belonged to something at least; and naturally, when he was on leave he still lived with his comrades. The two men who would one day ascend to lieutenantship under his command as Captain were his bunkmates, his drinking mates, and his best friends. Many a time they woke up on the floor of a tavern together, heads pounding and stomachs curdling - and many a time too did they sleep together in the same foxholes, or in the same tents, under the burning stars or in the pouring rain. They did everything together. First trip to a brothel included.
First true combat included, the horror that it was.
It was one of the unofficial conflicts - the tiny skirmishes that dot the borders during those tensest of ceasefires. They weren't ready for the Alovians when it happened, their visibility hampered by the rain, and a third of their unit went down in the first fifteen seconds of combat - struck by Nantego bowmen, he would later learn. It had been nothing but luck and chance that neither he nor his closest had been amongst those caught in the first wave of the ambush - though Hugo, now serving as his first lieutenant, went on to lose a finger and gain seven horrific scars at the hands of a rogue Alovian knight. He was lucky, too, to have survived the encounter.
As the battle went on, they became separated from their unit, pursued by a shock of Alovian vanguard troops - and then they became separated from each other too in the chaos of battle.
And then, he turned to see her.
Her.
She was young. Pretty. Innocent-looking. Scared, too. As scared as Edgar, maybe - and unlike him, she didn't look like she wanted to be there at all. That was the first thing he noticed, actually - this poor, soaking girl, eyes red as if she had been crying, a nasty gash along her forearm where one of his compatriots had managed to wound her, looking for all the world like she was the victim. The second thing he noticed was that she was, without a doubt, a witch.
They spent a solid minute staring at eachother, frozen in the rain. Edgar's knuckles were white around the hilt of his arming sword, his breath heavy and desperate, his armour already faintly stained with blood from other injuries. She was pale, face framed by raven hair slick with the rain, her tiny body shivering and her clothes totally unfit for the weather, let alone war. Part of him wanted to put away his sword, to reach out and reason with her - especially since he knew just enough about magic to know that even with just the six metres of distance between them, he probably didn't stand a chance of making it close enough to strike her before he was evaporated - but soldiers are taught violence first, and diplomacy only rarely.
He, falteringly, took a step forward, sword still in hand.
She, falteringly, stepped backwards, her breath hitching, her hands rising.
"No!" They both screamed at once, her at his advance, him at the bolts of lightning and fire she set upon him - and the horrible burning, blistering, popping of his arms as the magic made contact with him and burst open his flesh, tearing off his skin and staining his body with the rank impurity of magic.
But through the pain, he saw just clearly enough to throw his sword.
He got lucky. She screamed too, her voice barely audible through his own agony, and the flow of magic stopped. When he could see again through the stars and darkness that pervaded his vision, his head light and his mind fainting, she was gone. His two friends, Hugo and Arthur, found him still kneeling there when the battle was over and the enemy repelled - with the blade of his sword shattered completely, and his arms still steaming with heat, both presumably on account of some degree of witchcraft.
He was pulled back from active duty along with the other wounded, pending an assessment by Thelannian medical staff to see whether or not he was still fit to serve at all, when somebody unexpected came to see him in the hospital.
He identified himself only as Sir Black - which immediately struck Edgar as an egregiously fake name - and he was there to offer Edgar the chance to guarantee his continued service with the army, under a few conditions. Edgar was, of course, eager to continue serving - especially since the alternatives for people as injured as him were usually just to remain a cripple and become beggars for the rest of their lives - but he knew that with all of these sorts of things there was always a catch.
The Wolfhounds were an entirely different sort. They were still permitted to mix with the regular army - albeit under the guise of being from a different regiment - but their training took place far out from any of the major cities, in a rural zone that wasn't even used for farming. The fitness regimens of the standard army were tough, but the Wolfhounds took it to new, brutal heights - the weakest among them were sick every morning, and kept being sick until their bodies became strong, or they washed out completely. The survival training was a complex mix of amazing sights across the whole country, and unimaginable torture, wherein every man and every woman's endurance was pushed to the sweaty, bloody, shitty maximum. They were taught to scale walls both ways, they were taught to escape confinement and not only subsist in the wild, but thrive and strike back at their former captors. Each Wolfhound was taught to fight with a sword, an axe, a bow, a spear, and naked. They learned the value of their armour, and they learned when its weight was too much to be worth it. They learned to blend in, both in terms of camouflage and in terms of simply appearing normal, and they learned to hide in their enemy's very midst. One drill saw them manouevre themselves as a squad of 6 from the courtyard of a castle into the dining room in less than an hour, swapping clothes with subdued servants, distracting and dealing with guards, and finally walking right into the evening meal of their target's family undetected, still wearing blades.
But most of all, they learned about magic.
At least how it could be overcome.
About a third of the initial few hundred Wolfhound trainees had survived some sort of magical attack in the field, and less than a third still of those had been the direct target - but all of them were expected to be able to survive it by training's end. Now, actually practicing the use of anti-magic regents and resistance techniques is difficult without an actual mage, but the Wolfhounds received a surprisingly detailed account of magical education despite this, and the results when the finally did see the field were good.
Since then, Edgar Sarohardt has seen five years of service as a Wolfhound, and risen to the rank of Captain - meaning command of his own Platoon - in that same time.
When he was given the order to accompany a gathering party on a quest to find the Queen - as a sort of last ditch effort to stop the war from returning - he gladly accepted, ready to do whatever he had to in order to secure the future of his country and his people... but not ready at all for the people he would meet.
In part due to the strength of his anger, in part due to his devotion to Thelan in place of his family, and in part due to the kinship he had with the other bastards in the common ranks, he excelled in war school. At first he was violent and poorly controlled, restraint all but unknown to him - but, over years, through combat experience in the small skirmishes that sometimes lit up the border, even in times of peace, he learned discipline. He learned to beat his anger into punching bags at the crack of dawn, he began to turn his devotion into power, and he grew to see the other troops not just as comrades but as brothers - and occasionally sisters - but more importantly, he learned to see the Thelannian state for what it was.
His saviour.
It rescued him from poverty, it taught him who he was, it gave him training and skills and an enemy to fight, and it paid his wages. He was a young man with a hole in his heart where his parents had left him, a gap where society had stepped away and abandoned him, a sinking pit where his anger would bury him - and the government fixed it. The government filled those holes. The army gave him purpose.
Without Thelan, his nation - his beautiful nation - he would be less than nothing. He would have died young, and been forgotten.
Instead, he got to grow up - and as he grew up, he matured, and slowly became a soldier - and as a soldier, he shone.
He graduated with flying colours, and was given a rank in one of the few remaining active battalions. His job involved more shouting and repeating a real officer's orders than doing any actual mind work, but he belonged to something at least; and naturally, when he was on leave he still lived with his comrades. The two men who would one day ascend to lieutenantship under his command as Captain were his bunkmates, his drinking mates, and his best friends. Many a time they woke up on the floor of a tavern together, heads pounding and stomachs curdling - and many a time too did they sleep together in the same foxholes, or in the same tents, under the burning stars or in the pouring rain. They did everything together. First trip to a brothel included.
First true combat included, the horror that it was.
It was one of the unofficial conflicts - the tiny skirmishes that dot the borders during those tensest of ceasefires. They weren't ready for the Alovians when it happened, their visibility hampered by the rain, and a third of their unit went down in the first fifteen seconds of combat - struck by Nantego bowmen, he would later learn. It had been nothing but luck and chance that neither he nor his closest had been amongst those caught in the first wave of the ambush - though Hugo, now serving as his first lieutenant, went on to lose a finger and gain seven horrific scars at the hands of a rogue Alovian knight. He was lucky, too, to have survived the encounter.
As the battle went on, they became separated from their unit, pursued by a shock of Alovian vanguard troops - and then they became separated from each other too in the chaos of battle.
And then, he turned to see her.
Her.
She was young. Pretty. Innocent-looking. Scared, too. As scared as Edgar, maybe - and unlike him, she didn't look like she wanted to be there at all. That was the first thing he noticed, actually - this poor, soaking girl, eyes red as if she had been crying, a nasty gash along her forearm where one of his compatriots had managed to wound her, looking for all the world like she was the victim. The second thing he noticed was that she was, without a doubt, a witch.
They spent a solid minute staring at eachother, frozen in the rain. Edgar's knuckles were white around the hilt of his arming sword, his breath heavy and desperate, his armour already faintly stained with blood from other injuries. She was pale, face framed by raven hair slick with the rain, her tiny body shivering and her clothes totally unfit for the weather, let alone war. Part of him wanted to put away his sword, to reach out and reason with her - especially since he knew just enough about magic to know that even with just the six metres of distance between them, he probably didn't stand a chance of making it close enough to strike her before he was evaporated - but soldiers are taught violence first, and diplomacy only rarely.
He, falteringly, took a step forward, sword still in hand.
She, falteringly, stepped backwards, her breath hitching, her hands rising.
"No!" They both screamed at once, her at his advance, him at the bolts of lightning and fire she set upon him - and the horrible burning, blistering, popping of his arms as the magic made contact with him and burst open his flesh, tearing off his skin and staining his body with the rank impurity of magic.
But through the pain, he saw just clearly enough to throw his sword.
He got lucky. She screamed too, her voice barely audible through his own agony, and the flow of magic stopped. When he could see again through the stars and darkness that pervaded his vision, his head light and his mind fainting, she was gone. His two friends, Hugo and Arthur, found him still kneeling there when the battle was over and the enemy repelled - with the blade of his sword shattered completely, and his arms still steaming with heat, both presumably on account of some degree of witchcraft.
He was pulled back from active duty along with the other wounded, pending an assessment by Thelannian medical staff to see whether or not he was still fit to serve at all, when somebody unexpected came to see him in the hospital.
He identified himself only as Sir Black - which immediately struck Edgar as an egregiously fake name - and he was there to offer Edgar the chance to guarantee his continued service with the army, under a few conditions. Edgar was, of course, eager to continue serving - especially since the alternatives for people as injured as him were usually just to remain a cripple and become beggars for the rest of their lives - but he knew that with all of these sorts of things there was always a catch.
"We're putting together a sort of... special projects group. A task force, if you will. A new sort of division, with a new command structure, and new roles on the battlefield." Sir Black said through a false smile, brushing down the grey of his doublet with his hands as he stood from the seat beside Edgar's hospital bed.
Edgar looked the man up and down, never having been quite stupid enough to trust mysterious men without first names, even if they were genial and polite.
"Right. What do I have to do with it?"
"Well, son, we want you to join it."
"Yeah, no, I'd gathered that. Why do you want me to join it?"
Sir Black paced around the bed, coming to the end of up and then looking up at Edgar was shining, dark eyes. He wasn't unattractive, but there was something about him that whispered malice - something about him that made your hair stand half on-end, like it wasn't sure if you were to be scared or not.
"The nature of this new formation calls for specialists, highly trained and well experienced - and I don't need to tell you just how few of our men have ever survived a one on one fight with a magic user, Corporal. Do I?"
"No... no sir. I've heard the numbers. You think I'm a specialist?"
"You're what we have." Sir Black added, not quite sharply enough to be a correction, but not gently enough to be normal. "And, from what I hear, you're very motivated."
Edgar tensed in bed, wincing as the involuntary movement twisted the unhealed flesh of his arms in the wrong way, and they lit alight with pain again.
"Yes, sir."
"Is that an agreement, my boy?"
Edgar swallowed. He'd signed his life away once, and hadn't lost much. What more could there be to lose from doing it again?
"Yes sir."
Sir Black almost jerked upright with the intensity of the grin that affixed itself to his face, then. He beamed down at Edgar with possibly the most terrifying smile he'd ever seen, and then continued.
"Excellent! I will inform the surgeons of your decision, and make personally sure that you receive the best treatment our great nation has to offer. Once you are treated, you will be taken with your comrades - Corporal Hugo and Corporal Arthur - to training camp Redout, in the Percival region. There you will join with the 1st Wolfhounds Commando unit, and commence with the very finest our country has to offer in the way of combat and countermagic training."
Edgar frowned for a second.
"Wolfhounds?"
"Yes. The new unit."
He frowned more.
"And... Hugo and Arthur have already said yes? Why didn't you just tell me that?"
Sir Black's grin widened further, betraying the almost-fangs lining his mouth further - and Edgar subconsciously recoiled from him.
"Because, my boy, they're dead. They died in hospital of their grievous, grievous injuries." His grin became a manic almost-snarl. "Do you understand? They died. They were reborn. So too will you be. That's the price of being a Wolfhound. Nobody can ever know where you went, because nobody can ever know who they, the Wolfhounds, are. That's why you were given a private room, and that's why you'll be given a private surgery, and that's why you'll die during it. As far as any of our enemies are concerned, the real Edgar Sarohardt will be buried in the yard three hundred metres to our South, and only his ghost - if anything at all - will remain. You will strike at the hearts of the enemy wheresoever they are found, you will rise from the ground and fall from the sky upon the enemy's most vital personnel, you will kill. Their. Mages."
Like a stone, sinking into water, it dawned on him.
Then, like dust blown off an old window, he saw.
"Yeah... yeah, I understand. I get you."
Sir Black's smile relaxed.
"Good man. Now, get some rest, you're going to die tomorrow."
Edgar looked the man up and down, never having been quite stupid enough to trust mysterious men without first names, even if they were genial and polite.
"Right. What do I have to do with it?"
"Well, son, we want you to join it."
"Yeah, no, I'd gathered that. Why do you want me to join it?"
Sir Black paced around the bed, coming to the end of up and then looking up at Edgar was shining, dark eyes. He wasn't unattractive, but there was something about him that whispered malice - something about him that made your hair stand half on-end, like it wasn't sure if you were to be scared or not.
"The nature of this new formation calls for specialists, highly trained and well experienced - and I don't need to tell you just how few of our men have ever survived a one on one fight with a magic user, Corporal. Do I?"
"No... no sir. I've heard the numbers. You think I'm a specialist?"
"You're what we have." Sir Black added, not quite sharply enough to be a correction, but not gently enough to be normal. "And, from what I hear, you're very motivated."
Edgar tensed in bed, wincing as the involuntary movement twisted the unhealed flesh of his arms in the wrong way, and they lit alight with pain again.
"Yes, sir."
"Is that an agreement, my boy?"
Edgar swallowed. He'd signed his life away once, and hadn't lost much. What more could there be to lose from doing it again?
"Yes sir."
Sir Black almost jerked upright with the intensity of the grin that affixed itself to his face, then. He beamed down at Edgar with possibly the most terrifying smile he'd ever seen, and then continued.
"Excellent! I will inform the surgeons of your decision, and make personally sure that you receive the best treatment our great nation has to offer. Once you are treated, you will be taken with your comrades - Corporal Hugo and Corporal Arthur - to training camp Redout, in the Percival region. There you will join with the 1st Wolfhounds Commando unit, and commence with the very finest our country has to offer in the way of combat and countermagic training."
Edgar frowned for a second.
"Wolfhounds?"
"Yes. The new unit."
He frowned more.
"And... Hugo and Arthur have already said yes? Why didn't you just tell me that?"
Sir Black's grin widened further, betraying the almost-fangs lining his mouth further - and Edgar subconsciously recoiled from him.
"Because, my boy, they're dead. They died in hospital of their grievous, grievous injuries." His grin became a manic almost-snarl. "Do you understand? They died. They were reborn. So too will you be. That's the price of being a Wolfhound. Nobody can ever know where you went, because nobody can ever know who they, the Wolfhounds, are. That's why you were given a private room, and that's why you'll be given a private surgery, and that's why you'll die during it. As far as any of our enemies are concerned, the real Edgar Sarohardt will be buried in the yard three hundred metres to our South, and only his ghost - if anything at all - will remain. You will strike at the hearts of the enemy wheresoever they are found, you will rise from the ground and fall from the sky upon the enemy's most vital personnel, you will kill. Their. Mages."
Like a stone, sinking into water, it dawned on him.
Then, like dust blown off an old window, he saw.
"Yeah... yeah, I understand. I get you."
Sir Black's smile relaxed.
"Good man. Now, get some rest, you're going to die tomorrow."
The Wolfhounds were an entirely different sort. They were still permitted to mix with the regular army - albeit under the guise of being from a different regiment - but their training took place far out from any of the major cities, in a rural zone that wasn't even used for farming. The fitness regimens of the standard army were tough, but the Wolfhounds took it to new, brutal heights - the weakest among them were sick every morning, and kept being sick until their bodies became strong, or they washed out completely. The survival training was a complex mix of amazing sights across the whole country, and unimaginable torture, wherein every man and every woman's endurance was pushed to the sweaty, bloody, shitty maximum. They were taught to scale walls both ways, they were taught to escape confinement and not only subsist in the wild, but thrive and strike back at their former captors. Each Wolfhound was taught to fight with a sword, an axe, a bow, a spear, and naked. They learned the value of their armour, and they learned when its weight was too much to be worth it. They learned to blend in, both in terms of camouflage and in terms of simply appearing normal, and they learned to hide in their enemy's very midst. One drill saw them manouevre themselves as a squad of 6 from the courtyard of a castle into the dining room in less than an hour, swapping clothes with subdued servants, distracting and dealing with guards, and finally walking right into the evening meal of their target's family undetected, still wearing blades.
But most of all, they learned about magic.
At least how it could be overcome.
About a third of the initial few hundred Wolfhound trainees had survived some sort of magical attack in the field, and less than a third still of those had been the direct target - but all of them were expected to be able to survive it by training's end. Now, actually practicing the use of anti-magic regents and resistance techniques is difficult without an actual mage, but the Wolfhounds received a surprisingly detailed account of magical education despite this, and the results when the finally did see the field were good.
Since then, Edgar Sarohardt has seen five years of service as a Wolfhound, and risen to the rank of Captain - meaning command of his own Platoon - in that same time.
When he was given the order to accompany a gathering party on a quest to find the Queen - as a sort of last ditch effort to stop the war from returning - he gladly accepted, ready to do whatever he had to in order to secure the future of his country and his people... but not ready at all for the people he would meet.
M I S C
Not at the moment!
Joe Dempsie | 3CB371
