Jonathan reached out and took a small wooden token from the man. It was etched with an intricate design of a tree blooming above a swamp, its branches bearing a crop of corpses rather than fruit. An ominous design indeed. He left the tent and headed up the road, noting a congregation of other people standing around a large wagon, loaded with supplies.

As he neared, he watched as some of them were handed burlap bags filled with goods. Jonathan had no idea what was being distributed but seeing as nobody had any need for food or water, he assumed that it was clothing, or perhaps equipment.

He waited his turn, eventually receiving the same bag as the others, in exchange for the token. The quartermaster did not give him any explanation, instead continuing with his work. Jonathan retreated a few feet and opened the bag, seeing what looked like a half-cape, emblazoned with the same design that had been on the token.

He saw others putting theirs on, and he did the same. With his new cape, he blended in with the people surrounding him. He waited with the others for the final recruits to arrive, who were followed by the leaders from the tent. All in all, there were about a hundred of them.

“Men and women of the Swamp Raiders, I greet you as your commander! My name is Captain Ralond, ” The woman from the tent shouted. “You have the pleasure of being the newest addition to our ranks, which span across much of the Fetid Plains. Those around you will soon become as your brothers and sisters, or your enemies should you choose to betray them.”

“We will now be assigning units of five,” the man who had asked Jonathan’s name said. “When your name is called, go to others given the same number.”

Jonathan waited for his name to be called, finding himself in the 13th unit. Hopefully not a bad sign for the future.

He was with a motley assortment, three men and one woman. None of them seemed especially friendly, at least at first blush. There was a human man named Alastair, an elven man called Falran, and a strange furry beastkin who called himself Branth. The woman was of a race unknown to Jonathan, with gills lining the sides of her neck. Her skin was a light blue color and her name was Andra.

“Now, in five minutes we march!” Captain Ralond shouted. “I would recommend that you use this time to get to know your teammates, and their abilities, better.”

Jonathan turned to his taciturn companions, wanting to at least put on a show of camaraderie if nothing else. He had no doubt that if any of them knew who he was, they would slaughter him in hopes of a reward from Slothari.

“Well, somebody has to start off, I guess,” the human man said. “My name is Alastair, and I wield the ax. My preferred fighting position in a unit is front lines.”

“Andra. I’m a hybrid watermage and swordsman, using my magical skills to accentuate my swordplay. My preferred position is as support to the main damage dealer.”

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“I’m Joseph,” Jonathan said. “I am also a hybrid. I use my fists to fight. I can take any position, I guess.”

“I am Falran, of the Beruvoid court,” the elven man said, causing Jonathan to freeze. “I use lightning and life magic. My preferred position is on the back lines.”

“Hey,” Jonathan interrupted. “I couldn’t help but notice your surname. Did you know a man named Yaltan from your clan back in Telvaria?”

“Yes?” The elf said uncertainly. “He was one of my distant cousins. Why, have you met him?”

“Eh, I made a passing acquaintance of him.”

Falran shrugged, and went silent.

“Well, my friends, I must be last,” the beastkin said enthusiastically. Jonathan instantly took a liking to him. “I’m Branth, and I fight with my claws and fangs. I use my elemental mastery to help with that. I have a hybrid element, that of Force. My preferred position is on the front lines.”

“So, do we have a good idea of how we should group up then?” Jonathan asked, still a bit tense over the presence of Yaltan’s relative. Would every single thing he did in the Ash Heaps come back to haunt him later?

“Why, do you think to be our leader?” Falran asked, suspicious. “If anyone is to be in that position, it should be me. I have experience with these sorts of things from my life in Telvaria.”

“Shouldn’t it be a matter of strength? That is the currency of life in this universe,” Branth added, smiling slightly.

“So it should be me, is what you are saying,” Alastair replied. “I am over level 240.”

“So am I, pretty boy,” Andra added, a note of annoyance in her voice.

“What did you just call me?” Alastair said, grimacing. He laid a hand to his ax.

“Enough!” Jonathan shouted, letting his aura loose. The others froze, shaking. “Are you all children? We are warriors, and we should act like ones! A true fighter cares little for accolades, only power and progression.”

“I think he should be the leader,” Branth mock whispered.

“I agree,” Andra said.

Everyone was interrupted by a sudden blare of a warhorn as one of the four company leaders blasted the noise across the town. It was time to march. As the company began to move, Jonathan realized that the others were waiting for him to walk at the front. With a shrug, he obliged. Within the town, they kept a normal walking pace, but as soon as they had exited, the pace sped up. With everyone at Tier 3, they could move at hundreds of miles per hour as easily as a base human could march.

As they went, Jonathan realized that he felt diminished in a way, as if the movement was actually taxing his body. In the Ash Heaps, this pace would have been trivial. Here however, it felt like an effort, albeit quite small.

“What’s the deal with the slight fatigue?” He asked Alastair, the nearest to him.

“You must be new to this realm. Mire is steeped in Tier 3 mana, and even its atmosphere is denser and more powerful than normal. It reacts to mana usage, so it hinders everyone the same way.”

“Right. I’m quite new here. Where I came from, the majority of the mana was Tier 1. I only reached my current rank before dying, and coming here,” Jonathan replied, finding the lies spilling out of his mouth like water, the byproduct of high intelligence.

“Trying to curry favor with our glorious leader?” Branth asked, a toothy grin splitting his mouth.

“Oh, shut up. I was merely being helpful,” Alastair said, although his voice seemed humorous.

“Quiet down back there!” Captain Ralond called out from the front, not bothering to look back. Alastair shot an apologetic look forwards, and fell silent. All there was to do was to march.