As Rayull looks over his order slip, a young, armed man smashes into him from the side. Rayull, weighing roughly two hundred and fifty kilos with gear, it’s surprising to him that the boy didn’t knock himself out at those speeds. Rayull’s fine, of course, but the boy starts up with a nosebleed and a flame in his eyes.

“Watch where ya’ goin’, cunt!” the kid, of obviously Ragnivanian descent, snaps as he rubs his head and regains momentum off to somewhere else in the camp.

Rayull raises a brow at the auburn-haired boy, watching him run off past another tent. He calmly shakes his head and gets on to logistics.

At the tent Rayull meets a far friendlier chap who meters out the standard squad supplies required: twenty four rations and a medical kit for wounds and common battlefield conditions: nothing unusual for a multi-day patrol. Along with that set, he also receives his unit badge.

He clicks it onto his armor’s collar, and now he’s ready for war.

Rayull turns and leaves for the arming depot, where the orders told him to meet his subordinates. He approaches a group, spotting among them the auburn-haired brat from earlier. The moment he lays eyes on him, the kid knows what’s coming from the one who just so happens to be his commanding officer.

The others give the expected response in expectation of taking orders under a dragon-kin, some of them stare in awe, and others look terrified.

“Attention,” a fully-armored one says, standing the others up.

With a lazy speed expected for the unclear expectations of joint-force operations, the group eventually comes to something resembling the presenting stand for meeting an officer.

Everyone folds their right arm to their chests, showing off the insignia of the country and state they’re from- all except for the auburn-haired kid. Rayull looks them over: one other Ragnivanian including the auburn kid, so he’s certain at least the other three of the squad won’t be drop-out borderline criminals.

Rayull glances over their insignias a moment more and notes their unit badges. As the orders state they’re of the yellow primary-company, second combined mystic infantry brigade, seventh battalion, first secondary-company, fourth platoon, second squad. “Second squad?” he asks for confirmation.

The one Spirakandrin boy, exceptionally dark-skinned and tall, nods with a congenial smile. “That’s us, sir. You’re our squad leader, I presume?”

Rayull smiles, almost like a friend. “That’s right. I’m Royal Knight Law, I’m on loan for the defense of the Western Kingdoms and will be overseeing this group.” He scans across the group for only a second. “So, only five of you?”

“Yes sir,” the same Spirakandrin notes with a mix of black humor and worry on his features.

“…Bit small,” Rayull notes.

He’s met with nods and silence. He’s going to guess that most of the unit’s either out on the field, or dead.

Rayull gives a single, certain nod. “I’ll now take your introductions,” he says, holding his arms behind his back pensively.

The line of five soldiers is reformed, and the left most one presents himself:

He’s scrawny, pale, like most other Whihelmishians, but densely packed and muscular- the result of effective training. A sword of surprising size is hilted on his back. “Carl Yarland- Third Squadman, reporting for duty,” he introduces with an excited smile.

The Spirakandrin presents himself with a wide grin that make’s Carl’s look like a smirk. “Awnway Letallk- Second Squadman, reporting for duty.” Rayull notes the rag-tag collection of weapons he has belted around him: spears, hatches, knives, a bow, anything goes with this guy, it seems; a true polymath of tools.

An average sized, fully-armored-and-cloaked Ragnivanian soldier presents himself next. Rayull makes a note of his dilapidated, crudely maintained two-handed sword and shield, both stained with extended use. “Vulrick Gair- Second Armsman.” Rayull raises a brow at this one. he’s obviously seen a few fights.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Next is a short, effeminate boy from Kanvane, his soft, brown trusses of hair only exacerbating his young appearance. He has a slant, pretentious air about him. A light crossbow rests against his knee. “Bayl Culiairty… ex magic core, now I’m a First Squadman,” he says, averting his eyes from Rayull’s stature.

The last one is the Auburn-haired boy. He pauses a moment, and then steps forward. “Cet Garraline- First Squadman, proud Ragnivanian. Don’t get friendly with me, I know what your kind did to my people. I don’t like lizards. Don’t you have some no-where reservation for you to shit your eggs out on? I think you’re in the wrong da-”

Rayull snorts a breath of smoked air into the boy’s face. This is his opportunity to set the precedent of authority in the group. His old caretaker, Meeo, might have a gift with being a kind leader, but he has much more difficulty playing nice to subordinates. He takes a moment to decide if he’ll be tough as nails, or someone more relatable.

After all, it’s not every day one leads men into actual combat.

Hoss’Rayull addresses the boy with an iron gaze. With a long exhalation, he breaths a billow of smoke through his fortress of white teeth.

“You think you’re something special, dismissing your superior?” he says to the boy, diminutive in comparison.

The wind blows. Cet Garraline flinches. “I’m better than a Rayda-Damned lizard at lea-”

Cet’s interrupted again, hearing a deep, spinal shift in Rayull’s neck, stretching it about limberly and causing cracking sounds from his limbs.

Despite it all, Cet still plays it tough.

“Y-… Ya’ think that-”

“I’m not used to restraining myself with undermen. I don’t care what your parents taught you about dragon-folk; I’m better than them, and I’m better than you unless you can prove otherwise. If you cross the line again you can expect suitable corrective action.”

Cet stares at Rayull with wide, focused eyes, like a cornered beast. “Yeah? An’ what’s that?”

Rayull smiles, and cracks his knuckles next, crunching under his wide plate gauntlets. “The last time someone broke the rules, they died,” he says, not necessarily lying, though it wasn’t him that did the killing.

The last person who died under his wing was a Kanvanian boy by the name of Lain Gainswold, who just two days ago was crushed under the foot of Oa, the Lord of Necromancers; but that’s another story for another time.

Cet stares for a moment more with venomous contempt, and then pulls up a salute.

Rayull smiles, and nods with an immediate shift to light-heartedness. “Our mission is to go into….” He clears his throat. “The firing lines, and wear down the enemy via patrol movement.”

The plated Vulrick and the thick Carl, the two most experienced of the five when it comes to open battle, exchange looks from to Rayull’s admission.

“We’ll be there solely for killing enemy soldiers, but should I make the call otherwise you will follow; understood?” Rayull asks the group.

Everyone salutes.

“Excellent, now if there are no more questions, I’ll allow you to take your oath of hands.”

“W-” Cet barks, “this is bullshi-”

He’s silenced upon the sounds of the other four soldiers removing their left gauntlets and gloves, revealing the vulnerable human flesh underneath. They’re taking this seriously, he can plainly see.

With a massive, thinly veiled disgust, Cet follows suit, and removes everything covering his left hand.

Rayull can hear the breathing of the younger recruits pick up, especially young Cet. Rayull takes a quick look to the boy’s palm; no scars, so this must be his first “true” mission in the W.K.D.R..

Vulrick, knowing one must be the example for the others, pulls out his standard-issue dagger given to all soldiers in the W.K.D.R.. He rests the blade against his left hand, covered in scars from previous loyalties.

“These hands will bleed for you, sir knight, until I am released of my duty, or there is no blood left to let.” Vulrick tears the dagger across his palm, adding yet another scar to his left hand, counting nine in all.

Carl recites the same oath and adds another, five.

Then Awnway, his new count being three.

Next is Bayl, his very first and pushing him to the edge of tears.

Finally, Cet, his hands obedient, but his voice trembling and his eyes filled with the gaze of a spited overlord. Through a minute of wheezing, spitting, and teeth-grinding, Cet swears his fealty to his officer, and Rayull nods. Rayull pulls off his own gauntlet, revealing his scaled, draconic hand, scarred but twice, once from loyalty, and once from a foe.

He takes a breath and speaks his own peace. “These hands will bleed for you all, my men. May our blood be saved and be shed as one. You have my word as an officer and your brother in arms, I will complete our objective before I turn from the field, as I expect you to do the same.” At that, Rayull bites into his hand with his massive row of teeth, ushering a well of blood to run from his mouth.

Cet’s anger dies down, seeing three times the amount of blood run from Rayull’s hand in comparison to anyone else’s. After the group spends a moment treating their minor injuries of honor, finishing the final preparations, and then they turn for the field.