“It's too easy to look out for just, “number 1,” it's a natural instinct after all. Lookin’ out for another, especially a stranger, knowing that there likely won't be anything in it for you, to do somethin’ like that solely for the sake of, “doing unto others,” how you’d like them to do unto you in an ideal world… that takes a real, “strength of character,”…” rasped the old gnome. With his phygrian cap slouched low over his eyes and his lips buried beneath the depths of his beard it was difficult as ever to tell exactly what he was thinking, but in his tone was the unmistakable trace of pride tinged with joy.
“But the thing about strengths, y’see, is that strength by design must falter for a time in order to grow and cultivate itself,” grunted the big vitruvian in the west-most corner of the cell, looking for all the world like a big brown granite slab of an aksumite; one of the few races of men that had remained un-transmogrified by the meddling of the angels. “Now, me and the old gnome’re well past our days of holding out hope for any growth spurts, but you, you’re still growing. Ain’t no sense in lettin’ a good crop die stunted if you can help it, so quit yer blubberin’ and take the hit!”
The brown-haired youth hadn’t managed to get in a word edgewise, only stood there, eyes down-cast and hands balled into fist. The youth was lithe for a boy of his age, as were all vitruvians of nestorian ethnicity, but his callused hands had the same weathered look of all penal serfs. “We already know what you’re thinkin’, so don’t think of this as some kinda hand-out. Think of it as sorta like an investment or a loan. With all the hands the lord commander’ll get outta this levy business-, hell even outta this sponging dungeon alone-, the empire’ll be sure to have the western tetrachate back in line in a month, tops! We’re expectin’ you to make it big out there kid, so that afterwards you can spring bail for us too, than we’ll all be free again to dice and whore as much as we want, ha-hah!”
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“Mmm-hmm,” the old gnome bobbed his head in agreement, “It is the natural way of things for the old and infirm to pass on their hopes and dreams for the young’uns to inherit. You hear me, boy? We’re going, “all in,” on you so there’s no time for second guessin’ yourself. Just keep your head down and follow orders and you’ll come out alright.”
A month had passed now since they’d all put their dungeon-scrip together to pay the separate fee for the Warden to waive the youth’s inherited debt so that he’d be eligible to sign on with the penal levy. However, the act had left the boy with little-to-no savings left afterwards, and as the regiment quartermaster corps weren’t known for loaning full uniforms to foot-soldiers, let alone convict conscripts, the boy now trudged along in the rearguard of the caravan in a chain-gang of fellow convict conscripts in only his dungeon stripes and a tattered hand-me-down of a sun-bleached scapular. Officers and NCOs would routinely pass by the columns of on foot chain-gangs astride their own mounts; knights errant atop grand destriers, sellswords clad in coats of many colors steering shaggy dire wolves, and even kaizo-kin templars with their sweat stained metal skin and prosthetic flesh saddled upon equally bizarre vahanas. All of them coming and going amongst camp followers and quartermastery hedged in by the rearguard, and all of them kicking up great clouds of dust with every passing. And yet, despite it all trudged on, completely unperturbed by any of it. For the first time in nearly two years, with fresh air in his lungs, and the warm sun beating down on his pale skin from high above in a jade sky that seemed to greet him the way one would embrace a distant relative they hadn't seen in ages, the youth felt his mind clear and his senses return to him, acute and sharpened. For the first time in a while the youth felt determined as there was only one thought in his heart; the burning desire to strike it big while he was deployed in the west!