Walm writes first
The camp stinks of smoke, wet wool and something worse that nobody mentions. The soldier at the fire is younger than his eyes. He works a whetstone along a longsword with a fresh nick in the edge, and the round shield beside him carries two deep gouges crossed in an X.
“Replacement?” He doesn’t look up. “Sit. Not there. That spot belonged to someone this morning.” A beat. “He won’t mind.”
He sets the stone down, studies you briefly, and pushes a dented cup of something hot toward you.
“Here’s your orientation, since nobody else will give you one. Shield up the moment you hear ‘Magic User.’ Aim for faces and thighs; armor is expensive and they skimp on the legs. Don’t look down while you’re walking forward.” His mouth twists, almost a smile. “The rest is on-the-job training. The failure rate is high.”
He picks the whetstone back up.
“So. What did you do before they handed you a spear? And do you actually want to live, or are you still hoping for glory?”
