Departing Marienburg

The Old World - Marienburg Outskirts

—

The caravan was quite a sight to behold. Cathayan merchant caravans were, while not unheard of within the Provinces, still a rarity. The Ivory Road visited more than just the one realm, supply and demand made it that trade was spread across multiple destinations over the course of months or years.

But this particular caravan was different from the norm for Ivory Road expeditions. This caravan was on the return trip, headed from Marienburg, where all but the dredges of their wares had been bartered away, purchased by those who found the commodities of the Far East to be strange, exotic, or just pure luxury that was difficult to acquire elsewhere. Again, the fact that the caravan was moving east and north to return home wasn't itself unusual, that which made it so was how it was accompanied by a large number of lizardmen.

Most people of the Empire had never even heard of the Lizardmen of Lustria, so it wasn't even the fact that they were garbed and armed with black powders that made the sight so unusual to those few travellers who passed them on the roads to Middenheim. It was just the presence of bipedal lizardmen, some riding atop large saurian creatures with deep thunderous footfalls.

Other than a handful of these thundersaurs which were able to walk on just two legs, they all pulled behind them wagons or carts of their own, clearly not a part of the merchant caravan, but instead the caravan of these lizardmen.

The marching lizards had the Cathayan caravan surrounded in a protective shell, eyes trained on their surroundings. Even if it was a case of being hired simply because both were going in the same direction, a token act with a shrug of "strength in numbers", they were still going to be passing close to territory claimed by the forest goblin tribe calling themselves the Bloodfeathers. And that spoke nothing of the usual recurring menace of orcs travelling in roving mobs looking for a scrap, or loot.

In some ways, the threat of orcs had been diminished by bards who'd chosen to use the greenskins as bumbling fools working for the actual threat. Mostly from those bards of the Kingdom of Bretonnia, who seemed to relish in belittling those once vanquished by their King Louen the Orc-Slayer. For those who actually had firsthand experience with orcs, those bardic depictions were far from truth. Up close, an orc was actually a scary, dangerous threat that defied expectation. Thankfully, the true nature of orcs, and their Waaaghs, was accepted by those who lifted blade for whatever reason, defence of home, patriotism, or coin.

Within one of the wagons being carted by a stegadon, there was a skink. This skink didn't wear any form of uniform. In fact, were any of the Cathayans to notice this skink's existence, they would no doubt comment on the fact this silver scaled skink was wearing women's garb. If the skink knew that detail, he didn't show any care for the matter.

At that moment, this skink was leaning on a table covered in sheets of fabric, absently twirling a gold bangle in his hand, eyes fixed upon another skink. This other skink had been striped of his priest regalia, all now tucked into one of the various chests that were stacked to one side.

For Priest Bonaeaix, soon to be Major Bonaeaix, he was feeling strangely exposed with how the other skink stared so intently at him. It felt like he was not a person but instead a slab of meat at the barrios back home. It wasn't helped by the other two lizardmen—a third skink and a saurus oldblood—at the flap that led outside the wagon's canvas covering, both also looking at the naked priest.

'So why am I outfitting this one?' the skink in the dress asked with a put upon tone.

The saurus sounded apathetic when he spoke the following words. 'Boney here needs to look the part of a major.'

The silver skink shot a look at the saurus that Bonaeaix translated as mild concern. 'Did we know we were getting a new major?'

'No.' The single syllable came out as not a hiss, if only because it lacked an "s" to drag out.

The silvered skink huffed, eyes briefly rolled in a manner that Bonaeaix translated to exasperation. 'Ok. New major.'

The skink in the woman's garb moved to a nearby pile of fabric, and without looking pulled free a set of stone-grey breeches and tossed them at Bonaeaix. 'Don't worry if they don't fit,' he said while moving to another pile, pulled a shirt free and repeated the act of throwing it at the priest in what felt like a most disrespectful manner. 'Just trying to get a sense of how they'll look on you.'

'Marz.' The oldblood's voice caused the tailor to still, midway to yet another pile of fabric. 'Not the coat.'

The skink—whose name was apparently Marz—gave a dour look at the saurus. 'It is still a part of the uniform, is it not? You haven't had me come up with some new uniform for the Legion.'

The oldblood shook his head and looked to skink in the red coat. 'How do you feel at the idea of anyone skipping the two seasons it took you to earn your coat?'

Sergeant Coadmit hesitated for a moment and then sent an apologetic look Bonaeaix's way. 'I would feel annoyed. I worked to earn it, my cohort all worked to earn the right to wear our coats. We would tolerate it, but it would chafe.'

Bonaeaix wanted to feel betrayed, but instead felt... disappointed, but not much else. The oldblood looked to Marz with his head tilted in silent gesture of "See what I mean?". In turn, the tailor grunted and gave Bonaeaix another appraising look, clearly adjusting his thoughts.

'Is it the colour? Or do I need to find something else entirely? I don't have the any of the plate cuirasses that Mort's regiments like on hand, and they are even more protective of their uniform than you redcoats.'

Coadmit answered. 'It's not the colour that's a problem.'

Marz hummed thoughtfully, but it was the oldblood who spoke up next. 'A jerkin or a red waistcoat. Keeps the look of the rank and file's uniform while being different enough to not annoy anybody, and let's him have the chance to earn the actual coat later.'

Marz gave the saurus a look of equal measure annoyance and agreement. 'Solinaraxl... there are moments I despise you. You clearly understand young-race fashion, and yet you insist on wearing that surcoat and looking like some amateur bard's depiction of an adventurer.'

Solin's eyes narrowed into a smirk. 'I have a timeless look and you're jealous I can pull it off.'

Marz muttered a choice phrase in Saurian that loosely translated into calling Solin the waste remains of a carnosaur that was then buried in dirt. Solin's amusement didn't fade in the slightest. With a sigh, the tailor unburied a waistcoat from yet another pile of fabric and this one he handed politely to Bonaeaix. 'Let's see how that looks.'

The priest managed to pull on all the garments. They were oversized however, all hung loosely on his frame, but Marz seemed to like what he saw.

'I can work this.' His head tilted. 'Still missing something.'

'Sword.' Solin's voice was flat. 'Just give him the one in that chest.'

Marz stilled, didn't even blink. 'You are certain?'

'What use is it in there? The sword finishes up the human expectation of an officer. Something about nobles and their right to arms and duels.' Solin's eyes pinned Bonaeaix to the spot. 'Even if Boney is the type to hang back and only use magic, he'll still look the part for clients. We can work on his communication skills later.'

That marked the second time that the colonel had referred to Bonaeaix as "Boney". He wanted to protest, but then a single look at the saurus had any courage to do so fade away.

Marz gave a single nod then moved to a chest that was virtually buried beneath yet more fabric, pulled it open with no thought for the now scattered cloth, and removed a sabre and its scabbard from the inside. He didn't hand this one over to Bonaeaix though. He instead held it up in such a way that to his perspective it was next to and partially covering his view of Bonaeaix.

Bonaeaix's eyes narrowed as he took in the blade, still covered as it may be. It looked well worn, but cared for. It was being passed on, though why it needed a new owner, he wasn't certain.

'Yes, yes this works.' Marz glanced at the saurus and redcoat skink. 'Both of you be gone now. I need to work.'

Both skink and saurus turned to leave. As they did so, Bonaeaix noticed Coadmit tap the colonel on the arm and murmur something just quiet enough to escape his hearing. The oldblood nodded and both vanished outside, leaving Bonaeaix with Marz.

Marz mumbled something under his breath and approached Bonaeaix holding a pair of scissors in one hand and a length of fabric in the other. 'Well now, Boney, let's get to work, hmm?'

'Why does the oldblood keep calling me that?' Bonaeaix asked. Thankfully, he managed to keep his tone from sounding like a whining mewl as he asked the question. 'Why did you call me that?'

'Get used to it.' Marz chuckled. 'By the month's end everybody will be calling you Boney now that the colonel has started.'

'Did I do something to offend?' The question was asked in a quiet, contemplative, if wary tone, Bonaeaix felt a little ashamed at how nervous he felt. When the tailor raised an eyebrow ridge in confusion, Bonaeaix nodded his head toward the flap that the other two lizardmen had departed from. 'Solinaraxl.'

Marz gave a small 'Ah' and seemed to consider his answer. 'No, you have not done anything to offend Solin. The nickname is just one of those little conformities. Solin will be the first to admit that he's picked up on some habits that he can't shake off.'

'It's not just the name thing. Nickname. He looks at me like...'

There was another 'Ah' from Marz. 'No, you did nothing wrong. You just have the misfortune of taking the place of our previous major. Major Yade-To was much liked within the Legion and especially the regiments under his domain.'

Bonaeaix tilted his head in interest, easily recognising the name. He hadn't realised that he was a replacement, and for one of the original members of the Legion alongside Solinaraxl, Ingwel'tonl, Iycan'ceya and Moretexl. Everybody back in Tiamoxec knew the name. 'What happened to him?'

He hadn't even been aware that Yade-To had passed from this life. Though that wasn't too surprising. News from the Legion tended to be sparse. It wasn't that those within Tiamoxec never heard of their distant kin, but that Annat'corri and his attendants only shared tales of the successes, possibly the slann's way of being passive-aggresive. It was hardly a secret that before Tiamoxec fell out of contact with their Lustrian cousins, the other slann had... opinions... about Annat'corri and the Outland Legion. Even within Tiamoxec, some shared opinions with those distant Lustrian slann.

But Marz was already shaking his head. 'No, I'm not talking about it. Just accept that you are taking the place of somebody deceased and move on.'

Bonaeaix huffed out a breath and then peered at Marz with some bemusement, recalled his lessons on warmblood culture. 'Why are you wearing a dress?'

Marz rolled his eyes upwards. 'I'm an artisan not a fighter. I don't have to wear the uniform.'

'That's… not what I asked. Why are you wearing a dress? Is that not for women?'

Marz's eyes didn't lower, but somehow he projected a touch more annoyance. 'Despite the name that the young races have given us, we are not men, anymore than we are women. I don't need to conform to some arbitrary cultural rule that says just because some human felt the need to call us lizardmen that I am to be shut out from certain clothing choices.'

Bonaeaix raised his hands in a warding motion. 'I'm sorry.'

'And anyway, it's not a dress, it's called a kilt!' Marz huffed, apparently blind to the apology. 'I get asked that often enough that it's gotten old. Idiots. I thought that at least my kin would understand. We all know full well that we are lacking a certain part of the anatomy required to be either-or. But no, it seems that in our conforming, we've picked up some bad habits. If I wanted to wear a dress, I have every right to wear a dress. But I am not! I am wearing a kilt, for Tepok's sake.'

As he ranted, Marz waved his hands erratically, which meant that a pair of scissors were being waved erratically. Bonaeaix gulped, legs tensed to flee if the tailor advanced any closer while his rant was ongoing.

I suppose it's a sore point for him.

It was then that Marz's rant drifted to questioning why humans had even declared dresses to be a feminine form of clothing when it wasn't that long ago men wore skirts as a fashion choice. That some still wore skirts as a part of their armour, which was why the original armour design that the Legion had adopted had included skirts. Marz would know, he was quick to point out in his rant.

Bonaeaix wondered if it was too late to run back to Marienburg and beg Captain Horeo for a ride home.

#

That night, the caravan set up camp on the outside of a small village along the Middenheim road. It was the sort of village that barely qualified as a village, didn't even have its existence marked on any map. None of the towns or villages along the long stretch of road between Marienburg and Middenheim were marked on any map. After Salfen and all the way to Wouduin Tollstation, the map would have one believe there to be no sign of life.

Really, the only purpose the villages along the road was to act as a resting point for travellers going to and from Marienburg.

The villagers didn't bat an eye at the merchant caravan. The strange jade warriors were old news to the jaded peasants, the caravans of Grand Cathay a semi-regular appearance that they had long since gotten used to. The contracted guard detail, that did have a second and even a third look.

Solin ignored the baffled look from what passed for a town guard in this quaint little village—pot helmet, wooden shield that looked as though it had been passed down through generation after generation.

And yet, Solin thought to himself, that is still more than most Bretonnian peasants are allowed when sent to fight and die. He quickly shook the thought away, reminded himself that the last experience he'd had with any Bretonnian was not indicative of the kingdom as a whole. The kingdom had been around for at least a thousand summers, despite their laws and code of chivalry, which were so lopsided that one had to wonder whether the nobility were afraid of an uprising.

If they were, those same nobles were strangely blind to just how much wood they were adding to that stove. Then again, illiterate mobs untrained in wearing armour or using any weapon heavier than a rapier? Even if they rose up, that would be a rebellion quickly put down.

Sometimes it felt as though the only thing Solin liked about Bretonnia was their brandy.

After clearing the thoughts from his head a second time, unwilling to dwell on the western kingdom, Solin slipped into the inn. He'd been told that by one of the jade warriors, shortly after they'd stopped moving for the day, that the caravan master was looking to talk.

Interesting, considering the caravan master had been willing to have one of his subordinates make the deal to hire the Legion as extra protection in his stead.

Inside the inn, he was offered a tankard of cheap ale. When asked, it appeared that the man he was to meet had chosen to buy him a drink for their chat. That was interesting, either the caravan master was looking to get into Solin's good graces with a small bribe, he wanted Solin drunk, or he was just playing good host. Considering that Solin had yet to speak to the man, he couldn't predict which of those three possibilities was true. After a moment of consideration, he accepted the drink.

As soon as the ale had been placed into Solin's hand, a Cathayan approached. He had a shaved head, but also sported a thick beard. The man was dressed in a vibrant yellow tunic that looked to be made from silk, while his pants and undershirt looked to be made of white cotton. Boots curled into a point at the toes. When Solin had spied him briefly earlier in the day, he'd also worn a tall hat and a cape of shimmering white and yellow silk, though he'd apparently chosen to remove them for the talk.

The last detail that Solin really noticed before the warmblood started speaking was the wrinkles. This was a human who had lived a long life. Long by human standards at least—Solin likely out-aged him by a good few centuries, unless he was one of those with dragon-blood in his ancestry. The saurus didn't yet know if that actually affected the longevity of humans.

'Ah,' the human intoned, voice less accented than the Shugengan who had been the go-between for them back in Marienburg, but set at a tone where he wasn't so much speaking as intoning his words. It had more than a passing resemblance to Marshal Ingwel when he wasn't softening his voice for the young races' benefit. 'Colonel Solinaraxl I presume.'

Solin dipped his head respectfully, ignored the rest of the inn's patrons all starting in surprise at the deep voice being projected. 'I presume that you are the caravan master?'

'Correct. Luao Tee. You wished to be paid in gossip and materials for accompanying us to Middenheim?'

'That's the fee.' Solin confirmed with a small nod, secretly hoped that he wasn't about to have to argue contract details that had already been agreed upon.

'In that case, I am willing give you an advance fee with the gossip, and pay the materials at job's end.'

'If that is how you wish to do this,' Solin answered softly, took a sip of ale to hide how relieved he was. The Cathayan probably wouldn't have noticed, but tales of the immortal dragon rulers in Cathay meant that if anybody could read lizardmen expressions, it would be this man born of a realm ruled over by immortal dragons.

The caravan master gave a slight smile. 'Passing on gossip costs us nothing, yet has value enough to you that you would risk life for it. We'll pay you in what we have heard, since we have no way of knowing if it is something you already heard through other sources.'

Solin shrugged a single shoulder. 'That sounds reasonable.'

Luao Tee's smile dipped. 'What have you heard of Kislev of late?'

'Not a lot,' Solin admitted. 'Just a lot of rumours of fleeing refugees.'

The caravan master nodded with a hum that managed to vibrate Solin's ribs. 'Understandable. Not even the famed Kislev force of will can fight nature itself.'

'"Nature"?'

'Yes. It turns out that their winter hasn't yet passed. This is a fact. We passed their lands on the way to Marienburg.'

'Cold summer,' Solin mumbled, gave a slight shiver at the thought.

'Oh, it is worse than just a cold summer. This marks the seventh summer that this winter has endured.' Luao Tee had a smile as he spoke those words, clearly pleased that he was passing on something which had value, as this was very definitely the first time Solin had heard of this.

'What is Ursun doing?' Solin asked after he recovered from the shock—and the ale that slipped down the wrong way—and organised his thoughts, rapidly recalled everything he'd learnt about the northern nation over the centuries.

'That is where truth and hearsay start to mix. It would appear that the Kislev God-Bear has not been seen for any of those seven years. Indeed, there are some who claim Ursun has abandoned his followers.'

'Gods don't just abandon the source of their devotion,' Solin replied to that with a sharp shake of the head. 'Gods are predictable in that respect. With so many other gods in the world, having to build faith anew... mortals don't care for new gods, even when they aren't mutually exclusive. There are still arguments here in the Empire between those who worship Sigmar and those who choose to worship Ulric.'

Luao Tee made a sound that Solin was able to translate as being haughty snootiness, recalled that the immortal dragons that ruled over Grand Cathay claimed to not be gods and supposedly looked down upon the gods other realms worshipped. It wasn't too much of a surprise that such disdain was passed down to their subjects. 'I agree with you. But that still leaves the question of just what has happened to the God-Bear.' The caravan master gave a shrug. 'Other rumours are just as preposterous.'

'This is valuable news to us, if for no reason other than the context it gives.' Solin shook his head. 'This is valuable enough that you don't need to pay more.'

Luao Tee laughed, a loud boisterous laugh that rattled every bone in Solin's body such that he wondered whether this was some new Cathayan weapon being tested on him.

'I told you, colonel, hearsay and gossip cost us nothing. It doesn't feel right to make such an exchange without some material cost.' As he spoke, he held out a hand.

Solin nodded, understood that there was an element of cultural honour at play. He hadn't enough experience with the culture of Grand Cathay to know of the nuance to their system. Hopefully it wasn't too much like the Bretonnian chivalry. If Cathayans felt business transactions needed a material component to pay for labour, he wouldn't complain.

Not that Cathay and those born of the far eastern empire didn't have their own brand of flaws. In Solin's experience, no young-race empire or realm was without a myriad of flaws and issues. Some were just better at hiding those flaws.

He clasped the forearm of the caravan master, didn't allow any of his internal thoughts to show through. 'Thank you.'

Once they had released each other's forearms, the caravan master gave a slight bow. 'A dear friend once sung praises of you, colonel. Tales of how it was you and your Legion that had his caravan survive the trip across the World's Edge. I feel we have been blessed by Mui-Lahn's coming across you.'

Solin vaguely recalled the moment being referred to. It had been fifty winters ago, while hunting a band of orcs alongside a pair Dawi with an unresolved grudge, Solin had encountered a Cathayan caravan that had the misfortune of getting caught in the wrong place at the wrong moment. He'd intervened, saved the caravan, and escorted them to the nearby karak before resuming the hunt for the orcs.

Solin gave a mild answer in acknowledgment of the event in question, even while he thought about what he had just learnt, along with what news he'd gotten back in Marienburg.

Stirrings in the Great Plan, Krog-Gar being sent by Mazdamundi to the Southlands, and now we hear of Kisev's patron god-bear going missing, leaving his followers to freeze to death. No wonder we've heard of so many fleeing south: if they aren't freezing, they're starving to death. Stubborn need to defend their home does not conquer snow and ice, no matter how much they like the two as part of their cultural identity.

Wonder what their Tzarina is doing... is she trying to find a solution, or has something else taken her attentions. Can't think how she would be reacting, I've never met her. Ingwel might have at some point, he's spent more time in Kislev than I have, he might have chanced a meeting.

At that moment, somebody approached looking at Luao Tee. 'Are ye the free company? The ones whose accept rumour as coin?'

The Cathayan chuckled and pointed at Solin as the last of the ale was drained from his tankard. 'He is the mercenary leader.'

The villager paused to examine the saurus with an expression that bordered on incredulous. Nothing unusual, humans often seemed to think those not looking like them were victim to lesser intellect. The choice to wear clothing helped, but wasn't a perfect shield against such biases. Sometimes, just sometimes, there were those that ignored the clothing to focus exclusively upon the face. It was tiresome, but it happened.

'Colonel Solin of the Outland Legion.' Solin greeted, placing the empty tankard down and turning to fully face the villager.

The human visibly shook his head and inhaled. 'We need to hire ye for a small task.'

Solin looked to Luao Tee, who raised an eyebrow and shrugged, silently communicated that whatever happened next was up to him.

'What's the job?'

The villager inhaled again. 'There is a farmstead to the east, a half-day ways off the road. We'd like you to check up on the farm.'

'Is there any reason you're concerned? Or that you can't just send a runner?' The saurus crossed his arms, tilted his head as he tried to puzzle out why this villager was asking a mercenary company to perform what seemed like a small chore but little more.

This time it wasn't an inhale, but a tired sigh that escaped the villager's lips. 'Those passing by have been talking about attacks along the road. They din't think it were greenskins neither. We need to know if Siegfried is still safe. We can't live without him.'

Solin's eyes narrowed in a frown. It didn't look to be a jest of poor taste, the villager's expression of concern was too real. 'Tell you what, bring me some ink and a quill, I'll consider that advanced pay and I'll have some of my troop check out the farm for you.'

The villager nearly sagged from the relief that he was suddenly radiating. 'Thank you. That farm is this village's main source of food and trade, if it burns, we'll have nothing.' So said, he sprinted from the inn with a shouted promise to be back shortly with quill and ink.

'Sounds serious.' Luao Tee's voice once again had the bones in Solin's body rattle.

'Might be nothing though, just a panic because the farmer missed his due date.' Solin tilted his head back in thought. 'But better safe than sorry.'

The villager was back mere minutes later holding a quill and a small pot of ink. Solin accepted them and rested both items on the table in front of him and pulled two sheets of parchment from his surcoat, and started to transcribe what Luao Tee had told him, then repeated the same word for word upon the second parchment.

'Ok, sorted. We'll check out your farm. '

'Thank ye.'

Once the villager had disappeared, Luao Tee watched Solin gathered up the two sheets of parchment. 'What now?'

Solin stood. 'Now? Now I have to go tell fifteen of my skinks that they've been selected to go check out a nearby farm for peace of mind of mind of these villagers.'

#

The newly named Major Boney followed after Coadmit. The redcoat had paused on finding Boney at the fire, had taken in the uniform that he now wore before he gave a trill of approval. It was after that he told the new major that Colonel Solinaraxl had requested him.

They found Solin at the edge of the encampment, looking over a map with a bemused look. Another thirteen skinks stood nearby, stood in that way that meant they were waiting for instruction. Boney noted in a small corner of his mind that, including Coadmit, only five of the skinks actually had muskets on their person. He himself didn't have one.

Solin looked up as Boney and Coadmit approached, rolling up the map. His eyes lingered upon Boney, seemed to assess him from top to bottom, then back to top.

'Hat?' Solin asked with something in his tone that Boney wasn't able to make out.

The major tapped the circular brim of the hat that Marz had added at the last second with a playful smirk and comment. 'Tailor Marz felt it would help me look the part.' It had also been a way for Boney to still carry the feather from his old headpiece, a reminder to himself of his previous status as priest. A reminder of where he had come from.

He knew even before boarding the ship to leave the Madrigal Isle that he was expected to adapt, conform to the standards of the warmbloods. It had only been after he was dressed like one of those warmbloods that he'd realised that he needed at least something of his time prior to the Legion to ground him, remind him of his origins. It was silly, but the yellow and green feather that had taken place of pride on the traditional headpiece of a skink priest? It simply worked as that grounding reminder.

He had also managed to sneak the neckpiece of his old regalia beneath the linen of his shirt. It was a comforting weight, but served a purpose different from the feather. It was what Bonaeaix had focused on when manipulating the Winds of Magic, more so than any staff. That had been the arguement that had convinced Tailor Marz to allow him to keep the golden neckpiece.

Solin's eyes rolled skyward, seemed to examine the constellations that were just beginning to be visible. 'Of course he did.' His eyes went back down to the skink and narrowed. 'But he is right. And it's more sensible than Iycan's flatcap.' The last sentence was spoken of in a rueful, put upon tone tinged with exasperated fondness.

After ten seconds Solin muttered something too quietly for Boney to make out and stormed forward. Bonaeaix back-pedalled unconsciously, eyes widened and heartbeat racing. Solin paused, concern flitting across his eyes before he resumed moving, but now at a noticeably less purposeful pace. It almost looked as though he were approaching a feral aggradon. Once he was in arm's reach, his arms lifted, reached to Boney's head.

Bonaeaix watched with wide-eyed nerves as the oldblood grabbed the wide-brimmed hat and folded one side up, pinched his fingers at the resultant crease for several seconds before then stepping back and examining the resultant look of the hat with one side folded up and remaining that way.

'There you go, now you look the part, Boney.' Solin nodded with a look of satisfaction to him.

Coadmit moved so that he could examine the folded hat. 'It's a good look. Keep it, even after you earn the coat.'

Solin grunted and waved a hand in a motion that suggested that he wanted the pair to now move to stand with the other thirteen skinks. Once they had joined the others, the oldblood looked to them with a serious expression.

'Sorry to say, you fifteen aren't going to be resting with the rest of us, I have a job for you. Something simple,' he hurriedly added, looking toward Boney—best just get used to it then—and shaking his head. 'I'm not throwing you into the thick of it, major. Something simple to let you get adjusted and learn about those under your command before you start leading entire regiments.'

The oldblood lifted the map he'd rolled up previously and handed it to Boney, who accepted it and resisted the urge to immediately unroll it and start examining. He might have resisted the urge, but he still focused on that particular urge and not the desire to flinch away from the larger lizardman.

Solin continued speaking, stepping back so that he could address all fifteen assembled skinks as one. 'There's a farm a half-day's travel from here. Village has hired you to go check up, make sure they're safe. There have been attacks along the road and this village is understandably worried about their source of food and trade.'

'Greenskins?' one of the other skinks asked.

'Apparently not, according to other travellers passing through. But they never spoke of what it was. Worst case, beastmen—we aren't that far from the Drakwald, if it isn't greenskins, it's beastmen. Best case, rogue humans.'

'What do we do once we've reached the farm?' Boney asked.

'That's up to you.' Solin's voice was stern. 'If it's safe, then all you have to do is meet back with us at the next village—it's been marked on that map. If it's not, judge for yourself if you need to run back to us and ask for help, or intervene on your own. If the farm is gone, run back here, tell the villagers here, and then move on to catch up with the caravan.'

Boney nodded a single slow nod. He understood now, this was also a test of his ability to fit into the role he'd been given. This wasn't a role he could afford to make mistakes in, not when those mistakes could cost lives depending on him. One bad decision and it would cost lives that needn't be lost.

He wondered idly if that was part of why he had only been given skinks to command. It could sometimes get difficult to tell how advanced a hold the geas had over saurus when they weren't yet scar veterans. Back at Tiamoxec, Boney had seen the effect the geas had on saurus, had made a comment and then watched as the saurus moved to obey what hadn't even been a command. A comment about being hungry had seen a saurus rush to go hunt some food.

Even freshly spawned, at least skinks had the ability to question, to use their judgement. It felt like a natural choice for Boney to be commanding skinks only for his first test of command.

'Sergeant Coadmit, you are the major's attendant. Give him advice. Help him in any way you can. Help him become the major he needs to be.'

Coadmit gave a nod. 'I understand and will do so.'

There was a satisfied grunt from the oldblood. 'While you are leaving now, this isn't a rush, feel free to set camp part way so that you arrive during daylight. Humans tend to react better to meeting in the day. Well, I look forward to hearing from you on your return.'

It was as much a dismissal as any other that Boney had heard. He turned, looked at the fourteen skinks apparently now under his command.

'All right, let's move out.'

-TBC