Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprisoned in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendant world; or to be worst than worst
Of those lawless and incertain thought
Imagine howling--'tis too horrible!
-from Measure for Measure by William Shakespeare

You arrive at the antechamber to the core of Fort Deepdark - its brain, if not is heart - the offices and meeting rooms of the military installation's most senior personnel and their assistants.  You've been summoned.  This is most irregular; any ordinary command or assignment would be filtered through your immediate superiors, not involve a visit in person to the halls of power.

The room is, as befits a Karrnathi military facility, made of sensible, solid stone, no delicacy, but not inelegant in its precisely geometric construction and craftsmanship.  The grey stone dominates, but at precise intervals it is relieved by framed paintings in bold colors, depicting great military victories and sacrifices.  Outside, the first hard crystalline ice flurries of winter batter the wavy glass of the room's high narrow windows.  The chamber's precise symmetry is broken only by a desk which seems rather arbitrary placed - after a moment, you deduce someone has budged it from its usual location to one nearer the fire.  Behind it sits a uniformed human woman, ice blonde hair in an austere bun, whom you recognize as Lieutenant Zecklin, adjutant to Fort Deepdark's commander, General ir'Dulinch.  Her impassive expression suggests nothing, but the encroaching age that shows in the thinning skin of her hands and face, combined with her modest rank, suggests one who has either found her niche, or has had earlier career ambitions thwarted. 

She gestures toward the room's wooden benches, an invitation to seat yourself.  "Once all of you arrive, I will inform the General," she says.  All of you?  Who is 'all of you'?  Her tone does not invite further inquiry, and she turns back to her paperwork.

"Ma'am," I mutter in acknowledgement of the implied order, unsuccessfully trying to repress my suspicious glare as I edge over towards one of the benches.  I sit down gingerly, pushing my pack underneath the seating, then after a moment pull my feet up onto the bench as well, knees hugged to my chest and my back to the corner.  My leather armour creaks at the movement and I rub at a worn spot on my leggings, dipping my head forward so my long, dirty blonde hair falls forward in a curtain, shielding my face from view.  General?  What is this bullshit, anyway?  Least it don't make sense they'd wait a year to execute me.

I stride to the desk directly and stop at full attention in front of the Lieutenant. 
*heels click together*

I salute.

"Ma'am.  Palitinate.  Antigione.  Sergeant First Class.  Reporting as ordered, ma'am!"

I hold the salute, waiting acknowledgement.

[Palitinate is female.  She stands at 5'8".  The sharp facial features and prominently pointed ears identify her as some sort of elf.  The Lieutanant at the desk may notice her dark green eyes. Anyone would notice her pink hair, pulled tightly into a neatly pinned bun.  Her drab grey Karrrnathian NCO duty uniform hides the details of her slim physique.  The singular silver pips on her collar confirm her rank though.  Her shoulder patches bear the symbol of a skull clutching crossed lightning bolts in its teeth on a black field.]

[Oh, right:  You see a human girl in her late teens, of average height and a build that combines slightly-malnourised-skinny with the muscles of one accustomed to physical labour.  Her paleness is accentuated by the unrelieved black of her uniform, which clashes somewhat with the brown of her armour.  She has a plain sword sheathed on her belt, with a number of small throwing axes strapped in various spots.  Her aforementioned dirty blonde hair is lighter at the roots, as if it were once dyed darker and then washed out.  She looks rather grumpy at present, and sneaks peeks through her hair at the rest of the room.

She bears no marks of rank, and thus going by the uniform, is presumably a basic soldier.]

I stride to the desk directly and stop at full attention in front of the Lieutenant. 
*heels click together*

I salute.

"Palitinate.  Antigione.  Sergeant First Class.  Reporting as ordered, ma'am!"

I hold the salute, waiting acknowledgement.

Zecklin salutes back, her demeanor a little too chilly to qualify as 'serene', but it's somewhere in the neighborhood.  If she notices that Astra, in contrast, failed to show proper respect, she doesn't seem ruffled by it.

I drop the salute and remain at attention.

"Ma'am.  Awaiting orders, ma'am."

I trudge towards the antechamber, pausing at the threshold to remove my cloak. While using the driest portion of coarse black fabric to wipe melting ice from the straw-colored braids of my beard, I take in the sturdy, pragmatic architecture around me.

Marvelous work. Could be dwarven work. Marvelous.

I dig behind my beard for a lanyard, lift its tethered disk of gold to my lips, and whisper a prayer of gratitude for the safe journey.

Folding the cloak over my arm, I march towards the desk. "Lieutenant," I say with a nod. "Captain Oleg Olegov."

[You see a dwarf wearing chainmail over a black gambeson. His pate is shorn; his beard is bound in three thick braids by brass rings. Slung on his back is a shield emblazoned with the face of a large gold coin, and from his belt hangs an oddly-shaped warhammer.]

When the captain enters, I reluctantly push myself up and salute as he passes, my form skirting the edge of acceptable.  Better not push it too far.

I note that no one called the room to attention upon the Captain's arrival.  I also note that the female enlisted has sloppy courtesy.

I remain at attention, my eyes fixed forward, aware of the Captain at my side.

I trudge towards the antechamber, pausing at the threshold to remove my cloak. While using the driest portion of coarse black fabric to wipe melting ice from the straw-colored braids of my beard, I take in the sturdy, pragmatic architecture around me.

Marvelous work. Could be dwarven work. Marvelous.

I dig behind my beard for a lanyard, lift its tethered disk of gold to my lips, and whisper a prayer of gratitude for the safe journey.

Folding the cloak over my arm, I march towards the desk. "Lieutenant," I say with a nod. "Captain Oleg Olegov."

[You see a dwarf wearing chainmail over a black gambeson. His pate is shorn; his beard is bound in three thick braids by brass rings. Slung on his back is a shield emblazoned with the face of a large gold coin, and from his belt hangs an oddly-shaped warhammer.]

Lieutenant Zecklin rises to salute, her form impeccably correct, if not particularly enthusiastic.  "Captain Olegov.  The General will be with you when all are assembled.  We're waiting for a few additional arrivals."

I salute the lieutenant. "Thank you." I look around at those presently assembled.

"Sergeant." I acknowledge the officer next to me. I pivot to the young woman on the bench: "Soldier."

I walk over to the fire to dry my cloak and wait.

Oh gods, one of those.  He already forgot we're here, I bet.  No, no, don't bother yourself telling us to be at ease, sir, ain't like we been walking all day to get here or nothing.

I dip my head forward a little to let my hair hide the annoyed expression on my face.

While drying my cloak, I notice the young soldier seems annoyed. And the sergeant is still at attention.

Ah, right. Formalities. I need more practice with that.

"At ease," I announce. "Please, if you are cold, warm yourselves by the fire."

I relax into a slouch and sit back down, keeping my feet on the floor this time.  Much as I'd like to try and find out what's going on, can't imagine any captain'd take kindly to being questioned by some commoner soldier.  Patience, girl.

I know I'm late, I can see the captain entering the room now. Damn and blast. I hurry, one second halfway down the hall, the next, right in front of the door. I take a breath, pat my hair and straighten my tunic. Perfect. I turn the handle and walk in, shoulders back, head high.

I see a scruffy human far from the fire,  an elf nearby and a lieutenant sitting behind the table. I recognize her, everyone knows her. I snap a salute at the Captain, then the Lieutenant.

"Corporal Valenae, ma'am, reporting for duty."

[Tall, clearly an elf, unarmoured but with a longsword by his side. Slim, long blonde hair and violet eyes. Smiles a lot.]

"At ease," I announce. "Please, if you are cold, warm yourselves by the fire."

I relax my stance, pivot sharply on my heals and stride directly to a portion of the wall where a towering granite buttress creates just enough of an obstruction to provide a pocket of shadow away from the light of the fire.  I pivot again, facing the room's occupants and ease back into the shadow, standing at parade rest.

I watch the new elf enter, unconsciously leaning forward a little in my seat, then blush violently and duck my head again when he glances my way as he crosses the room.  He has real nice hair.  And eyes, even if they don't got any white or black bits.

I catch a flash of green eyes before they are shrouded in darkness again. A beauty I'm sure, and smile charmingly in her direction.

 

A Captain Chaplain.  A Corporal.  A Conscript.  Otto would start a joke with that.

None of these people concern me.

25/1.5/.5/.5
50/2.4/1.5/1.5
75/3.6/2.0/2.0
100/4.8/2.75/2.75
150/7.2/4.0/4.0
...

Echoing stone walls. Fine architecture of its type, meaningless in the end.

Walking into the hall, I see those who arrived earlier are cooling their heels on hard wooden benches, none of them all that near the fire. Hell with that. A sweeping glance tells me enough. I offer a small encompassing nod and walk to the fire, holding my hands out to its radiant balm.

(What you see: A half elf in carved hide armour, a tall longbow slung almost vertically on her? back. She's wearing some gleaming gem at her throat, a coiled rope hangs from her belt. It's hard to tell with half elves, but this one seems old.)

Zecklin observes dryly, "Major Leatherleaf, I assume?" oddly unruffled about the sloppy military discipline, not saluting, as the half-elf is not in uniform, and looks over the group.  "One moment," she says, and disappears into one of the rooms behind her after a polite rap on the door.  She returns not long after, saying, "General ir'Dulinch will see you now," and gesturing toward to door to indicate you should go through it.  She closes the door behind you with a quiet but ominous click, like a gun cocking, leaving herself outside.

The office is large but austere, in much the same style as the antechamber, with few personal touches, such as the books on the shelves, which look well-worn and well-read, not simply there for show.  The general himself stands at the window, looking out, partially turned away from you.  He's not an old man, but having spent his entire career in the fields of the Last War, until to the peace and his reassignment to Fort Deepdark, his face is deeply lined and weathered, and his hair is entirely white.  His bearing, though, is still fit and upright.  A hard man, formed by hard times in a hard country. 

He turns and returns your salute, then says in a gravelly voice, "At ease."  He looks over the five soldiers assembled in front of him, and lets out an almost imperceptible sigh.  His face shows no weakness, but he does look...tired.

"I am reassigning you to a special operation," he says.  "You will be dispatched on a high-risk mission requiring personal initiative and independent action.  If any of you wish to decline this assignment and return to your regular units, this is your first, last and only opportunity to do so."  He stares, hard and level, down the line of you.

"Permission to ask questions before saying, sir?" I ask after a moment.

"Permission to ask questions before saying, sir?" I ask after a moment.

He inclines his head in a gesture of both agreement and warning.

"How high-risk, sir, and is there, uh... extra pay attached?" I ask.  "Because, I mean, I don't wanna die but if I can do it and it's..."  I trail off underneath his gaze.  "Not that, uh, serving Karrnath ain't worth it, sir, but I got other responsibilities, too."  I consider throwing in another 'sir' to be safe - what in the godsdamnedfucking hells am I doing here, talking to a general? - but on balance decide I'm okay.

"How high-risk, sir, and is there, uh... extra pay attached?" I ask.  "Because, I mean, I don't wanna die but if I can do it and it's..."  I trail off underneath his gaze.  "Not that, uh, serving Karrnath ain't worth it, sir, but I got other responsibilities, too."

"The level of risk depends upon your level of competence," he says, tone severe but not precisely unkind, and adds,  "And yes, you will be eligible for combat duty pay."