Expedition Training Voyager to Croper's Cove: I'll make a Marine Out of You!

[Alwyn Ryalor]

(Meant primarily for the marines, but others can join in for physical training, weapon training, archery, etc).

The first trickles of sunlight began to roll stream peacefully over the Hide as a few shadowy figures descended from the main deck down into the bowels of the ship. They moved with a rigorous cadence, with a sole purpose and singular destination. They moved down past the general decks of the crew, towards the middle of the ship, and, upon seeing a particular door dimly lit by the internal lanterns, paused. The leader of the group, a large fox dressed in leather armor, smiled, then removed something from his belt and handed it to a much smaller fox who accompanied him. It was a small wooden club, and the two of them shared a knowing look between the two of them.

A loud BANG then rippled through the entire compartment as the door was nearly kicked off its hinges and the fox and his small escort of the remaining senior marines from the Urk Expedition began to move cot to cot as the former bellowed orders.

“EVERY MARINE OUT OF THEIR COTS AND AT ATTENTION IN TEN SECONDS! TEN SECONDS!” He roared.

I’ll go easy on them as it’s their first day, should be five, truthfully, and hell to pay if they aren’t up by then, but ten and a few little love taps from Finnian’s baton if they aren’t will do for now.

@FinnianBrightfur @Vihmastaja @Dusk Rainblade (tagging interested people etc initially) @SwifttailTheFox.

 

[Vihmastaja]

Dreaming had never been her strong suit. Like a candle that flickers and fails in the night, quick, confused dreams played out in her mind, twisting and transforming from one strange image to another beneath the ruffled, brightly orange fur of Vihma’s sleeping head. This time she was back home, in another time, playing with a raggedy doll while her mother watched, mending cloth for her to wear.

Her mother was smiling, a rare sight from memory, and so Vihma smiled too, in her sleep, briefly but blissfully unaware of the world beyond her closed eyes, or the future - now the past - that forever tore her from moments such as this. Then, something in the memory failed, penetrated by a noise beyond the veil of waking sleep, and the vision drained away, replaced by a cold, harsh reality.

Vihma blinked away sleep, stumbling awake before she even remembered where she was. The Golden Hide. Imperial Navy - Marine Troops. Not quite the same as Morgan’s bed, but if there were any other place she’d want to be, she supposed this was it. It was the life she’d asked for, the one she’d chosen back on Urk’s frigid shores.

The tawny weasel stood straight and tall quickly enough - she’d had to wake so much faster before, back in the Slups, before the Navy - looking unkempt and ill-rested in her skivvies and the still-slow motion of her eyes and her face, but without complaint, without reservation.

She raised her chin before the fortunate few still with them from before Urk could see her looking sleepy still, chancing a short glance towards the fox who led their number into their quarters. Vihma had only heard rumors about him, hardly enough to form an opinion. Stoatorian Guard, supposedly. And a Ryalor to boot.

A frown fought its way to her face before she could still it. She’d nearly died for one of them. Once for Talinn the Traitor’s sword and a fancy hat, again for whatever fancy rock it was they’d pilfered from the cannibal shrews on Urk. Morgan had almost died. She was pretty sure he’d abandoned her mother too, back when he’d been Minister of Misanthropy, years before she’d even been born.

And the Stoatie Lieutenant was related to him, to Talinn. Some said he was even the Duke’s son.

The rest of the marine recruits stirred at various speeds, but Vihma was up and attentive before the ten seconds were out, breathing through her nose at a measured pace, eyes straight ahead.

 

[Lieutenant Q.E. Tultow]

Tultow stumbled slightly as he stepped into the room, catching himself on the doorframe before he could support himself with his cane. He cursed harshly enough to scald the ears of the ship's sailors, righting himself before he could fall to the ground. Once he was on the floor, picking himself up would become one of the ten labors of Mustecles - not to mention an excruciating, humiliating ordeal.

He followed after Alwyn, his ears flattening slightly in resentment at this Stoatie coming in and trying to teach his unit something. As if they weren't part of a tradition that dated back to the first Vulpinsulan footpaws on the beaches of Miklar. Tultow had been trained by legends in his days, had fought as a young lad, fresh out of basic, from the Miklarian hills to the Oldein Mountains, and had lived to not only tell the tale, but to pass on his knowledge to a new generation, training them up into the Imperium's elite landing force. So he'd been sidelined from command as a younger beast thanks to Colonel Khan's vendetta against him. So he'd had to work twice as hard to earn the respect of those around him with the allegations about his nightly habit dogging him at every step. So he'd only gotten his place aboard the Hide, first as leader of the ship's marine complement, now as training advisor, thanks to Gyles' intervention on his behalf. He might be half-paralyzed and wracked with pain like his every fiber was being pulled apart by wild badgers. Despite all of that, there was one thing he knew:

These. Are. My. Marines.

He bared his teeth at Alwyn's back, disguising it as a grimace of pain as he limped along. The marines were scrambling to move, unprepared for the drill sergeant tactics being leveled at them. Sure, some of them were fresh out of basic, sent to replenish their numbers, or were saltbacks (naval transfers) like Vihma, but a number were junior officers themselves, ones with years of service under their belts who had been angling for an assignment aboard the Hide for years. Several had accepted decreases in rank and/or pay for the privilege of serving aboard this storied vessel. They wouldn't complain about their treatment, of course, but it still galled Tultow to see his branch of the military treated with such indignity.

On one of the bunks, Piper was struggling to swing herself out of bed and into the wheelchair beside it. He approached, putting up a paw to stop her. "Not you, Corporal," he addressed her. "You're the quartermaster's now. You don't train with us anymore."

"Sir," she protested, still struggling to rise, "Vihma - Private Rhoodie - is still learning marksmanship from me. If she'll be training, I should be-"

"You'll train her later," he promised, patting her on the shoulder. "For now, rest. You've more than earned it."

He straightened up with a grimace of pain that distorted his whole face, limping his way along the line. Most were already at attention, though a few were subtly trying to tuck in their shirts. He spotted Vihma, already standing perfectly ready for inspection, and he gave her an encouraging smile. He knew her insecurity about her new position, but as far as he was concerned, she'd more than proven her worth on the ice of Urk. Perhaps we should add that blasted place to the damn marine anthem, he mused privately.

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail had been awake long before the first shouted orders tore through the lower decks.

The Hide moved easily beneath him this morning, hull cutting cleanly through favorable winds that had rendered the engines little more than a warm, steady presence deep in her belly. Steam pressure sat comfortably low, gauges placid, valves behaving themselves with the rare courtesy of a well-rested machine. He’d lingered just long enough to be satisfied, trading a few quiet words with Thura and Grimshaw before leaving them to the watch. There was little to manage today beyond vigilance, and for once, that felt like a small mercy rather than an abdication of duty.

He’d wanted the space. The movement. The chance to remind his body that it was still his, not merely something ferried from one emergency to the next.

By the time the Marines were being dragged from their cots by shouted numbers and booted urgency, Swifttail was already dressed, sleeves rolled, boots laced tight. There was a lightness to him as he made his way forward, an energy that hadn’t quite dulled yet beneath routine or fatigue. He wasn’t here because anyone had ordered him to be. He wasn’t here to prove a thing. He was here because stillness, lately, had begun to itch beneath his fur.

He’d crossed paths with Alwyn late last night, and had overheard mention of Marine drills while passing through the deck above, paused, then doubled back on a whim to ask if there’d be room for one more body. The response had been immediate and lightly barbed, a reminder delivered with a grin that he wasn’t a Marine, but would be treated like one. Swifttail had taken it in stride, laughing it off without protest, and after a moment’s consideration, Alwyn had waved him through all the same. No promises, no expectations. He could join, so long as he understood exactly what he was getting himself into.

The compartment itself was already alive with motion by the time he arrived. Marines scrambling into order, fabric tugged straight, shoulders squared with varying degrees of success. The difference between those woken violently and those accustomed to it showed plainly, and Swifttail took it in without comment, standing just apart from their ranks, not at attention, but not lax either. Navy posture, learned over long days and longer nights at sea. Present, respectful, and unclaimed.

It was only then that the air shifted.

Not because of the shouting. Not because of the discipline being enforced. He caught it instead in the way authority overlapped rather than aligned, in the subtle tension between two figures who shared a space without truly sharing ground. Alwyn’s presence was loud, declarative. Tultow’s was quieter, heavy with history and ownership. The space between them crackled faintly, like a line drawn and tested without either beast quite stepping over it.

Swifttail felt the change in himself almost immediately.

The buoyancy he’d carried in softened, settling into something more measured. His shoulders eased, his focus narrowing as instinct took over. He didn’t know the particulars, and he didn’t need to. He’d lived long enough among officers and crews to recognize when pride and authority rubbed close enough to spark.

Right, he thought... One of those mornings.

He stayed where he was, eyes forward, listening rather than inserting himself. He wasn’t here for their tensions, old or new. He was here to learn what he could, to test his limits, to sweat out the restlessness that weeks at sea had begun to coil into him. Whatever else this space held, it wasn’t his to untangle.

As the next order loomed on the edge of being given, Swifttail drew in a steady breath and rolled his shoulders once, grounding himself. Whatever came next, he was ready to meet it on his own terms.

 

[Alwyn Ryalor]

Alwyn knew, of course, that he was crossing some boundaries with regards to Lieutenant Tultow, who he could feel staring daggers at him from behind, by pulling his own connections within the Ministry and Amarone and even leveraging his family’s name to be here to be put in this position. He knew that by doing so, he had likely ruffled the older officer’s feathers, maybe even pulled a few of them out by taking the position that he did, and that the beast likely had some private grievances about it that they could talk about later, but as of right now, he did not give a damn. Finnian was going to be serving aboard the Hide, and he was going to make sure these marines not only met the normal standards set down in the regulations, but exceed them if they were going to be worthy of protecting his son-and by doing so they would be better able to protect themselves and serve the Empress too. Besides, what he was putting them through was still nothing compared to grueling hell that those in the Guard meant to protect the Empress did, and what he had gone through to make his rank even with his heritage-and he had been groomed to be a soldier since he was nine.

Whatever his thoughts about the sanctity of his precious Marines and how some stuck-up Stoatie is interfering in their sacred traditions, their training is still designed so that most determined beasts will be able to turn themselves from civilians into disciplined fighters without injury or quitting. If you want to protect her Majesty or the beasts she determines important, the training is set up so that nine out of ten of those who completed the former will fail...and that is just the beginning of what you need to learn. It is on a completely different level and for good reason.

But he suspected he would simply have to show the older stoat that through his actions rather than his words. He stalked carefully along the lines of the assembled marines, getting a general sense of their preparedness at first. Some easily met the relaxed standard, some just barely met it, and some were still tucking in their shirts and rubbing their eyes. It was as he had suspected-the heavy casualties that the Hide had sustained on Urk meant that the MinoWar had pulled whoever was available enough to replenish the complement as soon as possible-some looked to have served for quite some time, some had maybe seen a few battles, and some were clearly still green. This presented unique opportunities-and problems-which he would have to iron out.

His cool green eyes flicked over the lines, but, perhaps to the surprise of many of those assembled, he was relatively quiet for his role, letting the older, native Marine officer deal with most of the posture, hygiene, and readiness issues-both as a subtle sign of respect to ease the tension and present a united front to the enlisted and also to make sure Tultow was still capable of serving even with his diminished capacity or if he would need to be replaced-willingly or otherwise. The latter reason might sound harsh and cold, but not nearly as so as seeing a comrade dead, intentional or otherwise, and his eyes flicked up as he remembered a portion of Sergeant Oscar’s funeral.

...The wind was bitterly cold as a pregnant stoatess leaned against him, barely able to stand with her condition and the tears she continued to shed. Alwyn held on to her firmly, keeping himself composed only through years of rigorous training and respect for his late subordinate-he had to be strong, for her. Oscar was dead and her kits would grow up without their father because he had wanted to protect his own kit and because he had failed both as a father and as an officer. If he had been firmer with Finn, had deployed his beasts better, had drilled Daniil better or not left him in command…he knew the guilt would last with him for the rest of his life...

His expression hardened slightly if any beast was carefully observing as he did the only thing he could do and had been ruthlessly trained to do-move forward and do his damnedest not to ever let that happen again. He ended up stopping before a lean, tawny weasel, looking her over. Up-with the extended time- but unacceptably unkempt-her fur was messy in more than a few areas, and still still had more than a few wrinkles still remaining when they should have none.

“MARINE, WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE YOU JUST LOST A FIGHT AGAINST YOUR OWN COT? DO YOU THINK THAT IS AN ACCEPTABLE APPEARANCE FOR HER MAJESTY’S MARINES?” He barked so that all hear, but his eyes, rather than being furious, were cold and calculating as he observed every little movement on her face.

Let’s see how well this one has been trained by her response.

@Vihmastaja @SwifttailTheFox @FinnianBrightfur @Dusk Rainblade

 

[Vihmastaja]

Vihma kept her eyes ahead, at attention, as she'd been expected to be. She thought she saw the Lieutenant - her lieutenant, Tultow - off by the side of the marine quarters, issuing what seemed to be reassuring smile. She breathed through her nose, knowing not to match the stoat's expression - to give any reason for her to not pass muster - but it was the first thing to brighten her eyes that morning.

A good call, too, since the Stoatorian Guard lieutenant was soon upon her. He shouted at her - and she forced herself to continue staring ahead, unflinching but for a reflexive quiver of her whiskers.

There'd been worse berating on the Valdez, after her impressment. Though it was new to her to be expected to be presentable so soon out of bed. Then it had been more about her knowing her place as a former criminal, and of course informing her that her performance in some meaningless task hadn't been good enough.

"Sir," the weasel started, her typically nasally voice unable to match the fox's volume, but more than audible enough for the suddenly quiet room.

"The marines don't lose fights, sir! My fur ge's ruffled in my sleep, 'n takes me a while t'smooth, but I looked worse killin' spikebacks on Urk, if it'd please 'er Majesty t'know, sir!"

Vihma held her nose just a touch higher with her last words, though she kept her face emotionless, and swallowed soon after. She wasn't looking to disrespect the lieutenant, or embarrass her own. But it was not as though she could be presentable to Amarone at all times - what more was there to say but the truth?

 

[Alwyn Ryalor]

And...that is exactly what I was afraid of. The only correct answers are to say “yes sir” or “I do not know sir”, apologize, and fix the problem immediately once it is pointed out or ask how to do so, not give excuses, backtalk, and even give her fellow recruits the dangerous impression that victory is guaranteed by default. The situation is far worse than I was led to believe. Was this the kind of behavior that led so many of them to die on Urk in the first place?

“You know what I think her Majesty would especially love to see? You, on the ground, doing a push-up for every single marine that died on that damn island to remind you that while it is indeed true the Marines always win in the end, you still do not understand why they do!” He roared, then turned his attention to the rest of the recruits. “I will be easy on you since it’s the first day: Why do the Marines always win? Because they sacrifice, they adapt, they follow orders, they never give up and they especially never make excuses. If you do not know the answer to a question you will let Lieutenant Tultow or I know and we will make the proper answer abundantly clear to you! The two correct answers to any question we ask you during exercises are ‘yes sir!’ or ‘I do not know sir!’”

He wanted to shake his head. This was supposed to be something that they were taught during basic training, but, apparently, this marine, despite surviving her first battle, had not been drilled properly. That was a failure of either Tultow, his father, or both. No matter. Now, he would correct that so that she would survive her second, and hopefully, many more.

He continued.


“Maintaining a proper grooming standard is the first step on the path to readiness. Readiness is what keeps you alive. And do you know what the opposite of readiness is? Complacency-which is what gets you and your fellow marines killed. The standard NEVER drops! Lieutenant Tultow! Make sure those push-ups are done properly and maintain a count until she is done!”

He waited for the older stoat to approach him, then gave him a slight nod as he leaned in and whispered to him for just a moment.

“Pass it on to her, quietly when she is finished, I will return to her and ask her the question again. This time, she is to respond ‘I do not know sir’ and then I will show her and the others who do not know how. We have to be harsh on them initially, not to break them down, but to build them up and get them ready.”

He gave him another nod, then turned to look for a new target.

@SwifttailTheFox @FinnianBrightfur @Dusk Rainblade

 

[Vihmastaja]

The weasel wasn't sure how she was supposed to keep her fur smoothed upon waking, short of shearing large parts of it off, which she figured would make her even less presentable. Morgan, at least, would no doubt be disappointed - she had a feeling the ferret rather liked her fur as it was.

Still, Vihma went to the floor and began her set of pushups as instructed, without protest or obvious emotion. She knew how many had fallen at Urk. Even knew some of their names, by now, from talking with Piper and Lieutenant Tultow and the other survivors, and those she'd briefly met in their brief time together for the Urk run. She tried to think of them with each pushup, rather than the embarrassment she felt being publicly made example of yet again, by yet another Ryalor fox.

 

[Lieutenant Q.E. Tultow]

Tultow hated to watch his marines be treated like recruits because it reminded him of two uncomfortable truths: most of them were recruits, and none of them were his marines anymore. He was a relic, a ceremonial sword kept on the wall for decoration, not one that you drew for battle. One swing with him and he would shatter on the first blow. Oh, he could teach, he could coach and encourage and advise, but he couldn't raise his voice anymore without falling into a fit of hacking coughs that would put him on the ground. That Ryalor might be a jumped-up little prick to presume to teach his marines their business , but he was also a far more effective drill sergeant than Tultow could ever be ever again. And, as much as Tultow hated to admit it, Alwyn did know at least some of what he was doing. It wasn't marine training; the Stoaties had a different skill set altogether, trained for a different purpose entirely, but it would get them into shape, at least. The actual skills of landing under enemy fire, of establishing a beachhead, of scaling a coastal fortress's walls and raising the Crowned Skull up the flagpole... Well, those skills would come later. Before teaching them to run, these soldiers needed to learn how to stand up by themselves.

Tultow watched Vihma perform the push-ups without complaint, almost able to hear her counting the dead of Urk. He could count right along with her, each name a failure scarred into his soul. He caught one of the other Urk survivors, Swift-something, watching them surreptitiously from where he stood ready before his own bunk. A few of the naval crew, it seemed, had decided to participate in the marine training of their own accord. Most, Tultow suspected, would not come back for a second round or would bow out mid-training. It took a certain type of beast to willingly put one's body through that much torment. Still, he could respect the ambition, and what it represented. They had all lost friends on Urk, and every naval beast who had been there that day understood what the marines and their sacrifice had bought. It was heartening to see that price in blood being repaid in effort.

As soon as Vihma finished her pushups, Tultow carefully moved forward, shaking a bit on his cane, to mutter next to her ear. "There's no shame in 'I don't know, sir'. He wants to hear it said; he wants someone to ask so he can demonstrate, teach by example, to everyone. Bear with it; boot camp is grueling, and every recruit hates their drill sergeant. Just picture the day he'll be the one saluting you," he advised. "It gets you through the toughest of it."

He clasped her shoulder briefly, a moment of solidarity, before he wobbled onward, inspecting the ranks quietly. Vihma's treatment had scared most into hurrying toward compliance, and they were largely ready. It would be an awful experience, and he was sure that most of them would regret their decision to join by end of day. If they survived it, though, then they might just be marine material.

 

[Alwyn Ryalor]

Alwyn stalked through the ranks of the recruits like a storm, using his paws to forcibly adjust a few of them into the proper at ready position, but his intimidation of the tawny mustelid from earlier had quieted most of them. Most. As he walked towards Swifttail, he caught a young, fresh-faced rat, perhaps only a few years older than Finnian was now, mutter something. He stopped in his tracks, turned, and gave a cool smile to the young recruit.

“What was that, Marine?”

The young rat looked nervous, but managed to keep himself looking forward, and, mindful of Vihma’s treatment from earlier, gulped and replied in a loud voice.

“Sir, I don’t know sir, I’m just eager sir. I just want to go out there and quiet a pirate like they say, on some of the grog bottles. ‘Take a few sips, join one of her Majesty’s ships, with both in paw you’ll soon be havin’ a riot, and be out there quietin’ some pirates.”

Alwyn stared at the recruit for a few moments, then smiled, nodded, and turned around. His face was curled up into a smile as he paced towards one of Finnian’s friends.

“Well now, how about it lads and ladies? You ready to get out there and start quieting some pirates?”

Nervous laughter and a few smiles and affirmative nods could be seen on the faces of some of the recruits, although the more experienced ones remained stone-faced. He eventually stopped right before Swifttail, and, knowing his history with pirates from Finnian, turned and look at him with a curious look on his face, leaning back in an unusually casual way.

“Well, how about that Mr. Fairpaws? What do you say, are you ready to go out there and quiet a pirate?”

@SwifttailTheFox @FinnianBrightfur @Dusk Rainblade

 

[FinnianBrightfur]

Finn wasn't too happy to be whomping his mates with a billy club. As eager as he was to be one of the crew, he still felt out of place as Aide de Camp, and he still hadn't finished his copy of "From Deckhand to Despot: A Sailor's Guide to Leading Those Who Still Remember You Vomiting Over the Rail". The foxkit gave slightly more timid taps than perhaps Alwyn had hoped, nudging beasts awake.

Though he'd had the drop on all his mates, and had time to dress and make himself look the part, he looked quite out of place lingering at Alwyn's coat tails. True, the marines didn't quite look as sharp as they could have -- but Finn stifled a gasp as Alwyn brought up Urk to harangue them. A flash of anger surged in him, followed by a wave of mortifying guilt. Though Finn had kept it a tightly guarded secret, that was his father barking at the marines. His motivation to keep that a secret only grew with his resentment.

Not wanting to draw more attention to himself, the humiliated foxkit attempted to slink into the back ranks to join the marines in their drill. Away from Swifttail, away from Tultow and Vihma, away from the rat, away from anyone that might recognize him... and away from Alwyn.

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail felt the attention settle on him like a change in pressure before a storm. The room had gone quiet in a way that wasn’t calm, the echo of Vihma’s punishment still hanging heavy in the air, the Marines drawn taut between expectation and unease. He was acutely aware, all at once, of what he was and was not in that space: not a Marine, not a recruit, not part of the hierarchy being tested and reshaped before his eyes.

Still, the question had been asked.

He straightened, not snapping to attention, but not slouching either, shoulders settling squarely beneath him as he met Alwyn’s gaze. There was no grin to match the earlier bravado, no eagerness to perform for the room. If there was hesitation, it wasn’t fear so much as care, the brief pause of a fox choosing his footing before stepping onto uncertain ground.

"I won’t pretend it’s fun, sir," Swifttail said, voice even, quieter than the rat’s had been but no less firm. "An’ I won’t treat it lightly. But I’d do what must be done."

He let the words stand on their own, making no move to soften them and no attempt to gild them into something more palatable. This wasn’t the place for speeches, and he had no desire to borrow a Marine’s fire when it wasn’t his to wield. He simply held the posture he’d chosen, eyes forward again, as if the answer were only another step in the morning’s work.

Whatever came next, drill or dismissal, he was ready to meet it as he’d come. He was there to train, to learn, and leave with more skill than he’d come with.

 

[Alwyn Ryalor]

Good, Swifttail, it seems that you took some lessons from your match against Greeneye, but you’re still not there, not yet, against the threat we could face out here on the seas.

“You would do must be done…” Alwyn replied, smiling, turning, and walking down the middle of the lane. “So, it seems like we have a consensus here, some of you are 'eager to quiet a pirate', some of you will 'do what must be done'. Seems we have a clear understanding of what the enemy is to you all…”

And then his face rapidly descended into his frown, and his voice hardened.

“So that is what they are to you, huh? A friggin cartoon dreamed up by some out-of-touch rich beast in Zann’s to sell grog, or some opponent that you do not even as you are now have a chance of doing ‘what must be done’ to.”

He shook his head, his voice rising, as he remembered touring the aftermath of a pirate raid back in Westisle with his granduncle.

A whole village burned to the ground-males, females, kits, all slaughtered or enslaved, the entire local garrison, every single one of whom was more battle-hardened than most of the marines present, strewn about and strewn open as if they were simply carving through cake. A village impossible to rebuild for a generation or generations, because everyone and everything that could have done so had been murdered or taken.

“The pirate I know, the true private reaver, he has been raiding the seas…” he stopped before the young, fresh-faced rat who has been so eager. “since YOU were in frigging diapers!”

Turning back and stalking through the rest of the marines, he continued.

“He’s a combat veteran, an expert with his weapon, and for decades he’s been killing beasts who who have been trying to kill him, beasts who know how. He can live off the worst kind of bilge water and maggoty biscuits for weeks and endure misery the likes of which you could never dream of in your worst nightmare!”

As he moved towards Swifttail, he continued.

“The reaver does not care if they get hurt or killed, as long as they kill you. Now, you can call them whatever you want, but never, EVER,” he stopped before Swifttail, barking at him “FAIL TO RESPECT THEIR ABILITY TO PUT YOU OR YOUR MATES INTO AN EARLY GRAVE, SOMETHING WHICH AS YOU ARE NOW THEY MOST CERTAINLY COULD DO! THEY'RE MORE LIKELY TO DO WHAT MUST BE DONE TO YOU THAN THE OTHER WAY AROUND, BY FAR!"

A mean shot to take against Swifttail, but one done out of care. He had barely survived Greeneye, a crippled version of a reaver, in the duel. That would not be nearly good enough to protect himself, let alone what “must be done.”

He paused, taking a deep breath.

“FULL GEAR AND HEAD TO THE DECK, IN TEN MINUTES! Lieutenant Tultow and Aide Brightfur, if you would make sure they get there and stand at attendance, except for you, you, you…” he continued down the line as he collected some of the marines with grooming issues, until he finally reached the tawny ferret from earlier again...”and you.”

As the rest of the marines scrambled to put on and secure their various layers of leather armor and padding quickly (although not nearly as quick as they would later in their training, where he would want that down to at least five), he continued, addressing the marine in question again.

“Now, marine, I will ask you again. Why do you look like you lost a fight with your bunk?”

@FinnianBrightfur @SwifttailTheFox @Vihmastaja @Dusk Rainblade