- Influence
- 2,078.00
((OOC: This is a thread to introduce the Imperial Military as a faction, and to serve as recruitment/boot camp for anyone who wants their characters to join! Feel free to sign up, or you can whip up an alt to join as you please! Now, back to the action))
The night that Aran Mateu Jan Vidal told his parents he was going to enlist in the Imperial Army, they'd looked at him in disbelief; then, the 'Gates themselves broke loose. His father, who never shouted or raised his voice to his family, sternly told Aran Mateu that he would do no such thing, and to get such silly ideas out of his head. His mother intervened, trying to calm the dispute in the family with offers of sweet-milk cakes, but Aran Mateu's father continued on, lecturing Aran Mateu for getting hung up on such foolish notions of honor and duty, when he really should be focused on building a life for himself in the Imperium. Aran Mateu had kept silent, the pine marten's face burning as his father berated him. Then he'd eaten his mother's cake and gone to bed without saying goodnight to either of his parents.
When Aran Mateu came home the next day with his enlistment papers, his father finally shouted while his mother broke down crying. They wanted to know how he could go and do this to them, why he would break his poor parents' hearts when he was their sole joy in life, the reason they had traveled so far and come to this foreign land to give him a better life. Hadn't it been enough? Hadn't they given him a better life here than most kits born in this town would ever see? It was certainly better than what he would have gotten in Miklar, raised in an orphanage after Alkamar would have thrown them both in a cell and ripped him from his mother's arms. His father called Aran Mateu a foolish, selfish kit; his mother wept and wailed, clutching at her face as she bemoaned that she was going to lose her boy. They eventually all went to bed, though not a one of them slept more than an hour.
The following morning, Aran Mateu's father pleaded with him to go back to the enlistment office and return the papers. He could say that he'd been drunk at the time, that he hadn't been in his right mind when he enlisted. He was a boy, only seventeen, surely they wouldn't take him when he was so young, right? Maybe they could offer a bribe to the officer to strike him from the recruitment rolls. This couldn't possibly be permanent. Mr. Jan Vidal even went down to the Ministry of War building himself, intent on speaking to someone and explaining how his son's enlistment was all some terrible mistake. When he came back that evening, his frame limp and eyes downcast, Aran Mateu's mother collapsed into a chair and didn't stop weeping the whole night.
The next day was spent in silence. Aran Mateu helped around the shop, sweeping and organizing, but he was performing the motions mechanically, his mind far from the oppressive weight of his parents' numb grief. When they all went to bed early that night, not a word had been said the whole day.
On the morning that he was to go to training, Aran Mateu got up an hour before the sun, and he came downstairs to find his mother was already cooking one of her biggest breakfasts: sweet-milk pancakes, toast with strawberry marmalade, eggs scrambled with peppers and tomatoes, and a whole box of benques lhans, the pastries stuffed with sweet cheese and cinnamon-coated apple slices, to share with his fellow recruits. Aran Mateu ate ravenously of his mother's cooking, knowing that in the near future, such meals would become rare. His father came into the kitchen toward the end of the meal, and wordlessly, he put his arms around his son and pulled him into a tight hug. After a moment, Aran Mateu hugged his father back. Then, his father led him into the front of the shop.
The outfit on the mannequin was the finest that Aran had ever seen. It was made from a sturdy imported cotton, the thick weave designed to withstand heavy wear, and was dyed the rich maroon of old Miklar, the color of the thanes who had fought against Alkamari incursion, and coincidentally the color of the Imperial flag as well. The brass buttons on the coat were neatly polished, each a small, gleaming concave mirror, and ran in two rows up the sides of the coat, each of the long folds designed to go across the chest, overlapping the other fold, with both rows of buttons pushing through buttonholes for security. The pants were similarly neat, cut in the Miklarian style, twin rows of buttons there securing to the base of each trouser leg - an innovation meant to allow Miklarian warriors to quickly and easily relieve themselves in the field, not that Aran Mateu had any intention of doing so before his new comrades. Rather than the yellow of Miklar, it was Imperial cream, the soft off-white used in the flag, that piped the edges of the outfit, turning each line of the suit from crisp into dashing.
Aran Mateu hugged his father for so long, his mother had to gently remind him that if he didn't change now, he'd be late.
Both parents had stood at the door, tears streaming from their eyes, as they waved their boy goodbye. Aran Mateu barely kept the tears from his own eyes as, his traditional ganive tipal stick and knife combination tucked through his belt, his mother's parting gift in a tin at his side. Aran Mateu marched to the staging and practice grounds near the Ministry of War building. He felt his nerves rising in him, and he wished he hadn't eaten so large a breakfast. His eyes scanned the crowds of soldiers, all of them wearing uniforms far different than what his father had made for him, and immediately felt self-conscious. Where was he supposed to go exactly? He knew there must be someone in charge, but...
He stood there, frozen in fear and indecision, until a paw on his shoulder roused him from his torpor.
The night that Aran Mateu Jan Vidal told his parents he was going to enlist in the Imperial Army, they'd looked at him in disbelief; then, the 'Gates themselves broke loose. His father, who never shouted or raised his voice to his family, sternly told Aran Mateu that he would do no such thing, and to get such silly ideas out of his head. His mother intervened, trying to calm the dispute in the family with offers of sweet-milk cakes, but Aran Mateu's father continued on, lecturing Aran Mateu for getting hung up on such foolish notions of honor and duty, when he really should be focused on building a life for himself in the Imperium. Aran Mateu had kept silent, the pine marten's face burning as his father berated him. Then he'd eaten his mother's cake and gone to bed without saying goodnight to either of his parents.
When Aran Mateu came home the next day with his enlistment papers, his father finally shouted while his mother broke down crying. They wanted to know how he could go and do this to them, why he would break his poor parents' hearts when he was their sole joy in life, the reason they had traveled so far and come to this foreign land to give him a better life. Hadn't it been enough? Hadn't they given him a better life here than most kits born in this town would ever see? It was certainly better than what he would have gotten in Miklar, raised in an orphanage after Alkamar would have thrown them both in a cell and ripped him from his mother's arms. His father called Aran Mateu a foolish, selfish kit; his mother wept and wailed, clutching at her face as she bemoaned that she was going to lose her boy. They eventually all went to bed, though not a one of them slept more than an hour.
The following morning, Aran Mateu's father pleaded with him to go back to the enlistment office and return the papers. He could say that he'd been drunk at the time, that he hadn't been in his right mind when he enlisted. He was a boy, only seventeen, surely they wouldn't take him when he was so young, right? Maybe they could offer a bribe to the officer to strike him from the recruitment rolls. This couldn't possibly be permanent. Mr. Jan Vidal even went down to the Ministry of War building himself, intent on speaking to someone and explaining how his son's enlistment was all some terrible mistake. When he came back that evening, his frame limp and eyes downcast, Aran Mateu's mother collapsed into a chair and didn't stop weeping the whole night.
The next day was spent in silence. Aran Mateu helped around the shop, sweeping and organizing, but he was performing the motions mechanically, his mind far from the oppressive weight of his parents' numb grief. When they all went to bed early that night, not a word had been said the whole day.
On the morning that he was to go to training, Aran Mateu got up an hour before the sun, and he came downstairs to find his mother was already cooking one of her biggest breakfasts: sweet-milk pancakes, toast with strawberry marmalade, eggs scrambled with peppers and tomatoes, and a whole box of benques lhans, the pastries stuffed with sweet cheese and cinnamon-coated apple slices, to share with his fellow recruits. Aran Mateu ate ravenously of his mother's cooking, knowing that in the near future, such meals would become rare. His father came into the kitchen toward the end of the meal, and wordlessly, he put his arms around his son and pulled him into a tight hug. After a moment, Aran Mateu hugged his father back. Then, his father led him into the front of the shop.
The outfit on the mannequin was the finest that Aran had ever seen. It was made from a sturdy imported cotton, the thick weave designed to withstand heavy wear, and was dyed the rich maroon of old Miklar, the color of the thanes who had fought against Alkamari incursion, and coincidentally the color of the Imperial flag as well. The brass buttons on the coat were neatly polished, each a small, gleaming concave mirror, and ran in two rows up the sides of the coat, each of the long folds designed to go across the chest, overlapping the other fold, with both rows of buttons pushing through buttonholes for security. The pants were similarly neat, cut in the Miklarian style, twin rows of buttons there securing to the base of each trouser leg - an innovation meant to allow Miklarian warriors to quickly and easily relieve themselves in the field, not that Aran Mateu had any intention of doing so before his new comrades. Rather than the yellow of Miklar, it was Imperial cream, the soft off-white used in the flag, that piped the edges of the outfit, turning each line of the suit from crisp into dashing.
Aran Mateu hugged his father for so long, his mother had to gently remind him that if he didn't change now, he'd be late.
Both parents had stood at the door, tears streaming from their eyes, as they waved their boy goodbye. Aran Mateu barely kept the tears from his own eyes as, his traditional ganive tipal stick and knife combination tucked through his belt, his mother's parting gift in a tin at his side. Aran Mateu marched to the staging and practice grounds near the Ministry of War building. He felt his nerves rising in him, and he wished he hadn't eaten so large a breakfast. His eyes scanned the crowds of soldiers, all of them wearing uniforms far different than what his father had made for him, and immediately felt self-conscious. Where was he supposed to go exactly? He knew there must be someone in charge, but...
He stood there, frozen in fear and indecision, until a paw on his shoulder roused him from his torpor.
