Open Imperial Army Barracks/Imperial Condos When Duty Calls Me I Must Go

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

((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.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

"Get in line." The fox said. She was young, couldn't have been older than 18, but she had a knowingness about her that invited respect and trust. The left side of her head was shaved, and on her skin she was sporting a tattoo of a Man o' War that, across its side, could be read the words Skeered of Nothing.
She wore what some foreigners would describe as a forest-green uniform, seeing as few native Bully Harborians could tell you what color a forest was; they'd never seen one. And though the vixen's uniform was dirty, patchy, thoroughly rumpled and two sizes too large, it certainly looked more like the rest of the ranks of recruits. "Quick, b'fore Drill Sergeant Moltover sees ya."
The skinny vixen went to the last row and slipped in line next to a rat who was shuddering and dabbing at his face repeatedly, and beckoned the marten with her head to stand next to her.
"Nice outfit, kharrie." A fox a rank up said, and the vixen kicked him in the back of the leg, making him double over. "Aagh, bollocks!"
The Drill Sergeant, a big, blockishly muscular weasel in maybe the crispest and most proper issue uniform anyone had ever seen, snapped his head toward the disturbance like a hunter catching a scent. He stuck his paw to one chewed ear and called out in a sickly singsong voice: "Now did my lil' ear catch a whining babe's cry on this gentle Soggus wind?"
His face suddenly twisted in rage, and the next word came out in a roar that cause every recruit to flinch at the decibel and accompanying spittle. "HUH? Is anyone gonna tell me who just interrupted my fine Soggus morning, or am I gonna hafta BREAK. SOME. HEADS?"
"S-sir-" the fox in the row ahead of them said, still rubbing his leg. "Tomas kicked me!"
The Drill Sergeant was pushing through greenhorns and in the todd's face in an instant. "Oh, Tomas kicked you? Tomas who, big boy?"
"T- Tomas- Skeered of Nothing Tomas! Behind me!"
Blazing eyes went to the skinny vixen and the marten next. The Drill Sergeant's frightening gaze hovered quizzically on Aran for a moment before going to the vixen.
"Skeered of Nothing Tomas." the weasel repeated in an icy voice. "What a stupid name. You belong in the Navy, stringbean, not the Army. I oughta smack you just for showing up." He turned to Aran. "And what's your name, flagboy? You look like your uniform's a hundred years too late and your eyes are a hundred shades too dark. You an Alkamarian, sunshine? You and your friend Skeered of Nothing here to stir up trouble in my camp?"
"Sir," said Skeered in a pinched voice. "The Alkamarian had nothin' to do with-"
"DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK?" The Sergeant bellowed, white fangs bared and spittle flying. He turned back to Aran. "Well?"

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu started at the paw on his shoulder, then started again at the vixen and her tattoo. He'd seen tattoos before, of course; in Miklar, warriors earned the right to wear the traditional designs, those passed down across hundreds, even thousands of years, based on their accomplishments in war. Every war camp had at least a few tattoo artists ready to reward those who had earned the ink. Still, he'd never seen a ship on anyone, though. What on earth was a skeered?

He fell into line quickly at her advise, choosing to stick close to her. Immediately it was proven to be a good and a bad idea at the same time. The sarcastic comment and mild racial insult barely stung Aran Mateu after all of the pain, emotional and physical, that Cal and her gang had dealt him over the years. Still, he couldn't quite contain his smile as Tomas - wasn't that a todd's name? kicked him in the back of the leg. That drew the attention of the drill sergeant, though, which was a bad thing for his first day. He stood stiffly at attention, face forward, not meeting the drill sergeant's eyes as he came to inspect what was apparently the camp rabble-rouser. With a sinking feeling, Aran Mateu realized he might have picked the most troublesome element in camp to pair himself with.

Aran Mateu couldn't quite keep the expression of incredulity off his face as he heard the vixen's proper name. Her given name was Skeered of Nothing? Wait... Was she named after a ship? Who named their kit after a ship? And what was a skeered? How could it be anything if it was 'of nothing'? These Vulpinsulans were strange.

He snapped back to focus as the drill sergeant turned his ire upon Aran Mateu. He stood at attention, trying not to bristle at the mockery toward the uniform his father had so lovingly crafted. The purpose of a drill instructor, he recalled from his father's old war stories, was to bond the unit together by giving them a shared enemy, even as he taught them to obey commands. "Aran Mateu Jan Vidal, şir!" he barked, keeping his gaze straight ahead. He hated how his accent sounded to Vulpinsulan ears like a lisp. "I am Miklari, şir, not Alkamari. I have come to fight the enemies of the Imperium in any way che chould request." Curse his accent! He could feel himself flushing with embarrassment as he felt his paws go sweaty, forcing him to adjust his grip on -

The lunch pail. Why in 'Gates hadn't he set it down somewhere? He'd carried it with him out of habit, thinking surely there would be a place for putting personal possessions, and now he was stuck with it at his side. He probably looked ridiculous right now - wrong uniform, dark eyes, and a lunch pail full of benques lhans. He couldn't have stood out more if he'd tried.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

"Miklari, huh?" Drill Sergeant Moltover narrowed his redbrown eyes. "So you're here to kill the enemies of the Imperium, are ya, newblood? You better mean what you say. I take every trooper at their word. That means if you say you're here to kill the foebeast, and I point at your brother, and I tell you 'KILL. THAT. FOEBEAST.'
You do it, or I'll have your Miklari pelt for a rug. And what's with the pail, puppy, you got some grub? Sure smells like grub. EVERYBODY! Private Jan Vidal brought grub!"
A few of the recruits whooped and clapped, until a cold look from the weasel silenced them.
Moltover turned back to Aran, sneering. "Go on, share that grub with your comrades. And then you put that pail away, you find yourself a proper uniform from that pile..." he pointed to a stack of uniforms laid out on a bench, leaning in menacingly as he did so. His breath stunk of grog as he whispered. "And then you get back in line, and don't act like a clown again, unless you'd like to spend basic training in a clown suit, scrubbing floors, washing clothes, and juggling knives for our entertainment. Is that clear, Jan Vidal?"

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu nodded vigorously at the drill sergeant's warnings, not daring to respond that he was an early child. He knew that Vulpinsulans used the word 'brother' figuratively from time to time in a way that Miklarians didn't. Really, considering all the tales he'd heard about the petty tyranny of drill sergeants, he considered himself as having gotten rather lucky. Sharing his benques lhans with the rest of the unit had always been the plan, and he was grateful that his mother's nervous baking had resulted in a surplus. "Şir yes şir," he confirmed, saluting as smartly as he could manage.

He uncapped the pail, grateful that it contained the heat so well. His mother warmed it over the stove in the mornings so it wouldn't be cold, and then filled it with piping hot food that would keep well in the heat throughout the day. Benques lhans weren't bad cold, but there was something delightful about the sweet cheese when it was oozing around the cinnamon apple. "Here you are," he took one out and offered it to Skeered of Nothing Tomas first. She seemed like his most likely ally, and getting on her good side might afford him a little bit of protection from the rest of the unit.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

"Oh, er-" The vixen was leery of incurring further wrath from the drill sergeant, but the shine in her eyes proved she was more than happy with the pastry. She pulled one of her overlong sleeves up and took a bite, speaking around her eager chewing. "Mm, thanks, Aran."
When everybeast who could be supplied with a benque ilhan received one, the warm and delicious cheese and apple filling proved pleasing enough that not a cross word was said of the Miklarian from among the ranks of greenpaws.
"Wipe your muzzle." The drill sergeant grumbled at one, before strutting back toward the front, where two monitor lizard aides had brought forth a cart filled with spears.
"H'ATTEN-SHUN! These spears will be your first line of defense in support of our fair Imperium. Sturdy oak haft with an iron head that is well-shined and sharpened, and YOU WILL KEEP IT THAT WAY! You will drill with this spear for three hours every day until you know every inch of it as intimately as you would yourself. When I give an Imperial Army soldier a weapon, I expect them to know how to use it."
He nodded to the lizards, who began moving the cart down the lines of recruits. They stopped just long enough at each person to hand them a spear.
Meanwhile, Aran still needed to change into his green uniform in time to get a spear.

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu gratefully passed out the benques lhans to all of his new comrades, finding just a few left in his tin. He closed it and hurried over to the bench, where he put it beneath the bench just under the pile of uniforms, where it was less visible. Hurriedly he stripped off his jacket and his pants, stepping behind the pile for some semblance of privacy, tucking the uniform his father had made underneath and hurriedly donning the green uniform the Imperials used. His minds flashed to stories of Imperial rangers in the mountains, led by the wicked, vicious, scarred beast they called the Canh, a word that meant 'storm' or 'frenzy' in Miklarian, and no better word was there for the terror he and his kind had inflicted upon Miklar. Aran Mateu felt a momentary guilt to be donning the same color as those who had thrice terrorized his people, but he pushed past it. Perhaps this time the green would be a color not of oppression, but of liberation.

He hurried back to the line, getting there just in time to get a spear, though he still kept his ganive tipal tucked at his side just in case, just under the fringes of his coat. He hefted the long length of wood and metal, feeling the surprising weight of it. The balance was good; the spearhead didn't feel too heavy and unbalanced, at least. He stood at attention with the spear experimentally, the spear tucked into the crook of his arm straight toward the sky, as he'd seen with the soldiers who guarded official Imperial buildings. He glanced at Tomas, curious regarding how she handled hers. She seemed more competent somehow than the other foxes who somehow made up a majority of the other new recruits (then again, as Calaisee and her gang had made it clear, it was the Vulpine Imperium). Maybe she could give him some pointers.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

Skeered of Nothing Tomas held her spear tucked to her right side, paw at ease but maintaining a firm grip, back straight, facing front. Some of the other greenpaws did similarly, but more than enough of them didn't seem to know the spearhead from the butt. One rat even looked directly down the spearhead and nearly poked out an eye.
Once everyone had a spear, Drill Sergeant Moltover took one for himself.
"This spear is your life. Holding it, you hold your own life in your paws. Use it well, and you might just live. Misuse it, and you might as well skewer yourself to save the enemy the effort."
Sighting the foolish rat, the weasel hefted his spear, muscles tensing, and threw it. It landed with a thunk between the feet of the young rat, sending her jumping with a yelp and dropping her spear.
"YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME. YOU WILL RESPECT THIS SPEAR. YOU WILL SERVE THE EMPRESS WITH THIS SPEAR. Fail me and I'll have you running experiments for the MinoIno sooner than you can say "ITS GONNA BLOW!" RAT!"
The hapless rat jumped again. "Y-yes, sir, Sergeant Moltover?"
"NAME!"
"P-Prudence C. Nougat, sir!"
"Do you want to live, Private Nougat?"
"Y-yes, sir!" She squeaked, quaking.
"Then you will pick up your spear, and return mine to me. NOW! ON THE DOUBLE, NOUGAT!"
She hurried over, nearly tripping on the spears and over her own paws multiple times. She deposited Moltover's spear in his awaiting paw, and he proceeded to step back enough to leave room between them and, taking the spear in both paws, swished upward and downward expertly, right leg dropping forward with each lunge and the spear sweeping the air between them before returning to his straighter position. "Repeat after me, worm." he told the rat, and to the other recruits, "WATCH!"
The sinuous drill sergeant repeated the exercises, with Private Nougat doing her best to imitate him, tail and ears twitching anxiously.
Then, suddenly, the weasel swept forward, knocking Nougat's spearhead downward with his own before driving his spearbutt into her gut and knocking the rat to the ground in a puff of dust.
"Oouff!"
"Good work, private." The weasel hefted the gasping, groaning rat back up onto her feet and slapped her on the back. "Now back into position and we'll try again. THE REST OF YOU, PARTNER UP AND REPLICATE MY MANOEUVER!"
Tomas was quick to pair herself up with the marten. "Right-o," she said, once every pair had given each other wide berth, spreading throughout the training ground. The skinny fox dropped her right leg forward and swept her spear through the air between them before drawing herself back again, her honey-colored brush tail wagging. "Well, you wanna come try 'n' knock my spear down like 'e did? Sorry I called ya an Alkamarian earlier."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu watched the Sergeant's movements with the spear carefully. His mind was transported back to his youth in Miklar, when he and the other youths in their village, males and females alike, would drill with the village's grizzled master of the guard every day at sunrise, learning the techniques and forms of ganive tipal. There were a lot of similarities at play - guards, blocks, lunges, disarms, all had their places in the dance. Of course, a spear was different; as a single weapon, one could only attack or defend one at a time, while ganive tipal was built around doing both simultaneously: defending against an attack and using the opportunity to strike back. It wasn't a very aggressive style, but it had kept the Miklarians secure in their homeland for centuries... at least, up until Alkamar had overwhelmed them and forced their series of humiliating agreements upon the population, the Thanes proving themselves cowards with each capitulation.

Skeered of Nothing Tomas was good, Aran Mateu noticed as they started to practice. Not necessarily a natural, but a quick learner certainly. She seemed to genuinely enjoy the training, which was actually refreshing. Aran Mateu couldn't understand why anyone would join the military if they weren't willing to learn how to fight. As for the drill sergeant's abuse, well, that had its purpose as well. Aran Mateu nodded at the invitation and, hefting his spear, tried to bring it down hard against Tomas's. One thing he'd learned in ganive tipal was that you had to lunge as if you were going to pass through your target, otherwise you wouldn't have enough force to do any real harm. The hardest impulse to conquer for any recruit going from training to the battlefield was the temptation to pull or soften one's blows, as if one were still in training.

"It's fine," he replied to her apology as they sparred. "Most don't know what a Miklarian is. To them, we are all the şame." He hesitated before asking, "What is a 'Şkeered of Nothing', and why did you get it tattooed on your head? Is that really your name?"

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The vixen pushed back against Aran's spear, and for a moment it seemed she was going to turn the tables on him before her spear slid downward and she was made vulnerable, abdomen exposed.
Then she nodded and broke engagement, before taking on the role of attacker herself and working to knock his spear away. "Good job." she said, as they repeated the action. "You ever do spear trainin' before? An' yeah, what's the difference between ya, if'n ya don't mind me askin'?"
She stepped back and paused long enough to scratch the shaved side of her head, as if mention of the tattoo made it itchy. "It was th' best, toughest ship in th' Navy." she said. "My gran an' granpaw sailed it, 'n' my gran's parents did too. Kharr- Alkamarians burned it durin' th' Winter's War." She flushed slightly at almost using the slur herself. "My pa named me after it, so I got it tattooed. He wanted me ta join th' Navy too, but I said nah, I'm wearin' th' green like m' brother Rok, an' m' friend Thalia. Pay's much better."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu noticed the almost casual use of the slur for Alkamarians, but noticed even more that she caught herself and changed her words. It somewhat troubled him that the slur still bothered him, even when it was used for Alkamarians. Perhaps it was because in the eyes of those who used it, Miklarians counted as Alkamarians too, so they were included in the sentiment. Or perhaps it was that, despite his hatred for the Alkamarians, he couldn't stand to engage in the same kind of dethamonization* that the Vulpinsulans regularly did to his people. "This is my first time with a şpear," he admitted as they sparred, the rhythms starting to become natural as she managed to break his grip on the spear (need to adjust how I hold it) and proved herself quite capable with it herself. "I trained in Miklar with the ganive tipal - it is the stick and dagger." He covertly brushed aside his coat to show where he'd hidden them before they traded roles again. "It is different, but the... the firsts of it are the şame? The first rules." It was rare that his Vulpinsulan failed him these days, but he admittedly hadn't slept well and his brain was a little tired.

As they sparred, Aran Mateu continued. "Miklar is the western şide, on the Oldein Mountains half of the continent. Alkamar is the eastern şide, the Perutian Mountains half. We are ştoats and martens, they are ferrets and weaşels. We have our own culture and language, and once we had thanes and our own king. We would fight with Alkamar across the mountains... but eventually, they conquered us inştead. They have been killing our culture and language ever şince. My parents and theirs, and my anşestors before, have always fought for a free Miklar. We have yet to şucşeed."

As they sparred, trading off one by one, Aran Mateu glanced at the tattoo of the ship. He thought he could understand Tomas's perspective; she was a descendant of warriors, and wanted to honor that heritage, even as she struck her own path. "Is your brother and friend in this group too?" he inquired, glancing briefly at the rest of the recruits. Most of them were foxes, but to be frank, he had trouble at recognizing family resemblances among them.

Derived from 'thamonious' (adj) — describing an action or person who acts in deep accordance with soul and empathy. Derived from Thamany (from Greek “thymos” = spirit/soul + harmony) – used like: “There's a deep thamany in how they cared for strangers.” 'Dethamonize' (verb) therefore means to strip those characteristics from someone.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

"So they hurt ya..." Tomas said, having listened as well as she could in between their sparring. "They hurt us too. S' why I'm 'ere, ya know? So's th' Winter War that kilt my granparents don't happen again."
The vixen sprang forward, twisted her thin frame in order to duck under his spear, and thumped into him with her spear haft. She grinned her fangs playfully at him, and broke off again. "Rok's a sergeant at Pricklee Pointe, but Thalia, Thalia's here, right there!"
She waved to a vixen with redder fur and a leaner frame who was drilling with a marten with significantly more skill. Thalia met Tomas' eyes, smiled and waved back, and then got the breath knocked out of her as the marten knocked her spearbutt into her belly.
Tomas winced. "Oops! Sorry, Tal!"
Thalia grimaced and made a thumb's up, before being knocked off her feet by a sweep of the marten's spear.
"Oof!" Tomas said, making her own grimace. "Go easy on 'er, will ya!"
"Shove it!" said the marten, sticking out her tongue.
"Ooh, Aran, hold me back..." Tomas growled, rolling up her overlong sleeves and taking a step towards the marten, before Sergeant Moltover slammed his spearbutt into the ground and shouted.
"NEXT DRILL! BACK IN LINE, MAGGOTS! You will obey my instructions immediately and in tandem! After me! H'ATTEN-SHUN!"
The weasel stood straight, back stiff, face forward and holding his spear tucked upright to his side.
The recruits hastened to imitate him. "PREESENT ARMS!"
He held the spear out straight in both paws.
"ORDER ARMS!"
He returned to the previous position.
Tomas leaned into Aran, muttering as she followed the sergeant's instructions. "I'm gonna show that marten what for come lunchtime. You in?"

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu noticed how quick Tomas was to respond to anger against a perceived affront to her friend, and privately wondered if that was just how she handled any injustice. She'd been quick to kick that other fox for insulting the new recruit, and now she seemed to be plotting revenge against the other marten for besting Thalia... though, perhaps, Aran Mateu thought, it had more to do with her disrespectful attitude. As Aran Mateu followed the drill sergeant's orders example and instructions, he quietly muttered back. "Won't we get in trouble with the sergeant for that?"

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

"Pssh, not if we ain't caught." the honey-colored vixen winked. "And b'sides, not like we'd get drummed out. Army's in sore need of recruits, and I bet they even likes when troops show initiative in dealin' with problems. Just so long as it ain't too messy. Though..." she glanced over to the marten, who was replicating Moltover smartly. "We might make it a lil' messy."
After another two hours of drills, that ranged from leaping over objects and behind cover while maintaining good spear discipline and marching in basic formation, the lunch bell rang out across the dusty courtyard.
"GRUB TIME!" Moltover barked. "Deposit your spears on the racks inside, move with dignity, and behave with RESPECT! Be back clean and on time in one hour or you'll be cleaning the latrines! MOVE IT!"
The recruits filed into a canteen that consisted of a cafeteria-style serving area and rows and rows of cheap round tables with ten chairs crammed at each.
The sandstone walls facing the swinging doors were painted with a grand mural of Empress Amélie draped across a cannon, backed by the likes of Colonels Harvon M. Jere and W. J. Khan, and Ministers of War and Peace Neame H. Grosvenor, Nuori Sken and Nadia Darkon, though only Colonel Jere and Minister Grosvenor were current and well known amongst the recruits.
Behind all the figures, whose faces were just off enough to be somewhat offputting, with dead eyes and weird faces, was a crimson and gold sunset with gulls flying.
The mural was signed W. M. Jacardis, an artist mentioned in the Smelt as having been executed for offending a foreign Marquise with his poor portrait work not two years hence.

The food was underseasoned mashed potatoes, oversalted green beans, and a lumpy tuna fish melt, along with a mug of water. Skeered of Nothing Tomas got her platter and sat down at a table across from the mural, and picked at her food while watching the marten, whose name was Ames Gladdenberry, hawkishly.
Thalia soon dropped down next to her, a bluish bruise on her cheek and a tender smile. "Howsit, Skeery. I sure got knocked on my tail."
"Yeah, I saw, Tal." Tomas said moodily, flicking a green bean across the table. "I didn't like that. She didn't needa go so hard on ya."
"Aw, thanks, Skeer. Yeah, I didn't like it. She's a mean 'un, that's for sure." The fiery-furred vixen shook her head, and then gave a friendly quirk of her head to Aran as she thrust her Military Issue Spork into the tuna melt. "What do they call you?"

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu started at the question; he'd been staring at the mural, or, well, more glaring at it. The scarred face of the Canh on the wall, memorialized as a hero, sat uneasily with the Miklarian. He'd heard stories from his father of when the latter was a young lad, and the Canh and his soldiers had torn through entire towns, burning and slaying, setting fire to fields and homes alike, and doing things that, even to this day, were not uttered aloud, so terrible was the evil of that beast.

Aran Mateu needed a moment to recover and address the vixen's question. "My name is Aran Mateu Jan Vidal," he introduced himself, "but my parents just call me Aran Mateu. If that's too long, Aran is fine. You're Thalia...?" He gave her space to introduce her full name.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

"Wow! What a name!" Thalia smiled brightly. "It's so handsome, like a romance novel. I'm Thalia Brigton. Thalia Josephine Brigton." She held out her paw across the table to shake. It had burn scars all along the wrist and back, writhing like tentacles down to the closest digits of her fingers. "''It's a pleasure."
A ferret sitting next to her who was wolfing down his lunch indicated the mural with his spork.
"Ya like it? Looks kinda crazy, don't it? I 'eard when th' Colonel saw it 'e got all red 'n' said 'e didn' look anythin' like that an' t' change it real quick. Now 'is face just looks swollen."
"Yeah, I c'n see it." said a rat, peering hard at the section of the mural with the fox colonels. "Like he swallered a bee."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu nodded, recognizing that the Colonel's appearance was significantly different from the todd who had rescued him. He didn't know how he felt about seeing his savior standing next to the Canh. "It's not a very good likeness," he confirmed. "I think he's a little taller too. I guess they didn't want to paint his head above the Empress's." Art was strangely political in the Imperium. Alkamarians had such a strange take on art as well; they put it all over their walls, much like this mural, but outdoors as well, and they decorated with scenes of open fields and beautiful vistas - often the very ones obscured by the building that they were painting. It was bizarre.

 

[Rhana Redd]

By chance sitting at the same table, nearer on towards one of the ends, Rhana had been quiet thusfar, mixing the sloppy ingredients of her meal together until they formed a chaotic tuna-colored sludge, limp stalks of mushy green beans sticking out from the mashed potatoes at odd ends.

“Better than the likes of them deserve, if ya ask me.”

Cutting into the mess with her spork, she took a bite of the concoction, seeming to approve.

“Whole lotta beasts are dead because of those lot. Y’don’t see any portraits o’ them now, do ya?”

The stoat talked aloud without looking to anybeast, seemingly focused on her meal, though the fur on her neck and tail pointed to anything but the ease she tried to put out.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The other recruits at the table stared at the stoat, some with food halfway to their mouths or already well inside. A dollop of potato and tuna muck dropped from the rat's mouth and landed on the table with a splat.
There was a long silence, and then the ferret stood up, staring wide-eyed at the stoatess. "What did ye just say?"
"Ah, shrimp salad..." muttered Skeered of Nothing, then louder and in a steady voice, "Calm down, Aginpole. She's new jus' like th' resta us."
"She can't just say that." The ferret said. "My da died under th' Colonel. 'E's a good man. Th' Colonel's a patriot."
To Rhana, he said, "Ya say somethin' like that again, bumpkin, I'm knockin' ye out. Ya won't have teeth t' chew whatever th' Hell that is." Aginpole swung a hefty paw and smacked the stoat's plate over.
"Oi!" said Thalia. "Knock it off! There's no need!"
"Stay outta this." Aginpole spat.

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu found himself stunned as one of the other recruits casually said what had been on his mind. He actually had to check the expressions of the other recruits to make sure they weren't looking at him, in case he'd accidentally uttered it out loud and just assigned the act to another in his mind. But no, the stoat femme had said it, and seemed to mean it as well.

The situation escalated quickly, one of the ferrets in particular seeming to take offense. Aran Mateu stood quickly as the stoat's plate was overturned, and he stepped closer, putting his paw out warningly. "Che's just şaying that there are thouşands of martyrs who deşerve recognition for their şacrifice," he tried to sooth the ferret's anger, "your father included. After all, who is more honorable: the beast who lays down his life for another, or the one who lives because of that şacrifice?"

Privately, though, his minds went to all the Miklarian lives taken at the hands of the Canh and, yes, probably Colonel Jere as well. There would never be a mural to honor them either. He glanced to the stoat, and he advised her, "You can have the rest of my food. I had a big breakfast, I'll be fine."