Kings of the Jungle [IC; Semi-Open]

[The Macabees]

[OOC: We can use this thread as the OOC thread. Estenia has point, so if you'd like to join you can ask on the OOC thread — specify that you're referring to this thread, please.]

Tarn, Special Administrative Polity

[For reference, see this map of the region.]

Gunnar H. Krugar felt the front edge of his broad-brimmed military campaign hat as he licked his lips, excited about the prospect of fresh recruits. Eyes hidden behind a set of dark, round lenses, Krugar was an emotionless man. He had no wife, no kids, no nothin'. The only things that could really tickle his fancy were war and fresh recruits. Standing at ease and staring off towards the large training camps' gates, the cracked dirt beneath his black leather boots, he sniffed the air. Make no mistake, he could smell them coming. For ten years now he worked as a drill instructor for Orange-Stoner, one of the larger private defense agencies operating in Tarn. He knew recruits so well he could see them coming from a mile away. Class after class, the job of giving them hell and preparing them for some of the most intense combat operations in the world never managed to bore him.

While, to Krugar, all recruits were equally as worthless, there was considerable prestige in his position. These were no ordinary recruits. No, these were men and women with ten years of prior military experience on average, many of them in their countries' special forces and elite units. They were all proven warriors, except in the eyes of Gunnar H. Krugar. The H being for Hawk. Because this man had seen more than them. Still built like an ox, he was a cool, grey 58. He had 43 years of military experience under his belt, including the ten as a drill instructor — almost three-fourths of his life. The men he was about to school had many wars under their belts, but he had more. From the age of 15 to the age of 38 he served as an infantryman in the Guffingfordi army, fighting with distinction in more wars than one could count on their two hands. The next ten years, working for the private sector, were just as blood-red. Safehaven, Holy Panooly, New Empire...a small sample of a long list of countries he had visited, to kill their people. As good as these fresh recruits were, to Krugar they were still fresh recruits.

Lore Granjer, hailing from Gordonopia, walked up from behind Krugar. With his big smile extending from one ear to the other, he said, "You can smell them too, huh!"

Tense jaw unwavering, he responded, "Ten years. Ten years, man. I've been doing this shit for ten years. Yea, man, the job gets a little boring over the years. Sure, maybe I miss being down range sometimes. Still, there's nothing like telling a bunch of self-entitled grunts what to do. Plus, it's always a treat seeing their faces as we climb The Mountain."

Krugar was referring to a 20 kilometer hike. This was no ordinary hike, mind you. Because much of Tarn's surface was already covered in buildings, the only option was to build down. Thus, Orange-Stoner invested in an underground "mountain," a long, broad pathway built almost six kilometers deep, extending a little over 19 kilometers towards the center of Tarn. It boasted a whopping 38 degree incline. No matter how fit you were, a non-stop trek up the The Mountain would cost you more than your breath. Especially when you were dressed in full battle rattle, all 70 kilos and above. These climbs were weekly.

"Shit, I'm going to like to see your face, too," laughed Granjer.

Dressed in the same uniform, wearing the same hat, the two men looked almost identical if weren't for their different heights and the gap in their ages. Granjer was exactly ten years younger than his fellow instructor, and he was still a "novice." He was Krugar's understudy, in a sense; learning him the tools of the trade, to one day lead his own batch of recruits.

"I'm an old man! I'm 58 years old!" He looked at himself, "But I'm still a fuggin' bull, Lore. Don't you forget that. And I see red, man. The blood of fresh recruits."

Down the road the two men could see the trail of dust a bus was leaving as it traversed the dirt roadway leading to Orange-Stoner's recruit depot on the outskirts of the city. It was full to the brim with men seeking work in the mercenary business, recruited from the streets of Tarn. Like Krugar and Granjer, tens of thousands of veterans flocked to Tarn in the search of higher pay. Whereas the average infantryman might make Ŗ30,000 per year, if that, the mean annual salary for a private contractor was half a mill' of ríokmarks. Whether it was fighting in the jungles of Jumanota, the sprawling Havenic grasslands, or in the underground cities of New Empire, there was always money to be made. Big money, though, comes at a big risk. 43 percent death rate, to be exact — that was statistical fact, too. That risk factor doesn't include non-fatal casualties and post-career suicides prompted by post-traumatic stress disorder. The money — oh, how much money — was well worth it. In less than ten years they could retire wealthy men...if they survived for that long. 60, three platoons worth, of these prospectors were heading to the recruit depot to begin their careers as soldiers of fortune.

As Krugar and Granjer waited for the bus' arrival, another four instructors stepped out from a large administrative building standing about four hundred meters from the depot's entrance.The building was bleak and monotonous, rising about eight stories above their heads. Built to withstand a sustained bombing campaign, there were really no windows to speak of. Inside of it were hundreds of employees, whether they were other instructors, senior contractors, or non-contractors like cooks, janitors, doctors, and others. There were no recruits, though. The only parts of the complex they would see, other than the sand drill yard on the surface, was all underground — barracks, firing ranges, mess halls, and all. Most of their field training would take place outside of Tarn, in Jumanota (recently occupied by Navitek, with the help of thousands of private military contractors).

Now six instructors in all, they stood drenched in silent excitement as the bus-load of recruits drew nearer...

[United World Order]

Tarn, Special Administrative Polity

Captain Hannibal Karsk moved up and down the aisle of the transport bus making it's way to the Orange-Stoner Recruit Depot. The bus load of recruits had been involved in years of military service of varieties when they served in their respective countries but now that they were on this bus heading to their hell on earth, they were nothing but fresh recruits in for the most unimaginable training and brutality they've ever experienced. Captain Hannibal as he instructed the recruits to call him throughout their training knew of the training and brutality they were going to go through as he had gone through it himself at least ten years ago when he too was sitting on this bus looking down at his pack as ordered to by his instructor. Although unlike previous instructors, Hannibal carried a wooden baton which he used to strike recruits upside the head for looking up from their packs, thus he instilled the first bit of fear these recruits would have.

Hannibal Karsk a forty seven year old Ordernite hailed from the industrial powerhouse city of Sturmburg which was the true center of Ordernite industrialization in the UWO. At seventeen he was selected for training to become part of the elite forces of the Ordernite Army, the Order-SS and he completed training with flying colors and went on to serve with the unit for thirty years which was when he was honorably discharged and retired from the Armed Forces. Although Hannibal wasn't done with the Military experience and went on to travel into Tarn in Holy Panooly and serve with a Mercenary firm there which was the best of the best.

Utilizing his Order-SS training and experience along with what he was taught further, he became a talented killing machine with his unit he was assigned to. He had served in several battlefields before becoming a instructor which were other foreign countries in GD that needed such mercenaries. When he turned forty four he had been made an instructor of the mercenary firm and for the past four years he's become close with the other instructors and has taught recruits such as the ones on the bus the deadly trade of mercenary work and the art of killing people.

As Hannibal continued his pace up and down the aisle the bus made a left turn into a compound looking facility which was Orange-Stoner Recruit Depot, hell on earth for these recruits who were still looking down at their packs in fear of being struck with a baton. As the bus slowed to a stop adjacent of the five instructors awaiting for them a loud stern authoritarian voice sounded off inside the bus.

"ACH-TUNG!" Hannibal shouted as on command the recruits looked up and kept eye contact with him as the bus now stood idle. "You have now arrived at Orange-Stoner Recruit Depot, you worthless vermin. I will dismiss you off the bus by seat and you will get off the bus and line up single file facing the other instructors, verstehen?"

The recruits on the bus had been taught before they even got on the bus, basic Ordernite. They immediately replied with "Jawohl!". Hannibal preceded to walk down the aisle and dismiss recruits from their seats, seat by seat he went as when he reached the final pair of seats and the last bunch of recruits left the bus, it was empty. Hannibal then stepped off the bus and looked towards the single file line of recruits now standing at attention facing the five instructors before them. Hannibal soon joined the other five instructors giving them a brief nod of acknowledgement as he passed each instructor before taking his place in line.

[The greater Vakolicci Haven]

At the very back of the bus, the figures in black held their near-silent discussion, silent, that was, apart from almost undetectable utterings to no one inparticular. The figures in black seemed not to move a muscle, appearing almost robot-like as they sat on the uncomfortable seats: not that the 8 could feel the seats anyway.
The 8 sat up straight, marking them different from the other veterans on the bus: but after all, the man's batton couldn't hurt them, after all...it had tried.
The black armoured suits of the men rose with an almost inaudible wher as the bus stopped, pulling them to their feet, and it was then that the noise truly began.
The leaer of the group, and by far the largest, lifted his arm and the metallic flooring of the bus shook. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The 8 walked in unisen, their power armour boots landing at almost precisely the same moment in a slow, forboding rhythm. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. They had heard it in Paventis as Clan Gordavris struggled to fend off an attack of thousands of their brethren. They had heard it in Myanmar as they had trampled their people into the ground. They had heard it all around the world, and in its path only the black emptiness of oblivion followed the passing of Celeria's black legion.

These men, outcasts all, had came for the same reason: money. They had made war on their fellows, and now they would remove themselves when the time was right, as they entered the line of fellow veterans, a solid black line as 8 metal fists saluted the instructers in unisen, and 8 left feet thudded 3 mournful thuds. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

[The Macabees]

The compound's large gates retreated horizontally into the large concrete walls that guarded the recruit depot day and night. The bus sat impatiently as the doors into Orange-Stoner opened, its engine silently roaring in expectation of acceleration. A guard, very clearly one of the firm's many armed "employees," waved the vehicle in, pointing to a stop lying in front of the six drill instructors standing, their faces emotionless and their muscles rigid. They could see through the bus' windows, revealing the contents of the "cattle car" — fifty-two recruits with their heads in their bags, and eight...sitting rigid in full power armor. Drill Instructor Karsk paced up and down in between the flanking rows of seats, quickly pouncing upon those who failed to follow orders. He seemed to ignore the men in the back; facing them there may have devalued his authority, and those fools would get their fair share of bullying for showing up in power suits, of all things (like showing up at a concert wearing the band's shirt).

Granjer smirked, let out a limited chuckle, and pointed them out to Krugar, "Look at those idiots. What are they thinking? It's not like we're not going to issue them gear. Fuck, we really need to train our recruiters better. They shouldn't have even been let on the bus like that."

"It's gonna be good times," responded Krugar, cool as a cat.

Once the gates had fully retracted into the walls, the bus followed the guard's instructions and crawled through about a two-thirds of the training yard. Passing just beyond the center, the vehicle came to a stop. Its doors remained closed and one could hear Karsk yelling at the top of his longs, even at the suited-men — who didn't seem to react. As that happened, Krugar walked up to the bus and banged on the side of it. The wide right-side doors swung open; the musk of fear saturated the air, the head drill instructor could smell it. Eyes hidden behind his thick sunglasses, face further concealed by the wide-brim hat, his smile was unmistakable. Fresh recruits made him a happy man. From inside the bus emerged Karsk, who was sweating from the intense heat inside the troop transport — the ride was designed to make the recruits feel as uncomfortable as possible.

The Ordenite instructor stepped down and put his hand on Krugar's shoulder. "I'll be honest with you," he lamented, "these guys are a bunch of assholes." His thick Germanic accent marred his Díenstadi just a tinge.

"I can tell," responded Krugar. He couldn't see the armored recruits from his angle, but his eyes searched for them. "I trust you drove the fear into their bones, Hannibal." He sniffed the air and then stepped up into the bus, as most of the recruits continued to bury their heads in their deployment bags. His voice booming, he said, "Fear, it's all around. Welcome to Orange-Stoner, boys. You're in the big leagues now." He thought about it for a few seconds and finally added, "Actually, let me rephrase that. Welcome to try-outs. I'll tell you this right now, sixty percent of you won't make it the first time around. The odds are good, so my recommendation is that you keep your head down and do as your told, otherwise it's gonna be a rough ride."

Karsk walked back into the bus behind Krugar, keeping up with the yelling. He could see some of the men trying to lift their faces, to look around, but he quickly shut their devious activities down, "Keep your fuggin' heads down, jackasses! You're not on a fuggin' tour of the country. You're back in the shit!"

"Alright, let's get them out of here," ordered the head drill instructor.

Starting from the center, row after row of recruits stood up, walked into the center aisle, and exited from the bus through the side-door. It was somewhat awkward, because there was only limited space and they had to carry their bags on their back. Slowly, and clumsily, they all made their way out, where they were organized by the other drill instructors into six rows of twelve. When mostly everyone was out, Krugar stuck his hand out and ordered them to stay where they were. He then issued them special instructions to leave the bus and organize to the side, away from the other recruits. As they left, the bus shuddered with the thud of every step. The eight men reeked of overconfidence; no matter, they would be put in their place in due time. They continued walking to the side, until they were a good distance away from the main group. Behind them followed Krugar.

Without raising his voice — actually, quite calm and civilized —, the head drill instructor laid his cards out on the table, "Look guys, I know you guys think you're tough shit. I don't give a fuck. This isn't the fuggin' army, this is Orange-Stoner. If you want to make the money," he rubbed his right-hand thumb and index finger in the air, "you're going to take your armor off. All of it. If you don't want to, more power to ya, but you're going to get the fuck off Orange-Stoner property, because dressed like that you're not welcomed here."

Krugar looked back at the others, and then turned his head the other way again, "You don't gotta take this stuff off in front of them, just wait a little."

As he said that, the six drill instructors now stalked their prey, weaving through the rows and columns like hungry serpents. As they did that, Granjer shouted out instructions, "Starting with the first man in the first row, defined by the man standing farthest to his left, you will begin walking towards the entrance of the building in front of you."

The recruits began filing into the administrative building, disappearing into the dark hallways of the window-less fort. Once the line of men was completely consumed by the structure, those power suited-men who wished to continue their training were allowed to catch up with their company. In there, they would stay for no less than twenty hours, none of those consisting of sleep. First, they would need to fill out some paperwork and receive their identification, a sixteen-integer number that would define them for the next three months. They'd memorize the last six integers by the first weekend, because they would have to know it in order to eat. After that, they would endure a medical exam, from his ears to his prostate. Blood was extracted, hairs were inspected, and shots were given. For no less than thirty hours, they would stand around anxiously, thinking of what awaited down below, in what the recruits knew as 'Hell.'

[The greater Vakolicci Haven]

Again, discussion was quiet, yet more intense-sounding, for anyone listening closely: as 7 armoured helmets turned to one in front, the man whose suit appeared to have been modified to the point it was almost unrecognisable. The commander, if that indeed was what he was, at last nodded to the instructor and pressed several buttons on his armoured suit.

Their were several reasons that Black Legionary combat suits were exported around the world, but not least of them was the fact that they were very easy to get on and off. 8 suits separated with an almost inaudible movement of compressed air, and 8 suits opened up like an envelope, allowing 7 men and a woman to exit.

All 8 of the specimens of legionary combat training's 'accepted' pile were well-muscled, although not to the point that they were made disfunctionally large: though they were large men, they had a grace about them that spoke of smaller indeviduals. Their fair-skinned faces looked silently ahead, as almost at the same time they smoothed the creases out of their legionary-issue dress uniforms, ranks and branch insignias shown clearly. The 8 lifted their bags onto one shoulder, before again linking their empty armoured suits together and slinging them over their other shoulders; then almost lazily caught up to the rest of the recruits.
"This isn't going to help us," one man whispered into the commander's ear.
Third-level commander Altonan d'Buertova looked back with a deathly stare before answering her second-in-command.
"It's only good to act like we are doing now if you can show why you're doing it. You've got to back it up with some kind of result. Can you?"
"Oh, definitely," the man chuckled.

[United World Order]

As the recruits entered the Administration building and begun filling out paper work sitting in long ended tables, Karsk entered the building as well armed of course with his wooden baton. At this point Hannibal was now checking for recruits who had fallen asleep or recruits he could just easily pick on and intimidate. He stalked the rows of tables eyeing the recruits as prey as he went up and down the rows waiting for a recruit to slip up. Suddenly he eye-balled a sleeping recruit up ahead who was sleeping on his half finished paper work, Hannibal moved with quickness towards him and brought down his wooden baton on the table letting out a loud "BANG" as the sleeping recruit launched up from sleep and looked at Hannibal who got in his face.

"Get up, get the fuck up!" he yelled at the recruit who quickly got up from where he was sitting and sleeping. The recruit got into a still position of attention as Hannibal continued his rant.

"When I was in combat in the Order-SS, the most well trained battle hardened fighting force in the world, we didn't get to sleep!" he begun and continued. "Didn't sleep for maybe five days at most because the combat was so demanding and continuous, our enemy wasn't going to stop because we wanted to go to bed!"

"You must learn to be determined and always alert when you go off to combat, learn to live without days of sleep because your enemy may be moving on your position as we speak." Hannibal said as he eye'd the recruit up and down before continuing. "Now, finish your damn paper work and get to medical exams, or else" Hannibal finished before he walked away from the recruit who went and sat back down getting to his paper work. When most of the recruits finished their paper work and medical exams, led by Hannibal they moved underground to get situated in their barracks. A small tour was given by Hannibal as he talked about the barracks and where everything was and then the recruits went to find a bunk to call home for the next few months.

[The greater Vakolicci Haven]

Altonan studied the paperwork with some bemusment; it was the usual stuff. She'd filled the same in numerous times before: name, titles, country of origin, military experience. Military experience was a large box; even so, the heavily-muscled woman had to write in extremely small, tight-packed letters to get it in.
"What's a second name?" one of the 8 former legionaries asked. The man was horribly scarred, and it looked as if the power armor hadn't protected his left shoulder so well as the outline of a metal plate was easily visible under the skin. His voice rumbled out again, like the roar of some terrible and ancient animal.
"My country doesn't have 'second names,'" he continued, looking at one of the instructers. "In Velstrania, our names just go back as far as you know your male-line...well, or female-line if you're a woman...ancestors. If you want me to write my full name, could you give me another sheet of paper? If not, what do you want writing down?"

[The Macabees]

Janice, the rather large woman working that part of the process, gave the recruit a dull face as the man tried to explain his naming customs. She cut him off before he had a chance to finish. "Look honey, I don't really care. Just fill out the paperwork however way you can fill it out. You're a big boy, you can figure it out."

Krugar saw the discussion as it was coming to an end and he made his way towards the counter. If his face already showed the disdain he held towards recruits, now his appearance went beyond that. If there's one thing he really disliked it was a dumb recruit wasting his time. He put his face really close to Altonan's ear and yelled, "Holy shit guy, you must be a fuckin' retard. You Vakolicci folk aren't the brightest knives in the drawer, are you? We don't give a fuck about your naming customs, we don't give a fuck about you in general! Just fill out the goddamn paper work and move on! Holy shit! How difficult is it?"

By this time, Granjer worked his way into the "conversation," as well. The drill instructor liked a good 'shark attack.' The Gordonopian wasn't a tall man, standing at five-foot eight. That meant he had to put on a lot of weight, specifically the kind made of muscle, and this made him quite stocky. When you're short, sometimes that's the only way you can compete with a taller, leaner man. He turned his head right into Altonan's other ear. "Holy fuck, recruit! First the power-armor. Now this. Look, we know you're fucking proud of where you come from. I just don't understand what you don't get, guy. We couldn't care less about who you are or where you come from, because to us you're just fuckin' scum. Do. You. Understand. What. I'm. Saying? Fuckin' moron!" He shot Krugar a smile, behind Altonan's head in a way that the recruit wouldn't notice.

The Vakolicci, at this point, could only make out the most minimal amount of words, because the two instructors were yelling over each-other. In fact, sometimes they would outright babble nonsensically, just to confuse the recruit even more. These were tactics the Vakolicci had most likely already encountered during her original training as a soldier for her country's military. Still, it was also undoubtedly true that a long time had by now elapsed and that she was not accustomed to such treatment. Her entitled attitude gave it away, and the power armor hadn't helped. That little stunt would most likely even alienate them from the other recruits, who always hated that kind of insecure pompousness. Not that that would hurt the Vakolicci clique much, since they seemed to stick together anyways. They had spent much of the time between their arrival and where they currently stood in the administrative process talking between themselves, and it had not gone unnoticed. Three times now they had been violently told to shut up. More would come later, and their not-too-distant-future pain was building up because they could not seem to get their shit together.

The yelling lasted for six-to-seven minutes and then the two drill instructors left Altonan to focus on other recruits who were acting a fool. Slowly, the line of recruits moved on through various rooms inside the towering building. From the paperwork they went to a 'locker-room' — four of them, with at least two drill instructors in each one —, the recruits split up evenly between them. There, they stripped to their underwear and were then organized in yet another line. This one led from the locker-rooms to a large warehouse with hundreds of boxes stacked on at least a dozen tables organized parallel to each other. They were filled with underwear, uniform pants, shirts, and jackets, and their physical training counterparts, as well as shoes and boots. Each recruit was given three dark green deployment bags and ordered to pack them with a certain number of each item, which was specified by a civilian woman posted at each table. They were civilian, yes, but they were not nice. They were also told to put on a uniform — anything they were wearing, and anything else they came to Orange-Stoner with, would be packed away and given back to them at the end of their training.

"Hurry the fuck up!" bellowed Krugar. The stench of dirty recruits was overwhelming and the head instructor twisted his nose.

Granjer walked up to him and laughed, "This batch seems even worse than the last!"

"It's always seems like that, Lore." He gave a menacing look at one of the recruits walking by, who was trying to sneak-a-peak, and snorted, "What the fuck are you looking at, asshole?" The wannabe-mercenary quickly looked away and proceeded with whatever part of the process he was currently working through. Krugar turned back to Granjer and finished up what he was saying, "We'll whip these dumbasses into shape. We always do."

The head drill instructor motioned for Karsk to come up, which the Ordenite did — although, he was never shy to yell at any recruits around him, telling them to hustle or to stop being stupid. "What's up, Gunnar."

"You see those assholes?" he pointed over at the Vakolicci recruits. "I'm starting to hate those pretentious fuckers. They think they're tough shit." He laughed, "And that's good, because that makes what we do a lot more fun. I'm going to give the main honors to you. We'll have to do some reorganization, but you'll get Gordanus...or whatever that prick's name is" — he was referring to Clan Gordavris. "You'll also get the bitch, Altonan. Let them deal with the 'general population' on their own. What happens in the barracks stays in the barracks. Don't intervene. Let those other rats beat the shit out of them. Those Vakolicci are going to need to learn that they're not special shit, they're the same as everyone else here — our bitches."

Karsk nodded and then went back to his usual business, harassing recruits and the like. The company of rabble soon moved on from the warehouse to yet more warehouses, where they were given much of their equipment — a large combat backpack, a belt, belt-clips, belt-pouches, two canteens, empty ammunition clips, a flash light, a bare helmet, and the various other things a soldier might need. Their deployment bags were soon filled up to the brim, so their new equipment started to flow into their packs. Soon, all of their bags would be full and they'd have to throw these on their back as they moved on. They moved onto, yes, another warehouse, although this one was completely empty. Ordered to throw their backs and packs on the floor, the recruits were distributed four tokens — for each recruit they were four of the same, although the tokens were unique to the recruit. These were placed inside the packs, for identification, but they were not outwardly visible. Once did accomplished that, they were told to strip again and leave their uniforms — this time including boots and underwear — on their bags.

Fully naked, the sixty recruits were then organized, once again, into six different lines. It was one line for each doctor, as they were filed into other, smaller rooms. Here they were put through a medical; they checked for everything, including weird moles around each person's nether regions. Orange-Stoner wanted to make sure that all of their employees were in good enough health to live through their contract with the company. They didn't want to waste their money on a valueless investment. For the next six hours that's what the recruits would have to put with: an old man checking just about every part of their body, one item at a time.

[The greater Vakolicci Haven]

Altonan was worried; in fact she was more worried than she'd ever been on any of her combat asignments. She wasn't worried for her own safety; no, these drill instructors were just like any other men or women who had been ordered somewhere they didn't want to be instead of actively fighting...they were pissed off guys with big egos who wanted to prove they were better. For them, she knew that the only way of earning the slightest amount of respect was to be better than them: but a lot better. If she was slightly better than them, they'd feel threatened and attempt to make her life a misery. If she proved that she had been the last person 6 of the most well-protected men in the Haven had seen before she turned out their lights...now then they had to respect her.
Altonan was worried about the reactions of the other legionaries. Already, as the 2 men bore down on her, 2 legionaries began issuing threatening and uncomplyant looks, settling into defencive stances, reaching for their blade shieths. Not good, she knew. Thankfully, Altonan was able to deflect them with a few warning glances, while also bringing her arms up, stopping short of actually pushing at the 2 men.

The Velsturmen, meanwhile, had followed the rather idotic-looking woman's advice. He had turned the page over to the blank side, completely ignoring the name box. At this point he had written 'Full Name,' and then proceeded to fill the rest of the sheet.
Aelthyen nos Fiengald nos Rechan nos Ouldthaka nos Oorjin nos Iracta nos Meldinoc nos Erqad nos Rovelin nos Muldinsar nos Voladen nos Crespi nos Uiljadfa etc etc. The names went on and on, detailing Aelthyen's direct male line. If the people reviewing the paperwork were intelligent, which he doubted, they would know that a Velsturmen who knew such a large amount of his direct line was probably a very distinguished man indeed.

When the 2 head instructors had finished shouting at Altonan, who had continued to meticulously fill in her paperwork, she handed it to the man on the left with a nod and a smile.
"It's all their," she said cheerily, knowing very well it'd piss the man off. "If you can speak it," she continued remembering the nonsensicle babble the men had been shouting, "I've put it all in English. I'm sure someone could help you if you're unsure as to what all the words mean."

The group of 60 trooped slowly through the supplies, not pausing apart for Altonan to Altonan to wonder exactly why they were being given so much shoddy equipment.
"They probably get payed so much due to danger money," Aelthyen muttered in Celari into her ear. "Anything well-equipped would tear through them in a matter of seconds."

By far the most baffling discovery of the day though was found when they had to hand in all of their items. Aelthyen seemed to have pockets in the strangest of places and oddly they all seemed to be filled with blades. Even his mobile phone had been built with a retractable knife; as had his wallet and keys...his military honourable discharge was folded over a long, wickedly sharp knife. The other Legionaries, partly because they didn't want to get attention directed at them and partly because they already knew what Aelthyen was like, ignored this obvious fact and went through the processes.

And it was so, therefore, that 8 Legionaries stood in small, separate rooms with aging doctors, completely naked. Altanan moved with almost robotic ease as the man probed around her body, never taking her cold, unreadable gaze away from his hands. It was all a mask; a mask of confidence: in actuality, the legionary was afraid of what the man might find on her heavily tattooed body.