[color=gold][center][h3][b]E[/b]arlier, on an [b]U[/b]nnamed [b]R[/b]oad[/h3][/center][/color]


"[i]In the boozer
you’re a loser
if the dice you’re shaking.[/i]"

Laurence, surprisingly, had found himself in the center of a group of prospective soldiers, all out from some village to the north, all going the same way he was. Both he and the villagers had welcomed the company, and they'd taken to each other like pigs to shit, despite initial wariness. He couldn't blame them honestly: even without the sword and armor, he still didn't look like good news, out on a road in the middle of some nowhere forest. He'd spotted a few of the older travelers, some looking to be near two score years old, instinctively reach towards the swords that hung from their belts, and he'd seen a few of the younger lads, one looking no older than 14, near shit themselves in that familiar mix of surprise and terror. He'd laughed it off, of course; Laurence knew that a man near seven feet tall was rarely good news, specially not one with more scars than hairs, and after a few words and jokes he'd fit himself right into their band.

"[i]You’ll get hurt
and lose your shirt,
sit there cold and quaking.[/i]"

Someone'd started a song, Laurence couldn't remember who, and now they were all singing with verve. Laurence's deep bass filled the narrow wooded pass to near bursting, and the pair of younger lads managed to get a proper counter-tenor going. They sounded quite good, Laurence thought, but then again most anything sounds good when you're the only folks for miles around, 'cept some outlaws, if you're unlucky. He figured the singing was more for keeping morale up on the road, seeing as all but a couple of these village folk'd ever been more than a few miles from their homes, and he doubted any of them'd served in a fighting outfit before, despite the instinctual wariness. Laurence had no such qualms with walking the roads, a decade and a half of soldiering making him harder to scare than most, least by squirrels and bushes. He joined in gamely though, enjoying the cheerful company. They'd talked initially about all sorts of things, once Laurence learned they'd be joining the Black Shields, same as him. A man named William did most of the important talking, the oldest by near half a decade and the most used to a fight by a sight more, clearly in charge of their expedition. The lads Hoff and Sim asked all sorts of questions about soldiering, and the rest of the group listened in with more interest than they were likely willing to admit.

"[i]Lady Luck, your gifts are bad,
you trick us, then you make us mad,
make us gamble, make us fight,
and sit out in the cold all night.[/i]

He'd try to prepare them for what was coming, best he could. He knew most of his companions back in the Glass'd scare them half to death for a laugh, or maybe try to encourage them finding a new line of work, but Laurence figured honesty was the best policy, any man willing to come this far from his village not likely to go back over a few words. He told them that they were more likely to die from disease than an enemy most likely, and made sure to tell them three times to boil water, clean and bandage wounds with fresh cloth, and never pretend to not be unhealthy or hurt. His careful warnings soon made way to tall tales, which the ex-villagers had taken to with familiar enthusiasm, going after him with a few of their hamlet's particular folk tales, a few good ones about a haunted swamp and a woman who fought with a pair of tridents. The time passed quickly, and when they ran out of stories they started singing, Alexander passing around his last skin of liquor to welcome, parched hands. It was nothing near enough to get anyone but the lads drunk, but the warmth in the belly was more than welcome on the cold road.

"[i]But now let’s roll the dice again
and win some drinking money!
Who thinks about November’s rain
while it’s still warm and sunny?[/i]"

[color=gold][center][h3][b]R[/b]ot [b]D[/b]onor[/h3][/center][/color]


They'd reached Rot Doner after a half day of walking, and Laurence bid them farewell, promising to visit and drink again, and not really meaning it. They were good folks, certainly, but they weren't likely to last long, and weren't going to be the kind of folk a Guard veteran [or hero, hopefully] would be expected to associate with. If nothing else, the difference in their wages would make relations difficult as the campaign got on proper. They'd made to find storage and water, and Laurence made a beeline for the signups, after a quick stop to change and unpack.

He had his battle honors with him, but he needed to ensure that the officer didn't dismiss him out of hand as some up-jumped fyrdman. He thought for a second about donning his plate, but thought better of it. He'd look a fool, and would spend the better part of an hour getting it on and off for no real benefit. He did, however, brush some dirt off his gambeson and chain coat, and donned the both of them, their familiar weight a comfortable sensation. He unsheathed his sword from his horse, whose dull chestnut eyes looked weary from days of travel, but whose dull copper coat looked ready for days more. The sword was mirror-polished and massive, sharp and ready for action. Laurence had learned early that any man who does not take good care of his equipment deserves to be let down by it, and he'd been a happy part of that most peculiar of post-march rituals: mass cleaning of weapons. He'd seen men who'd done real black work preen over blades like a mother over a newborn, and he was one of them through and through. He hefted the sword over his shoulder, resting the ricasso on his shoulder and hoping that the sign-up tent was high enough for him to keep it the way it was. He figured it made him look even more imposing, which was most definitely a good thing when being assigned a position in a company. His small horse hitched to drink and rest, his battle honors in his pocket and his gear ready, he made his way to the tent.

As it happened, the tent was slightly too short for him to carry the sword over his shoulder without cutting an unwanted skylight, so he contented himself with holding it under the quillons with his burly left hand. The line was longer than he'd like, and after more "NEXT!"'s than he could count, he found himself in front of an old bald man, stooped over a table covered in papers. He'd heard the man called 'Terryn Hoffmann', and figured he'd do the same, despite never having heard of nor seen the man in his life.

"Terryn Hoffmann: Laurence Attewood, former sergeant of the Glasshorn Company, Greatsword Guards". He gestured with his free hand to his sword slightly. "Looking to enlist, ser. I served all four defenses of Redsand, and the capture as well. Fought at Brindled Mire, Callpike Hill, Dunbreck Forest and plenty more, if yer need.". He wrote his name and made his mark, thankful that he knew that much at least. He couldn't read a word, but he'd managed to teach himself how to write his own name. Two-Trees taught him first, but after two months he was told that he'd actually been writing "Pig Shit", and found himself a new teacher. A nod to the bald man, and he left, carrying his weapon with him in search of a stiff drink and a warm fire.