Ouraghos Ioannis Fabianou Sveinaldsson
"It was a brisk morn...." the words began, until they were quickly scratched out by an annoyed hand. John lay back and rubbed his eyes before trying to close them once more. It was nasty being in the ship's hold all this time. His long-ship sailing ancestors would most likely be spitting down on him but what could he do. It was cramped and there were rats, it smelled horribly and it took every shred of a man's attention to make sure nothing sullied your uniform. A man who came down and started banging the walls with a bell notified the Dragoon that they had arrived - naturally - just as he was hoping to get some sleep.
After a groan he got up before slinging his bag over his back. He disembarked from the ship and after a shaky few steps to adjust to the solid earth he kneeled and said a quick prayer. It didn't consist of words or anything, it was just just hope. A sort of meta-prayer for he knew not what to say. After that he briskly stood up and wiped a bit of sweat off of his brow. Already the heat was getting to him, but nevertheless he'd wear on his uniform.
The Lance-Corporal marched on to where he was to join his unit, gently but firmly pushing aside those that got in his way. He had heard on the boat that where he was being assigned it would be all fresh faced recruits. Most likely pompous little gits either running from something or thinking they'll get the pretty girls. Admittedly the former was a good reason and the latter was somewhat true, but it didn't make him feel any better. Still, duty was duty.
As John entered the building he smiled. Many men would be disappointed, because they'd be lead by someone younger than them. Then he frowned, realizing it was possible he'd be amongst those people. Worse yet, the person probably got there because of buying the rank. You need money to get money. Yet another thing to provide discomfort. Of course it was on top of the dawning realization the sun was already taking a toll on his pale skin and it was reddening by the moment.
Angry, sweating, flakes of skin falling from his nose, and all his gear clanging in a sack John prepared to meet whoever was running the theatre here.