Gildrick ducked into a large tent beside Sergeant Cross and was met with the sight of seven grizzled strangers turning to look at him. A trio of men were sitting on crates while playing cards. One man was shirtless and exercising. Two more laid back on bedrolls, one resting, the other reading. The last one sat sharpening a vicious looking greataxe.

"This is Gildrick, a new recruit joining us by order of Captain Todd."

"Ain't squads only s'posed to have eight?" One of the card players spoke. He was a barrel-chested bald man with a thick gray beard whose face was a battlefield of old wounds.

"I don't know if I'd call him enough of a man to bring us to nine," another card player replied, this one with long black hair slicked back and a stubbly beard. He could have been considered handsome if not for the morbid scar that extended from the left side of his upper lip to nearly his ear.

"Captain says he's here to write a book about our Crusade, but as long as he's in my squad," Cross looked Gildrick in the eye, "He's a soldier."

"Hello members of squad S-22," Gildrick said, bowing his head politely, "I am Gildrick Domar, but you may call me Gil if you like. I hope to get on well with all of you."

The scarred man stood and extended a hand, grin creeping across his face, "Nice to meet you Quill. Name's Dorian, but everyone calls me Slim."

"Uh... it's actually Gil."

But it was too late, Slim had already shaken his hand and turned back towards his card game, acting as though he hadn't heard.

"Alright then Quill," the Sergeant muttered, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "I got things to do." The Sergeant turned and ducked back out of the tent without another word.

Quill now stood awkwardly in front of the squad, eyes darting from person to person. His face lit up when he turned to the last of the three card players and saw the last thing he expected: a familiar face.

"You're William Fontel, aren't you?" he said approaching the crate where the card game was being held, "I watched you in the melee at the king's day of grace tourney. What was that what, nearly three years back?"
He had the look of an artist's rendition of a noble knight rather than a real man. He was handsome, lean, clean-shaven with dark, short-cropped hair. His face unmoving, his features like chiseled stone. He looked up at Quill, his eyes reading and appraising more than attempting to remember a face.
He plucked the Kindleroot pipe from his mouth and gestured to a nearby crate, "Sit down, play a hand."

Quill hurriedly set down his gear, tried to pick up a heavy crate, failed to lift it, and chose to simply slide it across the ground and into position. While it wasn't exactly a friend, he was happy to see someone familiar in this place. 

"That's Vardok," William said nodding towards the barrel-chested man, "Seems you know me already. We're playing 8-card."

Quill was relieved to hear they were playing a game he had experience with. His father had called it a "soldier's game" but he had played many a hand with the local children when he was a boy.

The game itself was simple enough, each player drew five cards bearing a number of pips from zero and five. Then, one by one they drew additional cards, wagering after each draw until everyone had eight cards in their hand. The goal was to have your the pips on your cards total sixteen without going over, at the end, the closest won.

"And what are we wagering?" he asked, settling in.

Vardok gave him a sidelong glace before coughing into his hand.

Slim grinned at him and touched his tongue to the scar, "We don't gamble. Not in The Order. No gambling, no drinking, no women, punishable by death. We play to pass the time, nothing more."

Quill's face couldn't hide his shock. A military encampment that banned the three most common vices for soldiers? How could they possibly keep morale intact?

"How do you-" Quill started, but stopped when he met William's sharp and searching gaze, like a man measuring something that might need killing.

William cut him off.

"Every man here chose this path. No man stays for coin or glory. When you see the Hallowbound, you will know why. The duty of The Order is not something you can turn away from, not something you shirk. You will see that it simply must be done."

Slim finished dealing the cards, "Don't mind Wil, he doesn't know how to enjoy The Calm."

"The Calm?"

"Before the storm," Vardok chimed in, "We get a week o' rest and such, before we march."

"No scouting, no drills, only occasional guard duty," Slim said with a grin. "First Calm since I've joined and I find it's best to enjoy it while I can."

"We have not seen a Calm because it only precedes a Crusade. Vardok and the priest are the only ones who were here for the last Crusade," Wil nodded across the tent towards the Volantan man who was reading from a rather large tome. He, like all people from Volant, had dark skin and hair, though his was long and woven into tight braids, which was a rarity among the Volantan people. He lowered his book ever so slightly and peered at the card players before returning to his reading.

"I find The Calm to be wasteful," Wil continued, "We ought to be honing our minds and skills to the last moment before the Crusade, but whatever command says, I will obey."

Quill looked at the hand he'd been dealt. His hand totaled eleven, high but not an unwinnable hand.

"If we are not allowed to wager, then what exactly do we play for?"

Wil blew a plume of smoke, "We just keep track of how many hands each player wins. Person with the least has to get our next Kindleroot refill."

"I saw that there was an entire station set up for Kindleroot. How exactly does The Order acquire it in such vast amounts."

Slim drew his first card and clicked his tongue at the result, "Stuff grows like grass up here, even under the snow. Field ops do most of the gathering, but in a pinch, you could dig through the snow and find some yourself."

The draw came to Quill now. A four. In most games, he would fold here, his hand becoming nearly unwinnable. But with no money on the line, he saw no reason to.

"So, Vardok was it?" he started, "You appear to be a constituent possessing a considerable tenure in these ranks. Would you happen to have any insights for a fledgling recruit?"

"Fucks that mean?" Vardok grunted, frowning as he placed another card in his hand.

"Which part?" Quill realized that he had slipped into his "scholar speak" as his friends back home called it.

Slim let out a chuckle, "Vardok here don't get up to much in way of studious activities. Only Deckard, Will, and myself possess the keen intellect required for consuming the written word. You make our fourth I guess."

The draw came back to Quill now. He drew a zero, his hand clinging to life.

"What's it you want, then?" Vardok asked him.

"Oh, I simply wished to know if you had any sage advice for a newcomer."

"Sage?"

"Uh... useful."

"Don't shit yerself when you see your first. Just keep movin' and listen to Mel."

Quill nodded. "Very good. Thank you kindly."

Wil exhaled his last puff of Kindleroot and began to clean his pipe, "Your name is Domar, so I assume you have at least been martially trained in some regard, but tell me Quill, have you any experience on the field." Quill leaned forward as the draw returned to him. "Have you ever killed a man before?"
Quill hesitated, looking at his final card. A one.

At that moment he was shoved forward by a powerful slap on his back. His cards scattered atop the crate as he tried to steady himself.

"Forgive my manners," a voice boomed behind him. He turned to see the shirtless man standing, chest puffed out, smile on his face. His skin was tanned and glistening with sweat, without a trace of scar or old wounds. His brown hair hung down just past his shoulders. His clean-shaven face and white teeth marked this man as someone who clearly cared about his appearance.

"I had to finish my exercises, or else the day simply would not feel right," the man continued, extending a hand. "I am Stevan."

"From your accent, I assume you're from Alvacao," Quill started, standing to shake the extended hand. "No? More southern, Pesapeli?"

Stevan took his hand and pulled him into an embrace, patting him hard on the back again. "You have quite the ear, my friend. Pesapeli is indeed my home. The finest people in the world."

Slim had picked the cards back up, tallying the totals, "Looks like the scribbler gets his first win."

Quill watched him pull out a folded piece of parchment and a small stick of charcoal, then pencil in 'Quill' and place a mark next to it.

"If you do not mind, my new friend Quill, I will introduce you to the rest of my friends here," Stevan said, placing a sweaty arm around Quill's shoulders.

Wil waved him on. "We'll play one without you."

"Alright Stevan, I'd be happy to meet everyone."

He was led first to the Volantan reading the large tome.

"This is Deckard, he is a priest or... a paladin of what god was it again?" Stevan asked.

Deckard closed his tome and stood to meet their eyeline. "I am Deckard of the Work, a paladin of Iacred and I am the Chronicler for this squad." He gave a deep bow as was the Volantan customary greeting.

Quill returned the bow. "It is rare to meet a follower of Iacred amongst soldiers. Mostly you meet worshippers of Maltukk. How is it you find yourself here."

"That is a long story for another time. But the teachings of Iacred teach us that there is work to do always and everywhere. I have found that the work here is both dangerous and difficult, but it is work that needs doing after all."

Quill was surprised. He had never met someone choosing to worship Iacred outside of farmers and most of them were not devout enough to be called priests or paladins. In recent years, the god of work had lost most of his relevancy in Storovan, but it seemed that the people of Volant had not forgotten him.

"And you called yourself the Chronicler for the squad?"

Stevan answered for the priest, "He writes in the book. About the malombra."

"He means the Hallowbound," Deckard said, patting the tome in his hands. "This is The Codex. Every squad gets a copy and every squad has member designated to be the Chronicler. Usually whoever can read and write the best," he tilted his head at Quill. "Which very well may be you now."

"I wouldn't dream of stealing away such an important role, especially on my first day."

"Well, at the very least, you should familiarize yourself with The Codex. It contains every piece of known information about each Hallowbound seen throughout The Order's history. Their weaknesses, behaviors, and how to proceed upon encountering one. Memorizing this book is the Chronicler's main job, along with adding any new information you may find."

"Well, I would be very interesting in borrowing The Codex if at all possible. Perhaps I will come to you when I have settled in."

"Of course." Deckard bowed once more before returning to his bedroll and reopening The Codex.

Stevan smiled smugly, "See, he is a good man."

Quill was then led to the man sleeping in a bedroll only a few paces over. Stevan gave the man a gentle kick with his boot before stepping back.

The man jolted upright and rose to a crouched stance about as fast as any man possibly could. He was the first short man Quill had seen in The Order. He was small and squirrely with nothing but a wisp of hair on his head. He had a mangy, spotty beard like certain parts of his face could not grow hair. His hands shook slightly and he breathed heavily. His right eye constantly twitched even after he had calmed down. 

"W-what is it?" he asked.

Stevan smiled and clapped the man on the shoulder, "Fear not, little friend, I only wish to introduce you to our new friend. This is Quill."

The little man blinked hard twice before nodding.

Then he spoke, the words sounding as if they strained to remain in his mouth, "H-hello, I'm T-Trevin, but Slim calls me T-Twitch, on accounts of the t-twitch." 

"Well met," Quill replied with a friendly smile.

Trevin nodded nervously and began to look anywhere but at Quill. 

"I suppose we'll leave you to it then, Trevin."

"Mhmm." Trevin groaned, quickly sitting back down and pulling out his pipe.

With that, Quill and Stevan stepped away.

Stevan leaned in and for the first time spoke quietly, "He is a strange on, but you will not find a better bow in all of the scouting regiment."

The last man Quill met was the silent one sharpening his axe. He didn't stand as they approached, but Quill could tell he was a formidable figure. His long, blonde hair and beard were unkempt and matted. He was the only man in the tent wearing his full armor and garb. He stared at Quill with piercing blue eyes as he continued to slowly sharpen his weapon. From the color of his hair and eyes along with his incredibly pale skin, Quill identified this man as a Fjorlander.

Quill swallowed nervously under the man's gaze.

"This is Yoran. The friendliest man in the squad," Stevan joked. 

Yoran didn't react, keeping his eyes on Quill.

"Well met, Yoran. I have never had the pleasure of meeting a man from the Fjorlan."

Yoran blinked once.

"Yoran is not one for conversation," Stevan said. "Believe me I have tried. But, be glad he is on your side, he fights like a man possessed. Strong and wild."

SHHHING!

Yoran loudly scraped the stone on his axe and then stood, towering almost a full head above any other man in the tent. 

"You speak like book," he spoke slowly, with a heavy accent. "I hope you don't fight like book."

Quill didn't know how to respond, simply looking up at the behemoth of a man, mouth agape. Yoran backed up after a moment and sat back down. Quill took a breath and gathered himself.

"I suppose we shall see."

Stevan put his arm around Quill once more, pulling him away and letting out a loud, jovial laugh.

"He is a sprightly man, is he not? So many interesting friends here." 

Stevan looked around proudly, hands on his hips and let out a sigh. 

His smile faded, "If only..." he trailed off.  He turned back to Quill, smile returned, "Well, new friend, I must go and find myself some food. Please take any open space as your own. I assure you no one will touch your things if you need to step away."

"Thank you, Stevan. I hope I can be as helpful to you all as you have been to me."

"Oh please, we are friends. We all help each other."

Stevan donned a fur coat and grabbed his pipe before stepping out of the tent.

Quill spent the next several minutes settling himself into an open space in the tent. His pack contained a bedroll that he unfurled. He set up a small oil lamp next to it so he could have proper lighting and placed his small journal beside him. He sat down on the bedroll, lit his pipe, and unwrapped his manuscript from its cloth coverings.  He flipped to the latest empty page and began to write, referring to his small journal when his mind couldn't recall a specific detail. He had not named his book yet, hoping that once he joined The Order, the title would become clear to him. As he wrote, he took time to admire his own calligraphy. The art of writing was the only skill he could ever claim to be an expert at. 

He wrote the truth in his story, deciding to leave in the places where he had been nervous or embarrassed. He did not want the tale to be skewed in a way to make him the hero. The book was about the heroes he would meet in The Order, he was simply a vessel to tell their fabled story. 

He spent the rest of the day writing and playing a few hands of 8-card when he needed a break. He made small talk with the others while playing cards, mostly about the locations of various places of import were in the encampment.  Stevan took him to find the mess hall and after, a place to bathe. Though Stevan warned that when the Crusade began, there wouldn't always be a bath and meal at the ready. They had returned to the squad tent and Quill sat leaned against his pack, thinking.

The men of S-22 were a strange mix of cultures and personalities, but he sensed no ill will between any one of them. It was as Will said, they all chose to be here and they all shared a common purpose. With that thought, Quill shuddered. He shared that common purpose now. He would have to fight right alongside them. Fight the Hallowbound. He didn't even know what all that entailed. He was so focused on joining these ranks that he hadn't thought about how he would fare when the fighting came. 

"Quill."

He looked up to see Deckard standing nearby, clutching The Codex. 

"I thought you might want to have a look at this. Just be sure to return it to me before you turn in for the night."

"Yes, that would be lovely," Quill replied. "Just let me run to the latrine first, then I'll take a look."

"I'll go with him, make sure he doesn't get lost." Wil had stepped forward and began walking to the entrance of the tent.

Quill gave Deckard a nod before falling in behind the knight. Will began to lead him through the camp. Sergeant Cross had been right. Now that it was night, the cold was worse than Quill could have imagined. He fumbled in his pouch for some Kindleroot. He found that he was becoming accustomed to lighting and smoking a pipe despite having never done it before today. 

"Bloody cold at night," Quill mused as they walked. 

Wil didn't respond. They made a turn that Quill didn't remember from the last time he walked to the latrine. He stayed silent, feeling it best to just follow the man who had been here longer than a day.

They found themselves in a dimly lit portion of camp. Crates and barrels littered a small dead end in an alley between two storage tents. 

"I thought we were going to the latrine," Quill said, confused.

"Why are you here Domar?" Wil's tone was grim. "Why did you come to The Order?"

"Like I said, I am here to write a book-"

Quill didn't hear the blade leave its scabbard. Will pressed the tip of a long dagger into his throat, just deep enough to draw blood. The other hand grabbed his shirt and pushed him against a stack of crates. "Did they send you to kill me? Mm? Punish the deserter knight?"

Quill raised his palms high, "I don't know what you're talking about." He could see Will's face in the dim light, eyes reading every little motion, looking for a hint of a lie.

"I truly only know of you from the tourney I saw, nothing more."

A tense moment passed before Wil released his grip, pulling the dagger back. Quill took a few shaky breaths before slowly lowering his hands.

"Forgive me, Gildrick, I have misjudged you." Wil reversed the blade in his hand and sheathed it before continuing, "I was a knight of the Fontel family. I deserted around a year ago and they have sent a few men to track me down. One even made it to The Order. I feared you may have been another assassin when I heard you were part of the nobility."

Wil stepped forward and extended a hand, "I hope you can look past this misstep."

Quill looked up, heart still racing, chest heaving. "It's... uh... alright. I apologize for giving you a fright. And I appreciate you not driving that blade in." 

He rubbed the small cut on his neck before taking Wil's hand. "If you don't mind my asking, why exactly did you desert? From what little I know, you were a renowned knight."

"I'll tell you tomorrow," Wil responded, clapping him on the shoulder. "Give you a good story to add to your book. Let's get to the latrine before we freeze out here."

Quill nodded, still trying to steady his breathing. He watched as Wil walked out of the small alley back out into camp.

He didn't have the heart to tell Wil that he no longer needed the latrine, but could use another trip to the baths.