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Faywyn.

Verily, 'twas common knowledge that the world lay shrouded in its darkest veil but a few hours before the break of dawn. Sombre shadows and the mists of morning did roam the open field. The golden hue of the rising sun did stain the horizon with crimson, whilst dark, gloomy clouds did drift lazily upon the gentle late summer breeze. Carefree and unrestrained was it. A quiet morn it proved to be. The willowy tune of the wandering winds meandered across the town, heralding the soothing awakening of dawn.

Donner stood amidst his fellow militiamen, his heart a-thump within his chest as their instructors barked orders at them. Sweat dripped down his back, and his arms ached. Before joining the militia, he had never held a weapon of war, let alone trained to wield one as demanding as the pike thrust upon him by his masters. The weapon proved rather hefty, its long wooden shaft tapering toward one end whereupon an iron point was affixed. Slinged over his shoulder was an equally large, yet light shield, which, as per his trainers, he ought to draw upon at a moment's notice.

About him, his fellow militiamen stood tall and straight, the metal tips of their weapons glinting in the dim light. The sound of boots crunching upon the grass behind alerted him to Ser Liam's approach. The former bannerman of House Hera was a gruff, no-nonsense man who suffered little. As was his wont, he paced along the line, barking commands with an emotion bordering on sadism

"Raise your pikes!" the knight shouted. "Hold them level and keep your grip tight. Now, thrust!"

Weary, Donner clumsily thrust his pike forth, feeling the weight of the weapon as it traversed the air. Heavy it proved, as expected and he struggled to maintain his balance.

Alas for him, the instructor took notice, a scowl creeping upon his visage. "You there!" Ser Liam bellowed, his voice resounding 'cross the training yard. "What was that? You call that a thrust? I've seen better from a drunken tavern-wench suffering from a bout of devil's feet!"

There were but few stifled chuckles, yet none dared to laugh lest they drew the knight's ire. Donner wilted beneath the man's withering gaze, his already flushed countenance turning bright crimson. "I do beg your pardon, sir," he stammered.

"Pardon?" the knight snarled. "You've been here for over a week, and you still can't even manage a proper thrust? What are you? Some even more useless variant of a sack of potatoes?"

Donner flinched as Ser Liam drew nearer, his eyes ablaze with anger. "Listen well, boy," he growled. "I have no patience for incompetence. Your good lord doth demand I mould soldiers from you lot, else my hide shall adorn his chamber as a rug for his fancy bed. Personally, I do prefer my hide where it is, and I'd rather not see it fashioned into a rug. Do you understand?" Donner nodded. "Good," the man purred. "We train you to be the best, yet you must meet us halfway, aye? Show some initiative and dedication, else..."

Donner swallowed. "...Aye, sir."

The knight glared at him for a moment longer before turning around. "Raise your pikes and thrust, ye cockless maggots! Thrust!"

Donner ignored the ache within his shoulder muscles as he did as he was bidden to his utmost ability, his hands trembling with nerves. This was a far cry from the humble toil upon the farm to which he was accustomed, and even further from what he had anticipated when he pledged to join the earl's burgeoning army. Alas, it was too late to retreat now; the penalty for desertion, if captured, was nought but a proper hanging. The two desiccated corpses swinging from the bough of a distant tree bore testimony to the earl's callous resolve.

Ser Liam strode along the line, his gaze fixed upon each of them in turn. "You're here to learn discipline," he growled, "and discipline does entail obedience. If I bid you to jump, you ask how high. Understood?"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"Right, your pikes! Now, march!" The formation began to lumber forth slowly. "I said, march! Move, ye maggots! Move! I shall fashion fine soldiers from ye worthless lot yet, mark my words!"

Donner emptied a bowl atop his head, relishing in the sensation of cold water cascading down his sore muscles. "Who do you reckon the earl trains us to oppose?" Trim—or Sawyer Trim as he was known in town—inquired as Donner stooped to fetch another bowl of water from his pail.

One among them, a rather short bloke going by the name Mob shrugged. "Dunno," quoth he, "I have heard whispers that the young lord was spooked by the conflict in Bycrest, and thus he's having 'em train us so his little arse can feel safer. 'Tis the way of nobles, mad as hatters."

"What did you expect?" another man, whose name escaped Donner, whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "He is young and highborn. To be rattled by a war more than a month's march away is the norm for his ilk... Yet, what if there comes a day when we are dispatched to battle? He had promised to pay us monthly, whether battle doth ensue or not. I wager no noble of worth would freely part with coin sans some gain to be had. Perchance those in their gilded estates know more than they do reveal unto us."

"If indeed a war does arise, I shall fight still," Mob remarked, a hint of uncertainty colouring his tone. ""If yer thinks about it properly, aside from plunder, there lies a greater chance for profit."

"Profit?" Trim queried, bemused.

"Consider this," Mob continued as Donner reached behind to cleanse a dry patch upon his back. "In the event of war, regardless of our training, the young lord shall not dispatch us to the field, aye? 'Tis plain we are being schooled only in spearplay or archery, both to be waged from the safety of the Keep. Should all unfold as planned, we may hold fast within the fortress until the lord's vassals muster their hosts to our aid, whereupon many amongst us may find themselves richly rewarded for valour in battle."

"Yer mean..." Trim began, his words trailing off.

"Aye. Some fortunate sod among us may yet earn knighthood for delivering an arrow into the backside of some lordly noble. Preferably whilst atop then fancy walls."

The men fell silent as they pondered this notion, yet Donner, though their arguments seemed logical, still deemed knighthood a distant prospect. Nonetheless, the rest bore a semblance of sense, and whilst certain aspects remained unclear, Mob did make a valid point. Perchance this was truly an opportunity...

If they should survive such a war, that is.

Yet who could say if war were imminent? For all they know, the Duke may return come springtide with his retinue of knights, dispersing the young lord's militia and restoring all to its former state.

Donner brushed aside such musings as he poured yet another bowl of water over his head before departing the bathing area to attire himself in fresh tunics. With a weary sigh, he made his way back to the barracks, the once lush, wooden-fenced enclosure now trampled bare, its grounds speckled with rows of linen tents. There, he fetched water from the barracks' shallow well to cleanse his worn garments before hanging them upon a line to dry.

Save for a scant few essentials and the wooden hovel where dwelled another knight—the house master—the barracks stood devoid of any other structure. Having returned his pail and bowl to his shared tent, Donner swiftly joined a queue to partake of his morning meal, despite the sun nearly fully rising to its crest.

Training... 'Twas torture. Following this meal, they would resume their cursed training before attending literacy class a little before evening. At least, literacy class proved tolerable, and afterwards, dinner would be served. Alas, their merciless instructors would assuredly demand further exertion before granting respite for bathing and slumber.

Then rinse and repeat the next day.