NsiTharn* Birtim, Sixth of Mishi was not in a good mood. He'd seldom been in one for more than half a year, though the nature of his displeasure had shifted. He had not only Consecrated but was also forth generation Janissary Stock. His father survived his twenty eight years of Janissary service to a honorable discharge and his mother was the daughter of a Janissary Veteran, as was all of his grandparents and great grandparents. From birth he was slated for esteemed service to his masters worthy of his proud pedigree and at age thirteen his wishes were granted and he was assigned to the Corps. He would get to follow in their paths, helping his masters fulfill their destiny and impose their order across the world. Four years of drilling turned him into into a deadly fighter and a decent handler of conscripts. Over the next eight years he saw a few skirmishes and minor battles in which he did his duty and gave as well as he got.







Then came the Assault on Daagsgrad.







His platoon had gotten within two hundred yards of the Infrastructural trenches pouring fire in. He and his men were doing well: Drow warriors and Janissaries were going over the trenches, he'd silenced the defenders and he knew that if this up the day would be theirs before suddenly an order to retreat was given and they had to drop everything and flee to rescue ships. A bullet grazed his shoulder in that mad retreat, but he pressed on as quickly as he could. He collapsed at the landing site, but fortunately there was a conscript from his squad which carried him the last hundred yards onto a waiting transport a minute before it cast of. Both of them stumbled into hold and collapsed into a corner together, all that remained of an entire company. As the two of them sat lay in a heap next to some crates despair set in.





He was ready to die in battle, one huge bound up the divine ladder with either a decent shot of coming back as one of The Masters or to solidify it after the next round of life. Retreats, if ordered, were sometimes necessary. He had done as was commanded without question or fear. Things had seemed to be going well, right up until the end and then he'd fallen back. He pieced together that the Coldlanders had reinforcements coming in, but that did not change the key issue, the battle was a disastrous defeat. Things had looked like they'd been going well, even his company had taken some gruesome casualties getting up close (though not as heavy as the vanguard) and then the Powers that Be decided to call things off. Birtim had lost all of his friends and almost all of those he was tasked to care for and thousands of those Drow Warriors that he revered were cut down by peasant machine worshipers led by uppity golems.







He'd did the task he was given and was in front of him, be it to advance or retreat. In that dark wet hold he wondered if he could have done things better, wondering that if he and his men had pushed on just a bit faster or had crawled along the ground as they fired, possibly moving in small bursts crouched down, had pushed forward harder or some other thing, his company might have made it to that trench-line, slain the Coldlander defenders, made a breach in the lines to let Janissaries and Warriors in. At worst he would have died gloriously. Now he was left with loss and doubts. Eventually he did get past his despair, largely because it fermented into frustration and anger over the hand fate had dealt him.







Then he and eighty two other Janissaries (most of which being fellow survivors of Daagsgrad) were loaded onto a ship sent off some Gods Forsaken patch of wilderness where they were dumped along with a camp full of bewildered fieldslaves, craftslaves and other examples of humans taken from their proper place as well as a gaggle of Feral Mercenaries with some final orders and most surprising of all were formally released. Of all the things he'd considered might happen, the Breaking of Bonds was so far removed that he was left flabbergasted. He'd paddled until they made landfall at this camp called "Fidelium" with his book of instructions in his pack. It was only after a conscript asked him what to do did it all sink in.





They were alone.





They were out in a potentially hostile environment with a gaggle of confused civilians.







They were beyond Drow Guidance and correction, untethered in a chaotic world.



Their only hope in this land of physical and spiritual peril lay in hard work, following the last plan that their masters had given them and remembering to keep the faith in spite of everything. Part of him considered the whole wretched affair to be a subtle sort of punishment by his leaders and he wished that they had simply given them a flogging or have told him to fall on his sword instead. Even so, he had a job to do.







The fact that there was plenty to do kept him focused on matters. He answered to a recently promoted Jaifrel** who had plenty of tasks for him and his men to do, from cutting down clothes to deal with the perpertually warm weather to stenciling in the five ring symbol to arms and armor to setting up shelters to gathering resources to cooking to hunting to farming to training. They had a lot to learn about survival out in the wilds where there were pests larger than rabbits and where supplies were tight even before arms practice. Most of them just knew enough to know what end of a spear you put in the enemy, but it soon became clear that even with them and the blasted Grunderhunds on patrol this was hostile territory. There were people here, angry chicken that came in screaming out of the grass with intent to kill and despoiling their little bastion in this. Fortunately they had little real armor beyond some makeshift helmets and none of it could stop a bullet at two hundred yards or grapeshot. In two months he'd faced down five of their attacks and sent each of them running. In the heat of battle, each bullet he fired and especially those that hit home carried with it a bit his frustrations and brooding anger.





There was still a fair bit of it in the aftermath as he looked overt he fallen as well as the general frustration of searching for a needle in the haystack. The peoples of this baked grassland had little in the line of valuables worth taking. The giant chickens were good eating and they had a few goods which were alright, but there was little in the way of worthwhile jewelry, no coin and their arms and armor rarely got better than just okay. Still, on their own with resupply a long way away, it was worth collecting whatever they could. Finding it in the tall grass was also a pain even with the crows.





On the fifth salvage operation he found something fairly quickly, a young man, a few years past twenty lying in the fields, A bullet had gone through hist torso and he had collapsed. He seemed to be breathing and after a toe prodding he moaned. He was weak, but he probably would survive with a little effort. He used is short sword to cut off part of his cloth armor, made a makeshift bandage to stop the bleeding before tying him up with one of his binding ropes.







"Get up scum..." he growled. Nothing he squirmed a bit, but nothing happened. He did not expect more than that, but a moment's caution was better than a quick death. He then looked around "NsiZaen!***" he barked. A nearby soldier turned around. "Yes sir?"



"We got a live one that can't walk, help me with this bastard."





"Right away sir!"







And so the two of the carried the hogtied native back to the camp of Fidelium to be given a quick look over, a healing potion and finally dropping him off in the Slave Pen. The fieldbosses were having a hard time managing adjusting to managing Free Men and complying with the orders limiting chastisement, but those restrictions did not apply to those natives which they had put into irons. Right here and now, it meant extra hands working to get things in order. In the long term it was something grander. As absurd as this situation was, at the very least Birtim knew that souls were being saved from degeneracy by this act. These poor wretches would soon learn man's place in the divine scheme and their souls shall be refined and set on the along the right path to Drowhood and Godhead. As perilous as this ordeal was, at the very least their was a few noble causes behind it in the long term.





*Literally "Second Blade", a rank roughly equivalent to Sergeant in Valnothron's Janissary Corps, third highest Janissary rank.



**Best transliteration"Elect", Highest rank for Valnothron Janissaries and by far the rarest. Given away to proven veterans of exemplary performance and basically means "First Blade who can order about other First Blades even if they are senior to him". In Fidelium it soon became the equivalent of "Captain".

***"Second Spear", Valnothron Janissary rank equivalent to First private, usually a experienced conscript.



