A Formal Army for the Birth of a Nation

He had practiced writing it several times, an unsteady and unused hand forming spidery letters that somehow were supposed to represent him: a four-letter name.

It felt like signing away his soul.

Rory, 28, Abandoned

Because he might get slapped around for slander but was it slander if it was true? Was it slander if he said it about himself? He allowed himself the small act of rebellion, because no matter her grandiose delusions, he would not let Zariah take from him what he was: Abandoned by his Gods.

At least, not without a fight, even if it was a small, petty insignificant fight, like a small and useless dog yapping at a bear.

Once a soldier, always a soldier, the warrior intonations deep and resplendent, irreverent and seditious, even when they probably shouldn’t be. He watched as more joined the ranks, and he stepped closer, reading the drawn lines, the scattered writing, the listing and adherence of a maligned state. For what cause? he wanted to roar, wanted to howl, wanted to blister, once a part of so many callous crusades, gone to ash, gone to dust, gone to wither in their small, meager accomplishments. Young men died while old men lied. He probably had too – a ghost amidst his friends on those battlefields.

He scrawled his print, neat and fine, practiced and perfected hundreds of other times; his mother wouldn’t have allowed an ignorant son.

Deimos Ignatius, 25, Destined.

He blinked at his father’s name hastened to his; and then at the final one. Destined. Destined for what? Destined to be forsaken? Did a single word change make it believable? Make it right? Make it just?

Rory wouldn't get away with his little act of rebellion that easily. His shoulder was grabbed by one of the guards, a woman who was a magic user and natural like him. Her brows her furrowed, lips curved into a frown. "Rory, I'll give you one chance to fix your mistake, since this is new for everyone. Don't make me arrest you." she said, her voice a low alto tone.

It's stupid, the whole thing. Enlist? As though they don't all have jobs already, purposes, things they do to keep the wheels of their world turning, society maintained.

It's stupid, because it's unnecessary. Where are the invaders they are meant to attack, the enemy that has been invented for them to combat? Nowhere. The Fae have no interest in the Hollowed Ground, nor should they, given the current state of it. If Amalia could run away and live in the Sidhe Village, she likely would.

But most of all, it's stupid because it's sexist. Men? Really? Men? If Amalia wasn't angry before (she was), oh is she angry now.

Walking silently up the the board, staff in hand and Jyoti at her side, she produces a piece of charcoal and boldly inscribes:

Amalia Chandrakant, 21, Attuned

Retreating from the board, Amalia stops to stand beside Rory, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze. Then she turns to the Naturals, both of whom she knows through her mother and grandmother, a dangerous glint in her onyx eyes, a dare for them to protest. "If you have a problem with it, change it yourself."

He watched as a guard swept along to Rory, whispering something about destined and abandoned. The  warrior's eyes flicked back to the signatures, and there was the farmer's, scrawled as Abandoned. Was that what we had to make a fuss about today? Was that worth growling over? Amalia stewed too, adding her name to the list of the army - which set another round of apprehension in his mind, but he let that one go for now.

He stepped back to the sign, took the writing implement, and crossed out Abandoned on Rory's line. Then he neatly printed Destined, so the whole thing would die down, so they could move on, so no one else was arrested, so this stupid moment couldn't be extended into a lifetime of rue and ridiculousness.

Melita was a silly little thing, but silly little things could often stir pots, raise their chins in defiance, and circumvent structures simply because. Her impulsive desires and impetuous nature brought her straight to the notice board and the enlistment signings, but not as herself.

She made Fangorn stay at home. She’d managed to braid her long locks into braids, twist them into a bun, and then place them beneath a hat. She’d bound her breasts beneath her clothing, flattening them out as best she could. The youth couldn’t do much about her other feminine qualities, but she shifted her walk to something more masculine, tucked her hands in her trousers, and made her way to the notice board.

She didn’t glance at anyone she knew; not intending to break character. She strode up to the sign, ignoring the guards, presenting herself as another, though when it came time for her to apply a name, a male’s, she could only think of one.

He won’t mind, she snickered.

In neat lines, likely never his actual handwriting, she printed:

Iskra Firestorm, (then allowed the rest to not be a lie), 18, Accepted .

There. Try and stop her now.

And it didn't take long: Rory hadn't planned on lingering to watch his little insurgence, but a hand grasped his shoulder firmly and he found himself spinning around to face the guard, blue eyes flashing dangerously. He knew who she was, and she told him to fix his mistake or she'd arrest him, and the wolf in him bristled—poked, provoked, an easily roused monster now that it had learned how to bite.

Amalia came to his defense and hot on the heels of her words came his own growl: "How about I give you one chance to fix your mistake?"

It was a moot point anyway, as Deimos was busy changing his race to the Launceleyn-approved wording. Destined, for what? Eternal silence of the Gods? The word burned in his mind, and the betrayal burned in his heart, and with a dark, disgusted glance at the guard he tried to leave the crowd.

The other guard snorted a laugh at Amalia's antics, eolling their eyes to add insult to injury. "What are you gonna do, Amalia, throw bread at combatants? Besides, it only says men are required to sign up, not that women are barred. Welcome to the army, idiot." he snarked, still snickering. What did she think she was doing, making some grandstand?

The woman let go of Rory's shoulder with a shove, still looking severe. "You're lucky your friend fixed that Rory. Get off your damn high horse. You had a chance to help form a government and you walked away. Don't be pissy now that someone more qualified took it."

If the guard anticipated bothering the baker, he must not have known her very well. Amalia tilts her head, still wrathful, quietly eyeing the familiar Abandoned before turning to stare at the one who shoved Rory, her brows lowering in clear disdain. Both of them have frequented her bakery in the past, knew her mother and grandmother, have history and ties. It is too small a place for them to be strangers, too tight a community for all to come undone. "We are complying. We are adjusting. We used to be a community here. Did you really forget that so quickly?" Softly the girl shakes her head, turning to leave with Rory and Deimos, to wait for the fallout of her impulsive decisions to rain down upon her like shrapnel and dirt.

It is difficult to miss, to pass by without pause, for the sign wreaks of something foreign, alluring, delicious.

Still more curious is, as her inquisitive eyes trace the running line of the title (and just below it), the woman’s voice resonating between her ears, inside her mind, carving clean through all awakened thought there, echoing the same message that she reads.

Guards stand beside it like shadowy stone pillars in the dimming eve and the soft features of her face twist into an expression of unabashed curiosity, intrigue. She is not intimidated, why should she be? Doe-like, expressive blue eyes turn first to one giant, and then to the other, lips pursed and brows risen; then a smile, two rows of perfectly aligned teeth.

She slithers forward carefully, blatantly, nearer, tilting forward at the hip, fingers intertwined by the tail, to inspect the message more closely.

“Goodness!” One hand veers home to catch the gasp as she swings a glance by each present. “…And protect we shall!” Taking the pen (and sniffing it first, how could she not), reaching up while on the very tips of her toes, the Fae begins to write below “I-s-k-r-a? Very exotic...”

Niambh Sirideán, 98...

Suddenly she frowns, uncertain what to put at the end. Bright gaze lifts to see what other enlisters have written before her, and she concludes after a moment’s deliberation that she too will leave it blank, or-

Unknown.

The two guards stared at the Fae woman in confusion, glancing at eachother to see if the other understood what they did not. Clearly not. What was this woman doing? Was she dumb? "Lady, yer clearly Fae. What are you doing signing up for our army? Ain't you in Delah's?" one finally said to Niambh , believing this to be a big joke.

Arick had only been in the Hollowed Grounds for a very short time and already he was learning so much about this new world he was living in now. It was almost as if he was brand new to magic again, though it still felt weird this place was being led by someone who called those use magic Destined, and now a formal army? Arick really wasn't one to get involved in physical altercations with others, he much preferred diplomacy.

Nevertheless, he waited for the various people to sign up before he chose to do so. It was interesting seeing someone get in trouble for simply using "Abandoned" versus "Destined," and in Arick's mind he could tell he would not like this leader, especially because in his world men were required to sign up for the draft, so this was basically the same thing.

He thought in his mind, "Ugh, I'll just sign up and get it over with. Besides, I'm tired of hearing her voice..."

With a blank expression on his face, Arick walked up and quickly penned his information, walking off without even waiting to be acknowledged.

Arick Fonteneux, 30, Destined

Sascha was terrified, what were the odds he ended up in a world where this JUST happened? In his own world he had left the army and lived by himself since he brought shame upon his family and he couldn't belive he was back at the same moment.. Signing up for an army, again. He went up to sign and his whole body was shaking, this was how people like him ended up dying no doubt. His eyes went over the paper and felt his entire spine freezing over.. He couldn't read whatever it said on the form which made him almost pale as a corspe. What was he gonna do? Embaressed and dead on the inside he started to in a low voice speak to the guard. "Im sorry.. i cant read this language.. could you please type out Sascha Bach, 20, Destined for me?" He felt like he should just go dig his own grave by now then lay in it and starve to death. That way it would be very little work to just dump dirt on him and leave him be. Seamed like he could not escape no matter what he did or WHERE he ended up..

Though the architecture of the old building is exquisite, domineering, nothing like the (still preferred) tree-houses in Sidhe, Niambh’s focus remains intact.

One guard speaks a vast generalisation, confusion ripe upon him, and her gaze narrows his way indignantly; the display is brief and she means no harm, soon freeing the tethered smile to again run rampant through her sweet, though stern, expression.

“It seems your queen and I share one common interest.” Honeyed tone implies as she stretches a finger, arm, torso, to point out the very sentence that says it: “This service is for the protection of the larger population in lieu of potentially violent foreign nations within Caido.” Those pearly whites glint in the amber glow of the temple.

After awhile, an awkward silence and apparently no ground gained, the tiny Fae rolls her eyes playfully and sighs. “I don’t fight for Delah,” she divulges with animated features, as though it were an epiphany, throwing slack arms out to each side, “I fight for your fancy Queen. Says so right here!”

There, in black, beneath the soft pad of her index finger, was the pledge.