Quoted By:
By the end of the week’s Drill Rota, you are a piece of dried leather left out far too long in the sun. Your exhaustion is total, never have you been pushed to the limits of physical exertion and hard lessons even during your term of service as a youth in the Comitas border forts under the severe gaze of Brother-Sergeant Jesaul. Your regimen with your old master-at-arms in Castle Andrei, which you had once considered tough for a boy your age, now appears a time of whimsy comfort and lackadaisical exercise by comparison.
A rare cynical thought weighs in during your state of weariness, that perhaps the officers of the Guard only push their charges so hard and so mercilessly to ensure that everyone is too fatigued to get up to any mischief during their Reserve Rota. Sir Ibram says you get used to it, both in body and mind, but that’s easy enough for him to say reading his book as his broken arm heals. You’ve avoided any lasting injuries beyond scrapes and bruises, aside from muscles you didn’t even know you had screaming at you in protest. Nonetheless you glare at your comrades sling with such rank jealousy that you make a note to include it in your next confession, whenever that may prove to be.
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