*image images/defiledhearts3.png
*page_break

Chapter 1

[b][i]Fall of 192[/i][/b]

Was I always like this? Were my veins always pulsing with self-devouring hatred, my mind numb with rage? 

No.

It wasn’t always like this.

I was—

*fake_choice

    #...a quiet and calm child.

        *set disciplined +10 

        *set calm_child true

        I observed the world and people around me, deep in thought. Seldom in my childhood did I let my emotions control me. My father called me an old soul. He teased how I’m more mature than he ever was. Mother agreed. She complimented my steady mind and expressionless features. She said that’s what it takes to live in this world. To not let anyone know what you’re thinking and not letting anything bother you.

        

        Things did bother me. I just never told her that. Those rare instances when I laughed were with my  father. He had the most stupid jokes I’ve ever heard, in no way funny in their own right, but the way he delivered them as if they were.

        *page_break

    #...an outspoken and jovial child.

        *set brazen +10

        *set brazen_child true

        I never had any trouble of speaking my mind, but I did get in trouble for it. Mainly with mother. She disapproved of my free-spirited antics in the grove and I received punishments for my witty one-liners and ill-timed grins. At times I saw father behind her back, giving me his conspiratory approval. One time, mother caught him doing this. 

        

        In the end, no one laughed but me.

        *page_break

    #...an empathetic and mindful child.

        *set ruthless -10

        *set empathetic_child true

        I wanted to help anyone I could whenever I could. But I quickly found out that I couldn’t. One time my heart shattered when I saw a dead baby hare in the woods, curled up into herself, trying to keep the hunger and coldness of the outside world at bay. She died alone and afraid. I wished I was there. I wish I could’ve warmed and fed her, to comfort her. But she was already gone by the time I found her.

        

        Mother disapproved of my softness. The world is harsh and needs powerful leaders; she said. Father told me I was what the world needed. He said it needed people who saw the beauty of the world and mourned its cruelty.

        *page_break

    #...a mischievous child, prone to rash decisions.

        *set disciplined -10

        *set imp_child true

        I let my gut guide me through my childhood, and it led me into numerous troubles, mainly with mother. When her back was turned during a lecture, I started climbing the holy oak. Its branches were sturdy and ideal for it. How could I resist? When I reached the top, panting and victorious, mother threatened to burn down the oak to get me down. Of course she wouldn’t do it. It took until the night for her to give up and leave. Soon, father fetched me. He tried to sound disciplinary, but the way the corners of his mouth curled when he thought I couldn’t see told otherwise.

        *page_break

        

It all changed when they came.
*page_break

The Romans.

"—Do you swear to give your freedom and your life to the Emperor of Rome?" The man shouts. His golden piece of armor shows an image of flashy abdominal muscles. In reality it's hiding behind a fat belly.

"I swear," I vow without hesitation in unison of a hundred men.

The Legate. One of the men who did this to me and my family.

"Your training begins now, and soon your bodies belong to Rome. Make us proud!"

He grants the men a smile. A fake one; how else could a Roman scum like him smile. He has three bodyguards. Reaching him would be hard.

Reaching him…

In order to do what? What am I doing here?

*fake_choice
    #I'm determined to kill him. And everyone responsible for my family's death.
        *set hatred "determined"
        What else could I be doing here? He needs to die. Everyone responsible for my family's death needs to die.
        
        Since it all happened, it's as if there's been nothing but hatred in me. Filling my soul, making it stronger, more resilient. 
    #...I don't know. As horrifying the thought is, I can't exactly remember how I got here. 
        *set hatred "manipulated"
        Everything is a blur before my mind woke up with my name in the Roman documents as a new conscript. All I know is that there's a hole in my chest, oozing with pain and hatred. It lits up every now and then, wanting to lash out and destroy.
        
        The thoughts of murder and revenge pop into my mind without my will, igniting my body with anger.
        
        It's as if I can't control it.
        
        Can I? Is it just my imagination?

I'm awoken from my daze when a man's red face invades my line of vision: An Auxiliary Optio with a vein popping on his temple. A barbarian, like me. 

No. Not like me. A traitor beating his own kin.

"Are you deaf?" He shouts.

"No, Lord Optio," I reply with the level of Roman discipline expected of me. A lesson learned the hard way.

"Eyes up front!" He bares his yellow teeth, the odor of his breath forcing its way into my nostrils. A mixture of vinegar, cinnamon, and something rotten.

Lovely.

He raises his wooden rod, the one with a shining metal knob, meant to inflict maximum amount of pain. It must've smacked its fair share of soldier's soft shins and asses over the years – places which could take a beating with little injury. 

I lock my eyes ahead and prepare for the blow. Men like him want to see their opponents flinch, they feed on it. He will be disappointed.

"A tough one? We'll see about that." He raises his wild bushes of eyebrows in anticipation. This is a picture of a man who loves his job.

*page_break Smack!

A practiced blow meets with my already beaten shin and the familiar taste of iron spreads through my tastebuds as I bite my tongue. But I won't scream.

The man sneers with disappointment over my non-reaction and with a scoff he moves on, all the while shouting insults to the men gathered on the courtyard.

"Lousy, undisciplined barbarian scum. I'll consider you a Roman when – and I repeat: [b]only[/b] when you behave like Romans."

Judging by the approving nods the others give him, they don't find the idea of being a Roman repulsive.

*if hatred = "determined"
    Despicable fools.

The Optio's eyes are filled with undisguised disdain. "Fuck me if a lot like you succeeds."

"Did your mother dress you like a bunch of dirty beggars?! Fetch a proper gear. In an orderly line!"

*page_break 

The men peer at each other, some with excitement, some with nervousness. All of them are Britons, none my people. They were the first to bend the knee to the Roman invaders, my people were one of the last to fall on the whole island.

They haven't fallen yet. Not all of them.

I'm here to remind them.

Hate takes a familiar grip of my heart, making my calloused fingers penetrate the skin of my palms. During the last couple of months, there's been nothing in me but
*if hatred = "determined"
    fuming hatred, empowering me, drowning every other emotion under it. It's better that way.
*if hatred = "manipulated"
    suffocating hatred, drowning the other emotions under it. It feeds on my sorrow.
        
What else could there be? Companionship? Bonding? …Love? 

No. 

The Romans took it all away from me.

"Move it, you maggots!" 

A line of barbarian vagabonds starts to follow the ringleader with little objections. Our unsynchronized rhythm of steps echo harsh on a stone pavement.

*page_break
"Oh wow!" A young man gasps in wonder as we enter the Quartermaster's lair. I shake my head as my eyes land back to the floor, stifling the same sense of awe which took over the wheat-haired lad with his mouth hanging open. The unknown deities made of stone glare at the barbarian newcomers with their painted eyes.

Why are there so many statues and pillars in a place like this? A man with too much riches to spend wastes it on such frivolities in a place meant for mere soldiers. A telltale of the Legate? Or a Roman custom?

A clerk waits for our arrival behind his desk. His gaze is dull as he executes his duties by handing the first in line their equipment. When it's my turn, he barely takes his eyes off of the parchment in front of him.

"Name?" He asks in broken Celtic.

I can't possibly give him my real name, but I have a nickname in mind: 

"Hati."

I heard the term and learned the mythology behind it from the merchants who were happy to share their culture with me by the fire. It translates into the one who hates, a myth about a wolf who tries to devour the sun.

Fitting.

My real name, however, is…

*label real_name
*choice
    #[i](List of masculine names)[/i]
        *goto male_list
    #[i](List of feminine names)[/i]
        *goto female_list
    #[i](List of gender neutral names)[/i]
        *goto genderneutral_list
    #It's...
        *input_text name
        *goto name_chosen?
*label male_list
*choice
    #Angus
        *set name "Angus"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Bevyn 
        *set name "Bevyn"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Carden  
        *set name "Carden"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Killian 
        *set name "Killian"
        *goto name_chosen? 
    #Edan 
        *set name "Edan"
        *goto name_chosen? 
    #Ferris
        *set name "Ferris"
        *goto name_chosen? 
    #Murray
        *set name "Murray"
        *goto name_chosen? 
*label female_list
*choice
    #Aina
        *set name "Aina"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Briana
        *set name "Briana"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Cara
        *set name "Cara"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Devona
        *set name "Devona"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Eveline
        *set name "Eveline"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Gweneth
        *set name "Gweneth"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Maeve
        *set name "Maeve"
        *goto name_chosen?
*label genderneutral_list
*choice
    #Blair
        *set name "Blair"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Kuno
        *set name "Kuno"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Bret
        *set name "Bret"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Morgan
        *set name "Morgan"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Letha
        *set name "Letha"
        *goto name_chosen?
    #Keary
        *set name "Keary"
        *goto name_chosen?
    
*label name_chosen?
My real name is ${name}.
*choice
    #Yes.
        *goto name_chosen
    #No, it's...
        *goto real_name
    
*label name_chosen

"Uh-huh. You know Latin?" 

"Of course," I reply. Almost fluently, to the inevitable surprise of the Roman. My father was a chieftain, my mother a druid, and thus no one in my whole tribe received the same level of education I did. He sighs in relief as his demeanor shifts into a more receptive one, switching into Latin before taking a better look at me. 

"I wasn't sure. You all look quite savage. And, shit, you're…"

*fake_choice
    #"tall!"
        *set height "tall"
        "What an imposing barbarian you are." He smirks. 
        
        All it takes is that you're half a head taller than the others and they start singling you out for it.
        
        A tired sigh escapes me. Hurry up.
    #"short. At least for a barbarian."
        "Excuse me?"
        
        "Aren't you supposed to be like 10 heads taller than that?"
        
        10? That's just ridiculous. I don't appreciate his tone, besides…
        *fake_choice
            #I'm quite average.
                *set height "average"
                What sort of a giant was he expecting? I'm perfectly average.
            #I can't help my somewhat short stature.
                *set height "short"
                I shift uncomfortably as he peers – quite theatrically – from behind his desk with furrowed brows. "How did they even let you here?"
                
                A tired sigh escapes me. I'm not [i]that[/i] short. "I'll have you know no one even questioned it."
                
                That's a lie. There was a few who did. But they needed men so they weren't that picky. I'm just half a head shorter than the others, and they still held it against me.
                
                "Uh-huh." He doesn't look convinced but it's not his place to fight the decision, either. "Not that it matters that much with you lot. You're not Legionaries."
                
                "Uh-huh," I reply.
                
"And your hair…"

Consciously my hand wanders to…

*fake_choice
    #the bun on top of my head.
        *set hair_bun true
        I didn't see the need to cut it, since the Romans don't mind their barbarians looking the part, at least hairstyle-wise. The recruiter gave me a few side-glances, but all in all people seem mostly unbothered by my appearance.
        
        Save for this individual.

        "Oh wow, that's a barbaric look." He looks awe-struck as his eyes wander on my head without shame or restriction, acting as if the penetrating gaze is his right.
        
        A typical Roman.
    #my short hair.
        *fake_choice
            #Which I cut to fit in.
                *set hair_forced_cut true
                I was never one to cut my hair so short. It feels unfamiliar and makes me conscious of my looks. However, the Romans' preferred hairstyle is on the shorter side, especially in the army, so I had little choice in order to remain inconspicuous.
            #Which I've always kept short.
                The Romans' preferred hairstyle is on the shorter side, especially in the army, so I fit right in.
                
The color of my hair is…
*fake_choice
    #brown.
        *set hair "brown"
        Quite an ordinary color for any barbarian or Roman. The man seems disappointed by the fact that he can't take a jab at the outlandish color.
    #red.
        *set hair "red"
        His eyes squint even more when he examines the color. 
        
        "Even your eyebrows are red!" He gasps. Maybe I should charge him for gawking at me with such intensity.
        
        "I don't know what to tell you." I sigh, waiting for him to get this over with. Eventually he yields his antics and moves his attention to the stack of equipment.
    #blond. 
        *set hair "blond"
        His eyes squint even more when he examines the color. 
        
        "Even your eyebrows are blond!" He gasps. Maybe I should charge him for gawking at me with such intensity. There are blond Romans, what's his problem?
        
        "I don't know what to tell you." I sigh, waiting for him to get this over with. Eventually he yields with his antics and moves his attention to the stack of equipment.
    #black.
        *set hair "black"
        Quite an ordinary color for any barbarian or a Roman. The man seems disappointed by the fact that he can't take a jab at the outlandish color.
        
"You have the money for the better stuff? Or you wanna settle for shit?"

My hands wander to my leather bag containing all the money I managed to scrape together before my escape. It's a hefty sum, more than the usual soldier carries. Should I use some of it to buy good quality equipment? It would make me stand out more. The men in the army are not rich, judged by the amount of patches in their clothing.

*fake_choice
    #Buy the better stuff.
        *set clothes "fine"
        "Just give me the good stuff."
        
        "You ain't getting that with some barbarian copper, you know. We're talking about real silv—"
        
        He pauses when I shove a couple of silver coins on the counter. "Huh."
        
        "It's an… inheritance."
        
        "Uh-huh." He doesn't look convinced, but still hands me the stack of quality clothing and a decorative belt. There's a couple of tunics and a pair leather boots.
        
        *fake_choice
            #I've always appreciated nicer things.               
                *set hobby_fashion true
                I can't help but be drawn to the nicer things. I know my way with dyes, matching colors, and textiles. I never really had a shortage of nice clothes. 
                
                The stack contains a couple of tunics, dyed either red or yellow. The color is made with cheap dyes, but it's a nice change from the sea of brown or bleached tunics many recruits wear.
                        
                At least it's something.
            #Even though I never bothered with fashion or such.
                I've never been one to brag with my clothes, but they were always good quality. Even if I don't care for the aesthetics, everybody knows the functionality of an apparel suffers from bad quality.
                
                I take a quick look at the shoes. They have a sturdy bottom and the quality of the leather is quite passable.
                
    #Settle for lesser quality.
        *set clothes "cheap"
        "I'll settle."
        
        "I assumed that much, you look like a beggar." 
        
        He throws a stack of worn clothes at me. They're clearly second – or fourth – hand clothes, already seen their better days.  There are two tunics, both of them over-sized and bleached white…ish. There's a belt with little to no decorations, intended to keep the ill-fitting tunic in place. 
        
        Well… I'm not here to put on a fashion show.
        
        *fake_choice 
            #The thought twinges my heart.
                *set hobby_fashion true
                I can't help but be drawn to the nicer things, and I know it's largely due to my past and status. I know may way with dyes, matching colors, and different fabrics. I never really had a shortage of nice clothes.
                
                That's why this pile of atrocious rags is almost an insult.
                
                It will have to do.
            #They're just clothes.
                Their main purpose is to keep one from being butt-naked, what does it matter how they look.

As I take in the new equipment, I just notice the clerk coming back from the backroom with two pieces of armor. "You want a segmentata or hamata?"
        
"Huh?"
        
*if hobby_fashion
    *set armor "segmentata"
    "You look like you take care of your gear, take the segmentata. This looks like your size."   
    
    He hands me my new armor. It looks impressive: there are overlapping metal strips, making it look like scales. A classic sight in the battlefield against the Legionaries.
        
    The man nods. "It looks good, but you need to take a good care of it. Otherwise it will rust."
    
    *if clothes = "cheap"
        The armor is somewhat poorly-kept, there are outsets of rust here and there.  I'll have to do something about it before it spreads further.
    
    *if clothes = "fine"
        The armor is clearly well-kept, even if there are marks of previous usage on it. Someone must've cared for this.
        
*if not (hobby_fashion)
    *set armor "hamata"
    "I would not recommend segmentata. It requires work and you seem like the type not interested in that."
    
    He hands me the… hamata? A mail armor. There are small metal rings linked together to form a mesh. It's not a terribly impressive design, but I suppose it will do its job.

    "To clean it, just put it in a bag with sand and shake." He shakes an imaginary bag of sand in his hand, as if I wasn't familiar with the action of shaking something. "That's all it takes. A bit of oil now and then."
    
    "Sandbag?"
    
    He sighs with an eyeroll. "Look, I'm not here to babysit you, just take it."

"Take those disgusting dishcloths off." 

He motions my rags, meant to cover me from any unwanted attention while I was on the move from Britannia. People don't look twice at someone who looks like they sleep in a ditch. Robbers tend to keep their distance, too. It was its own challenge to persuade the recruiter I have enough funds and skill to join the army. 

"In front of all these people?" I peer behind me, where there is at least a dozen of men waiting in line. He sighs, annoyed that I'm taking too much of his precious time, even though he was the one to waste all that time with needless scrutinization of my appearance.

"Is that a problem?"

*fake_choice
    #"Not really." [i](set sex as a male)[/i]
        *set sex "male"
        He rolls his eyes. "Do it then."
        
        I quickly change in order not to piss the man off more than he is already. This is no time for bashfulness. 
        
        I take a quick look at my new apparel.
    #I can't let them see my bound breasts. [i](set sex as a female)[/i]
        *set sex "female"
        "No…"
        
        He rolls his eyes. "Do it then."
        
        "Fine." I look at the men behind me getting uneasy with the delay. "Can I have some privacy while changing?" 
        
        "Well aren't you a fancy barbarian, are you from a fucking lumber palace or something? Should I call you your highness?"
        
        No use speaking civil with that creature of a man. I sigh and take the gear from him.
        
        I'll just say that this is a bandage for my rash or something. Maybe a native custom. Or maybe I'm fast enough to keep them from knowing any better. No need to speculate what they'd do if they found out I snuck into their army base.
        
        Better not to think about that.
        
        Just as I'm preparing to take my shirt off, hoping I can set a world record on the speed of shirt changing, a yell from outside:
        
        *page_break "FIRE!"
        
        Every pair of eyes in the room shot to look at the door, some ready to dart off. "Stay where you are!" A yell. A few worried expressions. The commotion is enough for me to change into the damnable tunic.
        
        "False alarm. Back to your duties, morons!" A shout from outside restores order in the room. "Who the fuck yelled that, I'm gonna beat the living shit…" The sound of a yelling officer furthers from the building.
        
        Who set the false alarm? A divine intervention? 
        
        No matter. I don't have time to think about that.
        
        I take a moment to take a better look at my new tunic.
        
*if clothes = "cheap"
    It's large…    
    *fake_choice
        #even for my heavy-built frame.
            *set build "heavy"
            Muscle-exercise has been a part of my lifestyle for years and it shows on my figure. So it's no surprise the tunic is way too small for me.
                
            It clenches on my ribs, making it hard to breathe. 
        #which is not a surprise, really. I've always been on the lithe side.
            *set build "lithe"
            This, however, is ridiculous. I look like a man stuffed inside a potato sack.
        #for my average frame. 
            *set build "average"
            I guess I was expecting the tunics be, well, [i]average[/i] size. Too much to ask for. It hangs on me like a potato sack. 
    
    *if hobby_fashion
        I hate it already.
    
    I fasten the belt of my ill-fitting tunic with a slight frown. At least I'll fit in with the others. Few can afford the good stuff and the questions about where the money came from would be inconvenient.
    
    Never minding the tunic, however, the shoes are the ones that will pose a problem. They don't fit, of course, but the bottom of the boots are questionable, they're badly beaten-up due to years of marching. The grip will be a nightmare.
    
*if clothes = "fine"
    It's quite a good fit for my…
    *fake_choice
        #average frame.
            *set build "average"
            Which isn't a surprise, really. It's easy to find fitting clothes when you're of a size of majority of the people.
        #heavy-built frame.
            *set build "heavy"
            Muscle-exercise has been a part of my lifestyle for years and it shows on my figure. Unfortunately, sometimes it makes it harder to find fitting clothes. This, however, fits me almost perfectly.
        #lithe frame.
            *set build "lithe"
            I've always been more on the slimmer side, and sometimes clothes can look like a potato sack on me. This however, fits almost perfectly.
            
I don't even have to see my reflection to know that I'd go for a Roman soldier. Also, technically… I am a Roman soldier. At least after I survive the recruitment phase.

What does it matter how I look, anyway.

*if hatred = "manipulated"
    Whether I like it or not, it seems 
I'm on a suicide mission.

*page_break
The sounds of horses and chickens mix with the odd yells from commanding officers as a bitter German breeze collides with my skin. The fort is massive in size, easily bigger than our village. The stone walls surrounding the area protect the Roman soldiers from German attacks. Even if the province is secured and Romanized, there's still the looming threat of the hostile barbarians.

The Romans fear them, as they should. Everyone knows what happened in the Teutoburg forest: The Romans got their asses handed to them. That's the whole reason they won't let the conscripted stay in their own province. That's the only reason why I'm here, in a foreign land.

Alone.

The Optio leads us through the fort, showing us the most important buildings with little to no interest, as if we're taking his precious time. There's a hospital building, a guardhouse, latrines, stables, even a market… 

This place is almost a town in itself.

Groups of Legionaries march past us from time to time and some of the younger soldiers throw a few glances at the new barbarian recruits. Mostly, however, our entourage seems to be of little interest to the Roman elite troops.

"You ain't sleeping here. This is the barracks of the Legionaries."

The Optio leads us away from the barracks. After a couple of miles of a road surrounded by tombstones we're lead to a smaller fort, much less impressive in size and decoration. A diverse chatter of different languages and dialects fill the air, and the gazes thrown at the new barbarians hold less animosity.

Our tents await us. Recruits don't get to sleep inside.

*if ((build = "average") or (build = "lithe"))
    A groan escapes me as I throw the heavy equipment on the ground. That will be its own challenge to get used to. Grunts of curses surround me, fellow light-weights sharing the sentiment.

*if build = "heavy"
    I lay the equipment on the ground with ease. It's heavy, but nothing I can't handle. Grunts of curses surround me, some of the soldiers aren't as used to the weight.
    
    Poor sods, they're in for a rude couple of months.

*page_break
As soon as I start making myself at home, a pitiful yell reaches my ears. Instinctively I walk towards the source, knowing fully well what's taking place to cause such a pain-filled scream.

There's the same rotten-smelling man bullying another recruit. The victim is a small lad this time, barely 15 summers under his belt; the same boy who gasped at the statues. The small frame, the baby-fat still lingering on his features…

He reminds me of someone. A frown follows the thought: He looks like my dead baby-brother.

The thought spears my heart as my mind tries to race to review things that happened. I deny its course with a bite of my lip, and another scream brings me back to reality. Should I help the boy?
*goto_scene chapter1_kegan kegan_help?

*label ch1_bath
*page_break
[b][i]At the entrance of the bath house[/i][/b]

My gaze rests on one of the biggest building in the area as the feelings of both annoyance and awe mix together. Stupid Romans and their grand buildings.

As I start to stomp towards the bath, my boots begin to slip on the rocky pavement. 

Shit!

My head hits the stone.

With a deep sigh and a throbbing head I'm left laying there, annoyed at the world, the Roman stone pavements, my boots—

"Replace your hobnailed boots with leather ones next time, soldier."

A woman with clean cut brown hair peers at me, her lopsided smile patronizing me in my vulnerable state. "Holds better in the stone." She offers her hand.

*fake_choice
    #Take it.
        Reluctantly I take her hand, taking a quick note of the smoothness of her skin. She's of higher status. Also, she's stronger than she looks, she hoists me up with little trouble.
        
        *if ch1_shitter
            After she lets go of my hand, she quickly inspects her own with a wrinkled nose. I realize that my hands are, indeed, stained with feces. At least that works as an unintentional revenge for her mocking words. 
    #Refuse it.
        Her smile doesn't die from my refusal, if anything, it seasons it with sneer. I get up on my own, frown still weighing down my mood. She scoffs, but says nothing. 

She wears a simple blue tunic with more pride than the garment would let on, and the atmosphere she emanates easily associated with the nobility. However, her slightly tanned skin implies of labor in the sun.

What is she doing in a bath meant mainly for soldiers? And at this hour?
    
She gives me a small smirk. "There's an even more impressive bath house in the town. This is meant for mere soldiers. I saw you admiring this one before you fell over."

*fake_choice
    #"I wasn't admiring it."
        "Oh? I could've sworn your jaw was hugging the very same pavement you so unceremoniously fell onto."
        
        I scoff at the accusation.
    #"It's impressive."
        "I can imagine. For a man from the North." 
        
        A comment meant to ridicule me further? But there's no mockery in her features.
    #Remain silent.
        She raises her brow at me, but nods. 
        
"Are you still in the mood for bathing, soldier?" She leaves without hearing my answer, her strut poised and determined. She gives the air of advancing to an important location, not just a building meant for relaxation.

As we enter the baths, I make a point of not letting my gaze linger on the yellow-marbled floor. The woman snickers almost inaudibly before pointing me in the right direction. "The men's changing room is in there."

As I enter the room, the tone of the decorations shift from lavish statues into vulgar mosaics depicting different sex acts.

The walls are littered with portrayals of naked people doing [i]things[/i] to each other.

*fake_choice
    #Blush and turn my gaze away.
        *set dominant -1
        The perverted art takes me by surprise, making my gaze fall to the ground as the warmth spreads across my cheeks. 
        
        Why would they keep such a display for everyone to see?
        
        Stupid, pervert Romans.
    #Blush and keep looking.
        *set shy_perv true
        *set dominant -1
        Even though the skin of my cheeks heat with embarrassment, my gaze lingers on the art. I've never seen, or even imagined, most of the positions displayed here. There are even scenes with more than two people.
        
        A loud bang makes me almost yelp in surprise, the fear of someone seeing my interest in such vulgarity heat the rest of my face with embarrassment. 
        
        But there's no one to witness my embarrassment. Thank the Twins.
    #Peer at them with interest.
        *set brazen_perv true
        I've never even thought of some of the positions on display here. There are even scenes with more than two people.
        
        It seems that the Romans have a side to them I did not expect: 
        
        They're a bunch of perverts.
    #Ignore them.
        Never minding the needlessly pervert decoration, I proceed to changing my clothes.

*if sex = "female"
    As I peel off the dirty clothes and the raw air touches my skin, the bindings start to squeeze my ribs with more vigor. They are begging to get peeled off with the rest of the clothes.
    
    [[i](Select your gender.)[/i]]
    *fake_choice
        #I'm not used to using them. [[i](set gender as a woman)[/i]]
            *set gender "w"
            *set xhe "she"
            *set xim "her"
            *set xis "her"
            I take deep breath, but it only makes the pressure on my chest tighter. Sometimes it feels I can't even breath.
            
            With my gaze locked on the marble floor I stabilize my breathing.
            
            I just have to get used to this. Who knows how long I have to wear them.
        #Not that it matters, I'm used to using them.
            *fake_choice
                #I just prefer to use them.
                    *set bindings_aight true
                #I identify as a man.
                    *set gender "tm"
                    *set gender "m"
                    *set xhe "he"
                    *set xim "him"
                    *set xis "his"
                    Ever since I was little, I told my father to stop calling me a girl. I hated to hear it, I hated the feeling of not belonging every time someone referred to me as such. I didn't want to be his daughter. I wanted to be his son.
                            
                    Father obliged and didn't even question me. He started introducing me as his son to the neighboring chieftains and shut down anyone who queried what happened to his daughter.
                #I don't feel like my sex defines me.
                    *set gender "a"
                    *set xhe "they"
                    *set xim "them"
                    *set xis "their"
                    I've never felt the need to accentuate my feminine features, nor to appear more masculine. I am what I am.
                    
                    Father understood me. He asked if I still wanted to be called his daughter. I agreed with the title, it would raise less questions about me. However, I appreciated the thought.
                    
            I couldn't have hoped for a better father.
                        
            The treacherous beginnings of tears bite the corners of my eyes and I frown, deeply, to make them leave. This is not the place nor the time.
    
    I leave a clean shin-length tunic on, hoping to blend in with the other bathers.
    
*if sex = "male"
    As I peel the tunic off my skin, my thoughts wander to what I should wear in the baths. I suppose I could go in naked, but…
    
    *fake_choice
        #The thought is uncomfortable.
            It's uncomfortable because… [[i](Select your gender.)[/i]]
            *fake_choice
                #I just prefer to keep my clothes on. [[i](Set gender as a man.)[/i]]
                    *set gender "m"
                    *set xhe "he"
                    *set xim "him"
                    *set xis "his"
                    Besides, the
                #I feel extremely uncomfortable to be seen as a man, I've identified myself as a woman since childhood.
                    *set gender "w"
                    *set gender "tw"
                    *set xhe "she"
                    *set xim "her"
                    *set xis "her"
                    There's something deeply unnerving in the thought of flashing my nude body to these people. Although, for once I'm glad to blend in to this environment, the body I wish I had would endanger me further.
                    
                    Ever since I was little, I told my father to stop calling me a boy. I hated to hear it, I hated the feeling of not belonging every time someone referred to me as such. I didn't want to be his son. I wanted to be his daughter.
                            
                    father obliged and didn't even question me. He started introducing me as his daughter to the neighboring chieftains and shut down anyone who queried what happened to his son. I couldn't have hoped for a better father.
                    
                    The treacherous beginnings of tears bite the corners of my eyes and I frown, deeply, to make them leave. This is not the place nor the time.

                    Besides, the
                #I don't feel like my sex defines me, so the thought of being judged as a man is uncomfortable.
                    *set gender "a"
                    *set xhe "they"
                    *set xim "them"
                    *set xis "their"
                    I'm already in a place that views me as a man, but there's something unnerving in the thought of presenting myself nude. I've never felt the need to accentuate my masculine features, nor to appear more feminine. I am what I am.
                    
                    father understood me. He asked if I still wanted to be called his son. I agreed with the title, it would raise less questions about me. 
                    
                    However, I appreciated the thought. I couldn't have hoped for a better father. The treacherous beginnings of tears bite the corners of my eyes and I frown, deeply, to make them leave. This is not the place nor the time.

                    Besides, the
        #It's not wise at this moment. [[i](Set gender as a man.)[/i]]
            *set gender "m"
            *set xhe "he"
            *set xim "him"
            *set xis "his"
            The 
    skin on my chest tingles, as if animated by the remembrance of its existence.
            
    The scar tattoo decorating my chest marks me a druid of the Twins. Many could recognize the symbol. They recently had… contact with my people. I leave a clean shin-length tunic on, hoping no one will ask about it.
    
Soon the stained clothes lie discarded on the floor as I continue to find the pool.

Cold wind welcomes me to an outdoor area with a swimming pool. Its water glistens under the moonlight, inviting me to soak in it. However, just as I'm about to step into the pool, my eyes are drawn by other entrances, living light illuminating the cold marble walls. Wonder what lies there?

As it turns out, the Romans don't settle for one pool. 

Of course they don't. 
*page_break

I find myself in a much more warmer room than the last one. The warmth of the air grasps me in its embrace as the sounds of steps on a pleasant, lukewarm stone echo through the marble-coated area. 

Warm stone?

I stretch my toes as if to double-check. It [i]is[/i] warm. There's something heating the floor.

Strange. Not impressive in the least.

Nearby torches give enough light to see the bottom of the pool. Green marble underneath glistens underneath, it's decorated with sea-related mosaics. 

There are a few late-night bathers and their low chatter disturb the silence. In this dim light it's hard to say who they are. They keep their distance, not bothering to stare at the intruder.

Good.

There are other rooms, other pools, each one of different temperatures. 

Splashes of water echo from the last one.

*page_break
Hot and heavy air clashes with my face as I peek into the room. 

There's the woman from before, her brown hair glistening in the warm light. Her back is towards me, revealing her athletic shoulders. 

"Took you long enough." Her words throw me off, breaking the silence I already grew used to. She points at the other side of the pool. "There's room for another."

She speaks the truth, the pool is indeed quite spacious. I might as well bathe here. However, now that I see her face-to-face, I notice that she is, in fact, completely naked.

*fake_choice
    #Blush and look away. I was unprepared for this sort of nakedness.
        It's not that I didn't expect people to be naked in the bath house, I just didn't expect these naked people to invite me into the pool with them.
        
        "Don't be such a wuss. Is this the first time you've seen a naked woman?"
        
        *fake_choice
            #"Of course not."
                "Then why are you acting like a Vestal Virgin?"
                
                "What is—"
                
                "Don't mind that. Are you coming in or not?"
            #"Yes, actually."
                She cocks her head before giving me a nod. "Oh. I suppose I understand the confusion, then." She sinks a little deeper in the pool to cover her naked breasts. "Better now? Now, are you coming or not?"
            
    #Take a quick look of her.
        My eyes quickly skim of what little I can see of her figure in this dim light. She's quite athletic, even if she seemed like a soft noblewoman. 
        
        She scoffs. "Such a nerve. I should have your head."
        
        Caught in the act.
        
        *fake_choice
            #"Who are you to take my head?"
                She gives me small smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know. Now, are you coming or not?"
            #"I apologize."
                *set rude -1
                She raises her brow. "It's better to beg for forgiveness than to ask permission? Now, are you coming or not?"
    #Ignore it.
        We are, indeed, in a bath house. It's to be expected that the Romans prefer to bathe naked.

*fake_choice
    #Sit next to her.
        *set brazen +2        
        *if ch1_shitter
            Her features darken and I realize the stains of feces on me. I take the hint, moving away from her. I do, however, catch a hint of her perfume before retreating.
        
        *if not(ch1_shitter)
            She moves to shift further away from me before stopping herself.
        
            "It's quite a spacious bath, yet you choose to sit there. What a brat." Laughter rings in her words, even if her features remain quite unreadable. Yet she stays still. We're not close enough to touch, but I can smell her perfume. 
        
        Saffron. Expensive.
        
        This woman is more than meets the eye.
    #Sit away from her.
        With a small splash of water breaking the silence I sit where she pointed to. She doesn't continue the conversation, and I find myself preferring that.
        
        It's been a long day.
        
The water is almost too hot, but not uncomfortable. It's like sitting in a hot spring. There were a few of those in vicinity of our village, but not close enough for bathing to be a daily occurrence. My muscles relax as a deep sigh slips from my lips.

But the relaxation doesn't last for long: the woman's eyes are on me.

"Why are you wearing a tunic?"

Of course she'd ask that.

*fake_choice
    #"What is to you?"
        "What indeed."
    #"I don't like to show my skin to random people."
        "Uh-huh." She squints her eyes.
    #"I'm a modest little boy."
        She snorts. "Right. How fortunate of me to bathe with one of the only modest soldiers in the region."

She lets the issue go quicker than I dared to hope for. I begin washing the weeks worth of dirt into the pool.
*if ch1_shitter
    Not to mention the stains of feces on my skin.
Soon, however, the feeling of someone's eyes on me makes me stop.

The woman stares at me, her gaze judgingly lingering on the little rafts of oily dirt surrounding me. "You're supposed to wash in another pool."

"Oh." I suppose it makes sense.
*if ch1_shitter
    Especially with the amount of stains I have.
The heat of embarrassment rises to the whole of my face to match the heat of the room. A distinct feeling of not belonging threatens to take over me until she raises her hand. 

Almost a comforting gesture.

"Doesn't matter. Others do it too. The pools are dirtier than they look."

The water draws my eyes, but the dim lighting prevents me from investigating her claim further. "How often do they change the water?"

"…Ignorance is a bliss." She pauses, lowering her gaze to the surface of the water. "There are more luxurious baths in Rome, where the water glistens like jewels."

Her words are soft, but there's something beneath them. Bitterness? Does she miss her home?

*fake_choice
    #"How do they heat up these pools?"
        It's a question meant for myself more than for her, but I still voice it aloud. It's not that I expect her to know the answer.
        
        "Hypocaust."
        
        "Hm?"
        
        "The name of the system. Hot air is produced and circulated underneath the floor and it's transported here through pipes."
        
        "Oh." That sounds complex. "You know about this stuff?"
        
        "A hobby of mine." She shrugs.
    #Stay silent.
        The silence is too precious to break, and both of us sigh in content at the same time. She looks at me with a hint of a smile.
        
        "You're a refreshingly silent type."
        
        I nod, almost willing to say the same of her.
    #"You like bathing during nights?"
        A safe conversation topic, but with a touch of intrigue. She prefers to bathe alone. If she was a noblewoman, wouldn't she have her own bath? Why is she here?
        
        "Yes. The people can be noisy. And nosy." She emphasizes the 'nosy' part as her eyes study me. As if she knew I'm trying to figure her out. She must be doing the same to me. 
    #"Do you miss it?"
        Her body twitches. It's almost unnoticeable. She must've trained to control her emotions.
        
        "Miss what?" She asks to buy her some time.
        
        "Your home?" A sense of familiarity almost takes over me, to know what it's like to want to go home.
        
        A small frown taints her features. I struck a nerve.
        
        *fake_choice
            #It wasn't my intention.
                *set manipulative -1
                *set ruthless -1
                I wasn't trying to disturb her. The bitterness in her words reminded too much of… me, I guess. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business."
                
                Her body relaxes and she sighs. "Who doesn't want to go home?"
                
                I nod. Indeed.
            #Good. If I provoke her, I might learn more about her.
                *set manipulative +1
                *set ruthless +1
                I look at her with the most innocent face I can conjure up. She squints he eyes, calculating my intentions. Just as I'm doing with her. Finally her tense shoulders relax and she sighs. "Takes one to know one, son of Britannia."
                
                I give her a half-smile. Indeed.

"Who are you?" She suddenly asks. "Your name."

"Hati."

"Hm." Before I can ask her name, she interrupts. "A peculiar accent. Central Britannia? No… Is it norther…"

Before she can continue I interrupt her. "Yes. Central Britannia."

"Indeed." She studies me. "You like it here?"

*fake_choice
    #"Can't say I do."
        *set manipulative -1
        She snorts, the unbecoming sound carrying through the vast marbled room. She doesn't mind, but continues to speak without a pause. "I like your honesty. It's refreshing."
        
        "Thank you?"
        
        "You're quite welcome."
    #"Yes."
        *set manipulative +1
        "Liar." A smile rings through her accusing words.
    #Shrug.

Her gaze is hard, not unkind, but certainly intrusive. She knows it, but it doesn't stop her eyes drilling into me. Before I can ask, she says: "You should go home."

Home. My eyes dart to hers, dying steam of the pool distorting the image of her serious gaze.

*fake_choice
    #"It's none of your business."
        *set rude +1
        She's remains unfazed by my harsh words, as if she expected them, her eyes lingering on me still.
        
        "Indeed." She stands up, water dripping to the surface of the pool, marking her departure. "A pleasant night to you, Hati."
    #"Why?"
        She falls silent, but her gaze doesn't leave mine. Finally it lands back to the surface of the pool before her lips open, just enough for me to hear the silent words leaving them.
        
        "Why indeed." 
        
        Before I can answer, she stands up, ending the conversation. "A pleasant night to you, Hati."
    #"I can't."
        *set manipulative -2
        My words are true. Both of us hear it in my whisper. The hardness of her gaze softens before she nods.
        
        "Indeed." Silence embraces us once more, an unspoken pain connecting the two strangers in the now dead-silent bathhouse. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry," she says.
        
        If her situation is similar, I'm sorry for her, too. Even if she's a Roman.
        
        Am I feeling sorry for the Romans? Before I can study the thought further, the woman stands up.
        
        "I hope you have a safe night, Hati."
        
        I hope so, too.
    #Remain silent.
        I can't, but I don't want her to know it. The conversation dies out, and the acute danger of falling asleep in the water makes me stand up. "I should go."

        "Of course. Have a pleasant night, Hati."
        
        I mutter her a brief goodbye and leave back to the changing area.

*page_break
Deep breaths of fresh air cool my system after the hot baths. Only the echoes of my slippery shoes on the stone pavement fill the silent night. I take care with my steps, even in the state of exhaustion, not eager to repeat the scenario from before. My eyelids are heavy, the eventful day encumbering my body and mind.

Then.

A shout.

*page_break
"Hey, you!"

A voice yanks me violently from my tired non-thoughts. Its familiarity widens my eyes as the pit of my stomach falls.

Why do I recognize that voice?

Why?

The realization hits me with such violence my knees almost give in, sending my mind racing to a place I've readily forgotten.

No. 

Buried.

[i]My father on his knees. A small puddle of dark crimson blood forms around him, marking his walk on this earth finished. He doesn’t look at me in my hideout. He’s keeping me safe. 

[i]"Roman scum," he spits out. "Just get on with it."

[i]There's a man next to him. His expressionless face strikes a contrast with the chaos that has fallen upon my village. He betrays no emotion, his eyes fixated on the dying man.

[i]"End its misery. It's already dead." A man next to him says with a scorn, apparently more annoyed by the fact that he can’t bring the fallen king with him as a trophy than anything else. There's another man beside him, his face as unreadable as the rest of them.

[i]The General and the Legate. 

[i]"Yes, Lord General."

[i]The man raises his bloodied sword. It glitters in the sunlight, almost blinding me. But I can’t look away.

[i]"Take off the head, we’ll bring it to the Emperor."

[i]"Yes, Lord General."

[i]A swing. 

[i]…A thud.

My breathing is shallow. Too shallow, I need to—

I need to breathe.

It's him. The man who killed him. The one who swung the sword, who took his head—

He didn’t say much, but his emotionless tone has invaded my memory. The three men still visit me in my dreams. The dreams where I try to get to my father before his severed head falls to the ground. 

*page_break With a thud. 

"Recruit"

Breathe. father told me to remember to breathe. When the mind is in chaos, breathe.

I take a silent shaky breath, and another, before turning to face the killer.

The man is closer than I thought, during the time I took to collect myself he assaulted my personal space. He towers over me.
*if ((height = "short") or (height = "average"))
    Both physically and mentally.
*if (height = "tall")
    His demanding stature suffocates me, even if we're of the same height. 
    
His penetrating gaze traps the already shaken gasp of air into my thorax. The eyes staring at me are black caves in the moonless midnight. Does he know who I am?

He couldn't know.

He'd kill me if he knew.

"Yes, Lord Centurion?" 

"Taking a nightstroll?" He asks with no clear malice. His eyes, however, tell me he'd be ready to kill me if I gave him a reason. 

"I would advise not to daydream here." His tone is oddly soft in comparison to his eyes, the corners of his lips form a smile lacking any warmth. When he speaks, the words ooze from his thin-lipped mouth like sweet poison.

"Someone with a quicker hand to punish wandering recruits might come by."

Or chop their heads off. A shudder creeps through my body, and to my horror, he doesn't miss it. His eyes narrow in delight.

He stands more relaxed than when I last saw him – even too casual compared to his calculating gaze. 

A trap.

"Don't I know you?" He brings his face even closer to me.

*page_break Shit.

How would he? Heartbeat pounds in my ears. He didn't see me in my hideout, I'm sure of it. He couldn't have. Otherwise he would've killed me.

"I don't think so, Lord Centurion." It's almost a question, to ask if he knows something I don't.

"Why do you look familiar…"

Heartbeat drums in my ears, making it harder to hear his pointed words. "Lord Centurion?"

*if clothes = "fine"
    "And such expensive clothing you're wearing. You don't look like a regular barbarian at all." He chuckles and squints his eyes, as if to see me more clearly.

"I never forget a face." He takes a step towards me, as I take a step back. "What's your name, soldier?"

"…Hati." The fake name leaves my lips unconvincingly, as if I knew he wouldn't accept it.

He snorts. "Oh, really."

He doesn't believe me. I'm acting too suspiciously.

*fake_choice
    #Keep a cool head.
        *set disciplined +2
        I gather myself and stifle the rising panic, smothering it out of its last breath. He will know something is wrong if I panic.
        
        Instead, I keep my chin up, inhale as deeply as I dare without alerting him of my inner turmoil, and exhale. It calms me enough to keep me standing straight. He doesn't know me. He's just playing with me.
        
        His eyes are on me, but I don't look at him. He's waiting for my next move.
    #I'm beginning to panic.
        *set disciplined -2
        "Are you quite alright, soldier? Your skin is white as snow." He creeps even closer to me, slowly, deliberately, taking a hold of my gaze and keeping it a hostage with his. "Do I frighten you so?"
        
        "No, Lord Centurion." The sound is pitiful, small, and I almost hate myself for it. I knew he'd be here, I knew it, why didn't I prepare myself better. My road here meant nothing if I mean to get myself killed outright.
        
        "Your eyes tell a different tale. Please…" His voice is low, barely audible. It grazes the skin of my ear, it's too close, it makes my heart race even faster. "Don't be afraid."
        
        My eyes widen, surprised by his sudden change in tone. He's toying with me, hunting for a reaction. And I'm apparently just freely giving it all to him.
    #Challenge him.
        *set brazen +2
        "Yes, my name is Hati." My words are steady as I straighten up my posture. He doesn't have a reason to do anything to me. Not yet, at least.
        
        "A wolf chasing the sun? How peculiar." The words leave lazily his thin lips, prodding for a reaction. He knows mythology. A well-read sadist.
        
        "My [i]father[/i] was a merchant in the North." My emphasis on the word 'father' isn't lost on him. What do I mean by that, he must wonder. Why do I poke a reaction out of him, I wonder myself. Do I [i]want[/i] to die?
                
        "Your father…" He murmurs, tasting the word, almost making me deny him the right of doing so. 

"Lord Centurion, I—"

*fake_choice
    #"We haven't met before."
        I say with conviction, banishing his intrusion with my dismissive tone and certainty.
        
        "Oh really?" He doesn't look convinced, nor does he seem to appreciate that I won't provide him with more entertainment. As if I would. I just need to get away from this man.
       
       He knows something. Or does he just act like it? Whatever the case, he wants to see me squirm, just like every other bully here. If I give him nothing to toy with, he will leave.
       
       As predicted, he backs off, seemingly annoyed by my unwillingness to play along. "Oh, fine. Move along, soldier."
       
       He's letting me go easy.
    #Look at the ground. 
        *set brazen -2
        I don't know what to say to him, what would make him leave me alone.
        
        "Look at me," he commands and I find myself obeying. His eyes are squinted. He’s a cat leering at a new-born chick on the ground, dropped from their nest. To play with it first or just be done with it?
        
        He says nothing as his eyes hold mine. I want to gulp, but I can't. It's as if my throat is filled with sand.
        
        "We haven't met before?" His voice is low. 
        
        I shake my head.
        
        "Guess I was wrong…" he muses, silently, watching my features. Then he shoos me away with his hand while wearing a light smirk. "Move along, soldier." 
        
        He's letting me go. 
    #Look him in the eyes and smile back.
        *set brazen +2
        I’m not playing with him. Let him think what he wants. I look him straight in the eyes and smile right back at him. If anyone would see the exchange, they'd mistake my smile for a polite one, waiting for my superior officer to continue his thought.
        
        But no. It's a challenge. Tell me what you know or let me go. If you have nothing, beat it.
        
        His straight posture rattles just a fraction. A fraction, but enough for a triumphant wave of victory washing over me. A flash of interest flickers in his dark gray eyes as he summons the leer back to his features. 
        
        The eyes are gray. Not black. 

        Time slows down as we keep this unannounced staring contest going. He's the kind of man who loves to toy with their meal, looking for any sign of weakness before devouring them. 
        
        He won't devour me. Finally he mockingly yields.  

        "Oh well…" He sighs and throws his hands in the air. "You recruits all look alike."
        
        He's letting me go easy.
        
This time.
        
"I'll find you later." A threat if I ever heard one. But he doesn't leave yet. "Soldier."

"Yes, Lord Centurion?"

"Be mindful."

He leaves with his cryptic words, his blood red cape billowing behind him. Just now I realize I've held my breath. For how long? I bend over to get a tight hold of my knees, panting from sheer exhaustion. That was too close to my liking.

I knew I would meet him, I should've prepared myself better.

Mindful? Is he mocking me? 

Whatever I need to do, I need to act fast. I just hope he doesn't bash into my tent and kill me tonight.

*page_break
[i][b]Back at the tent[/b][/i]

*if not(kegan_notmet)
    The boy from before greets me at the entrance of our tent. Kegan? He beams at me. What is he doing here? It doesn't matter. "Kid, I'm exhausted."

    He just nods with a deep frown, almost an exaggerated one. "I'm sorry. You look…"
    
    "Yes, yes, thank you." I walk past him and finally fall onto my sleeping roll. 
*if kegan_notmet
    A duo of men await me at the entrance of the tent. The other one is an older man, the other the same boy I saw beaten by the Optio earlier.
    
    What do they want?
    
    "I saw what happened," the older man says. Worry coats his words, as if he cared. "Are you alright?"
    
    *fake_choice
        #"I'm fine."
            I say with blankly, avoiding their intrusive gazes. Why do they care?
            
            "Good." He doesn't believe me, but keeps any further questions to himself. 
        #"What's it to you?"
            Why do they care?
            
            The man's features warm up. "We recruits should stick together, don't you think?"
        #"No."
            The man nods. "He's a mean one, that Centurion. I don't know why he'd pick on you in the middle of the night."
            
            It's not that I know better than him, so I simply shrug at his musings.
            
            "It's a good thing he didn't beat you."
            
            The boy shivers next to him, as if remembering his own assault from earlier.
                        
    "My name is Floyd. The lad is Kegan." The boy next to him waves at me before the movement triggers something making his face distort in pain. Floyd pets the boy on the head.
    
    They both look at me expectantly, waiting for me to tell my name.
    
    If I tell them, maybe they will let me get to my bed. "My name is Hati."
    
    "Pleased to meet you. We both are. But you look exhausted, don't let us keep you."
    
    I nod and walk past them to my bed, finally falling onto my sleeping roll.
It's hardly worth calling a bed, it's just a thin layer of cloth. The ground beneath holds me in its harsh embrace as the sounds of snoring strangers fill the clothed room. 

He knows who I am. He must know. He must've gone to fetch his friends to get rid of me. Maybe a band of executioners will soon barge through the wall and—

With these thoughts I drift into sweet nothingness.
*page_break
[b][i]A dream?[/i][/b]

I run. 

I run as fast as my feet can carry me. They hurt, but not as much as my arms do. The two babies in both of my arms are crying their tiny hearts out. A labored shush is not enough to keep them from their stressed state. Please, please be quiet. They will find us. I pray, but I'm not sure who will answer.

"${name}! Bring the babies back! The Twins demand blood!"

The familiar voice follows our escape. It's a voice that should bring me comfort, but now it bears only terror. It only makes me run faster than I never knew I could.

Finally we're deep enough into the woods that I dare to stop. The shushing from my lips slowly becomes more comforting, more relaxed. The babies, my siblings, in my arms quiet down. They look at my with their huge, confused eyes.

"Eithne. Eoganan. I will never let anything happen to you. I will always protect you." I kiss their tiny foreheads and inhale their baby scent. The three of us start calming down.

"I will never let anything happen to you." I repeat, as if that would make it more true.

"${name}." Then, the voice reaches us. They've found us. 

*page_break
I wake up. 

As my body tries to calm down, I bury my face in my hands.

What was that? Why would I dream of Eithne and Eoganan? That never happened when they were young. The voice that followed us was eerily familiar but I can't quite place—

"Hello there!" Floyd's smiling face disturbs my thoughts and forces me to focus on the now. It distorts into a frown when he sees my condition. "Were you having a bad dream?"

"You tossed and turned and wouldn't wake up to a horn." He shrugs. "I'm sorry. We're in a hurry and I'm interrogating you. The Optio is approaching and he's not happy."

"When is he happy?" Someone sighs in exasperation. I turn to see a copper-haired man with a grin looking at me. He gives me a small nod and a wink with it. "My name is Peculiaris. Pec for short. You were, indeed, squealing like a scared child in your dreams." Before I can ask for more information, he continues: "Since we weren't introduced yesterday, that brick of a man there is Brick."

"It's Bricriu." The Brick-man says with a frown. He's a burly fellow, already clad in his armor and heading for the door.

[i]'Brick.'[/i] Pec mouths the name without sound. "Also." He gestures to a man beside him. "This fellow is Maestus."

I just now notice a black-haired man next to him. He shrugs as a greeting.

*fake_choice
    #Nod.
        *set group_friendship +2
        I nod at the duo.
    #Shrug.
        Maestus gives me an approving nod and I find myself nodding back at him.
        
        "Already making friends?" Pec grins and slaps Maestus on the back.
    #Ignore them.
        Why would I care who these people are? I don't have time for this. 
        *set group_friendship -1
    #Frown at them.
        *set group_friendship -2
        I give them a sneer, almost involuntarily. I'm not here to make friends.

Floyd strapping the last bits of his armor and adds: "The twins already left, they're called Mac and Mack. The silent 'k' will definitely let you know which one they are."

I already caught a glimpse of the twins, they're a bit older than Kegan, but not by much. Pec approaches me, his eyes on my tunic.

*if clothes = "fine"
    "Oh man, are you a son of a merchant or something?" He fondles the textile of my tunic with an awed expression. "It's so smooth! Mine is like wearing a sack of crushed shells." He takes my hand and tries to make me fondle his tunic, but I quickly yank my hand away. He ignores it and continues: "Just watch out, I might have to rob you when you sleep."
    
    Floyd sighs. "You're not robbing anyone."
    
    "Just watch me, old man."
    
*if clothes = "cheap"
    "I see you're a man of destitute as well." He gestures my worn tunic and gives me an understanding nod.
    
"Where the fuck is the rest of your unit?" A familiar shout. 

Time to go.
    
*page_break
[b][i]At the courtyard[/i][/b]

The yard is littered by a band of a more unified looking men than yesterday. A bitter autumn breeze carries the sounds of men training in other parts of the camp followed by the clashing of weapons and yells of commands. An already familiar worry stirs in the pit of my stomach, and judging by the looks on the faces surrounding me, I'm not the only one.

However, I must be the only one actively fearing for my life.

The silent speculation of the day's schedule dies out as an unknown figure closes in on us with the Optio.

"Next up is the health inspection. Form up a line!" He shouts. A doctor.

*if sex = "female"
    …Health inspection. A visage of me taking my clothes off in front of a doctor and a huge crowd invades my brain. A vision of their eyes glued on my binded breasts, as the realization of deception hits them.

    A big lump of bile reaches the back of my larynx. I'm dead when they find out.
        
    [i]Of course[/i] there's a health inspection.

    Maybe I can persuade the doc to let me keep my pants on. Shirt, too. Maybe he’ll be nice. Nice for a Roman at least. Right? That can happen.

    *page_break Shit shit shit.
    I'm left standing as I barely notice anyone rushing by me.

    Will they just kick me out? Ha! As if. This just adds to the pile of reasons for me to die.

    Will they…

    *fake_choice
        #behead me?
            They'll probably hang my head to the wall just for the heck of it. I'm sure my head would make a nice decoration for weeks before turning into a mere skull.
        #gut me?
            That'd be quite barbaric. 
        
            *if calm_child
                A fit of unfamiliarly maniacal laughter tries to force its way out of my mouth. I stifle it and keep features as expressionless as ever.
            *if not(calm_child)
                A fit of laughter escapes me before I can think any better. That'd be a suitable end for a barbarian. Then the blood in my veins turns cold: I don't sound like myself. The sound of my laugh rings almost maniacal.
        #stone me to death?
            A true classic, the Legion is apparently big on stoning people. I just hope a decent sized one will hit me straight on the head and get it over with.
        #call it a day and congratulate me on my daring performance?
            *if calm_child
                A fit of unfamiliarly maniacal laughter tries to force its way out of my mouth. I stifle it and keep features as expressionless as ever.
            *if not(calm_child)
                A fit of laughter escapes me before I can think any better. Right. That's what they'll do.

                Then the blood in my veins turns cold: I don't sound like myself. The sound of my laugh rings almost maniacal.   
            
    "Soldier, are you feeling ill?" Someone speaks in a clear voice through all the chatter. That voice.
    
    No. Why is he here?
    
    I turn my head to find the killer of my father grinning at me, every one of his white teeth bared. The Centurion. He has the face of a man who knows. He knows who I am. 
    
    How? I don't know. It doesn't even matter. He doesn’t need to sell me out, he can just wait for the events to run their course.
    
    *fake_choice      
        #I don't know what to do.
            *set ch1_panic true
            My feet move on their own, acting like nothing’s wrong. Everything is fine. I’m just going to die. 
        
            Someone turns to me in the line up. I’m not sure who, his face is all blurry. My chest rises swiftly, closing in on the line of hyperventilation. 

            "Recruit." A familiar voice calls to me, tearing my consciousness back to reality with its sarcastic tone. I turn to the source, thanking the Twins my legs still work properly.
    
            Has he come to gloat at me? Does he want to get his last laugh out of me?

            "Yes, Lord Centurion?" My voice is stabler than I dared to hope for.

            "Come with me."
    
            "Yes, Lord Centurion."
    
            I follow his lead like an ox to the sacrificial altar.
            *page_break
        #I feel nothing.
            *set ch1_emotionless true
            As the realization of my impending doom crashes with the strength of a tree falling down on me, I freeze. Everything slows down. The faces surrounding me lose their details, it's as if there's a curtain of fog blurring my vision and mind. There's nothing but lightness in my step and stomach, as if a giant weight was lifted.
            
            Curious.
                
            Did I expect to get revealed so soon? Perhaps.
            
            Does it even matter?
            
            "Recruit." Someone calls to me. It's a voice I know I should recognize, but I can't. Its tone is like every other, the same goes for the face looking at me.
            
            "Recruit!" A yell. Demanding. Finally I focus my gaze in the intruder. It's the face of the Centurion. 
            
            "Come with me."
            
            I nod, barely interested in the change of events, and follow his step.
            *page_break
        #I will go down with my head held high.
            *set ch1_f_marcus true
            I squint my eyes at him, daring him to act, to sell me out before I'm unwillingly caught. I'm not afraid to die. I've already lost everything, I will not lose my dignity.
            
            He arches his brow at my silent show of rebellion.
        
            *fake_choice
                #Stay silent in defiance.
                    My eyes are on him. I stand my ground and keep looking at him, urging him to act first. He probably knows who I am, he knows I should be dead.
                    
                    Do it. Let me join my family.
                    
                    "Recruit," he finally says as the agitated line behind me is starting to grunt their displeasure over my immobile state.
                    
                    I nod.
                    
                    "Come with me." 
                    
                    I nod again and start walking with my head held high.
                    *page_break
                #Insult the Romans before my death.
                    *set ch1_insult true
                    "Your precious camp was infiltrated by a—" Before I can continue the sentence, a rough hand covers my mouth, letting only muffles come out through the gaps of calloused fingers.
                    
                    Who dares to deny my right to go down fighting? To insult the beasts willing to kill in the name of their shitty Empire? Rage fills me, feeds on my fear and grows stronger. I shoot my eyes at the man holding me and frown, deeply.
                    
                    It's him. The killer. He hushes me into silence with his eyes, the ridicule and sneer dead in them. I smile behind his hand as a hint of fear in his eyes catches my attention.
                    
                    Good. I don't know why he's afraid, but I'm glad I caused it.
                    *fake_choice
                        #Wait for his next move.
                            Why did he stop me?
                        
                            He holds my gaze to make sure I'm co-operative. I suppose I am, if not just for the sake of uncovering what he's up to.
                        #Bite him!
                            *set ch1_biter true
                            Without much thought I sink my teeth into the palm of his hand, taking satisfaction over his flinching frame, his tense arm trying to keep me in place. He says nothing, evidently trying get this over with without a scene.
                            
                            Screw that.
                            
                            "Stop biting, you witch, or I'll let them gut you," he hisses in my ear, making sure no one hears.
                            
                            He doesn't want them to hear? Witch? His one hiss caused so many questions it makes me halt my struggling and biting.
                            
                    "Pretend you're unconscious." His commanding hush forces me to obey him, however reluctantly. He seems to be willing to help me, so I close my eyes and go limp. He takes a hold of me, preventing me from falling on the ground.
                
                    *if build = "heavy"
                        "He fainted. I will take him to the infirmary," he says before positioning his hands on on my legs and armpits. Is he trying to lift me up?
                                
                        Trying, is the keyword. He grunts and puffs but can't lift me.
                                
                        "Shit, you're heavy."
                        
                        I almost let out a laugh.
                        
                        "You, help me." He finally yields and asks for help. Who, I don't know, but there's now two pairs of hands carrying me away from the scene.
                        *page_break
                        "He woke up. You can leave." Marcus shoosh the other recruit away.
                    *if ((build = "average") or (build = "lithe"))
                        "He fainted. I will take him to the infirmary," he states and lifts me into his arms.
                                
                        What in the hells?! The action almost makes me open my eyes, but his strained voice stops me: "Open your eyes and you're dead."
                        
                        *page_break
                        He lands me back on my feet once we are away from the line of sight of the others.

*if sex = "male"
    A bit of an inconvenience, sure, but I'm sure I'll be fine. 
    
    However, I can't shake the feeling that there's something I need to remember. Something important.
    
    An undeniable dread looms over me and I have no idea why. In thought, I…
    
    *fake_choice
        #brush my beard.
            *set beard true
            It's not a formidable beard by any means, they wouldn't have let me walk around the camp looking like that, but it's a beard nonetheless. And at this moment, its coarse texture beneath my fingers manages to soothe my mind, even a little bit.
            
        #scratch my neck.
            As I touch the back of my neck, I realize how cold my hands are. I keep them there for a moment or two to warm them up while my mind blanks.
            
    As my turn I comes up, I approach the doctor with
    *if brazen <=60
        my head held high. Nothing is wrong if I act like it.
    *if brazen >60
        some uncertainty, my eyes darting from side to side.
    
    The man's lack of proud sneer implies he's not a Roman. Greek, perhaps? He looks at me with no personal interest, only asking and listing any known medical issues me or my family has. He checks the lids of my eyes, the skin on my arms and legs before moving to the teeth.
    
    "Very nice," he mumbles to himself. Before I have time to feel proud over the state of my teeth, he continues: "Now, take your clothes off."

    My eyes widen.
        
    The tattoo.
    
    They will see the tattoo.
    
    *page_break
    I stand still, trying to wrap my head around the situation.
    
    "Hurry up."
    
    I start taking off my belt slowly, too slowly, trying to think of a way out of this. The doctor sighs as a familiar shout follows it.
    
    "Are you fucking with us? Faster!" My hesitation has attracted the attention of the Optio, who is more than willing to interfere.
    
    Every piece of garment I take off is a new step towards my death sentence. My chest rises swiftly as the ghost of the past pain still burns on my chest, keeping me from forgetting the time I screamed my lungs out as mother cut my skin. The cuts were deep. That's what the Twins demanded, she said. Now that devotion will be my death sentence. 
    
    Shit shit shit.
    
    They will kill me.
    
    Will they…

    *fake_choice
        #behead me?
            They'll probably hang my head to the wall just for the heck of it. I'm sure it would make a nice decoration for weeks before turning into a mere skull.
        #gut me?
            That'd be quite barbaric. 
        
            *if calm_child
                A fit of unfamiliarly maniacal laughter tries to force its way out of my mouth. I stifle it and keep features as expressionless as ever.
            *if not(calm_child)
                A fit of laughter escapes me before I can think any better. That'd be a suitable end for a barbarian. Then the blood in my veins turns cold: I don't sound like myself. The sound of my laugh rings almost maniacal.
                
                "What are you laughing like an idiot for?" The Optio shouts.
                
                "Nothing, sir."
        #stone me to death?
            A true classic, Legion is apparently big on stoning people. I just hope a big one will hit me straight on the head and get it over with.
        #call it a day and congratulate me on my daring performance?
            *if calm_child
                A fit of unfamiliarly maniacal laughter tries to force its way out of my mouth. I stifle it and keep features as expressionless as ever.
            *if not(calm_child)
                A fit of laughter escapes me before I can think any better. Right. That's what they'll do.

                Then the blood in my veins turns cold: I don't sound like myself. The sound of my laugh rings almost maniacal.
        
                "What the fuck are you laughing about?"
        
                "Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing."
            
            The Optio gives me a dirty look, his hand hovering on the beating stick he so adores.

    *page_break I take off my tunic.
    As soon as my naked skin is exposed, both the doctor's and the Optio's eyes lock onto the tattoo, erasing any shred of hope they wouldn't notice it. My breath locks in my larynx as the breeze chills my skin. It's too big not to notice, it has the symbol of the Twins. 

    They killed the others, they saw the marks on their corpses.
    
    Their eyes won't move. Please, please just move. Let them think it's a Briton tattoo.
    
    "It's a—" 
    
    But before I can explain a lie, the doctor says: "Why are you wearing a tattoo of the Picts?" 
    
    The words drop my stomach.
    
    Dozens of eyes are suddenly on me and my naked body.
    
    Shit.

    *fake_choice      
        #I don't know what to do.
            *set ch1_panic true
            I grab my tunic from the ground in a futile attempt to shield the proof of my true identity. Everyone with this mark should be dead on the other side of the wall. The druids of the Twins are all dead. I swallow a lump of bile gathered on the back of my throat as my mind races to come up with a believable reason for all of this. 
    
            As an uncontrollable laughter stirs in my throat ready to seal my fate, a yell cuts the scene.
    
            "Recruits!" 
    
            That deep voice. The Centurion.
            
            "You." His eyes linger on my chest. His face is featureless until a slight sadistic smile comes to view. 
        
            He will kill me. He will cut my head off, just like my father's.
    
            [i]a thud[/i]
    
            fills my ears in waves.
        
            "Yes, Lord Centurion?" My voice is steadier than I dared to hope for.

            "Put your clothes on."
    
            "Yes, Lord Centurion." I do as he asks, my hands working without the need for my shattered mind to guide them. He beckons me to trail him.

            Like an ox following their executioner to the sacrifice altar, I do as I'm told.
            *page_break
        #I feel nothing.
            *set ch1_emotionless true
            As the realization of my impending doom crashes with the strength of a tree falling down on me, I freeze. Everything slows down. The faces surrounding me lose their details, it's as if there's a curtain of fog blurring my vision and mind. There's nothing but lightness in my step and stomach, as if a giant weight was lifted. 
            
            Curious.
                
            Did I expect to get revealed so soon? Perhaps.
            
            Does it even matter?
            
            "Recruit." Someone calls to me. It's a voice I know I should recognize, but I can't. Its tone is like every other, the same goes for the face looking at me.
            
            "Recruit!" A yell. Demanding. Finally I focus my gaze on the intruder. It's the face of the Centurion.
            
            "Put the clothes on and come with me."
            
            I nod and obey him, my hands deft, my movement swift. At least I will die with my clothes on. A small blessing.
            *page_break
        #I will go down with my head held high.
            *set ch1_f_marcus true
            I quickly put my tunic on and lock eyes with the Optio. There's a small smile dancing on his face, as if he's enjoying the thought of killing me. I'll just have to make sure he's not the one to take the killing blow.
            
            Just as I'm about to declare my faith, a yell halts the chatter: "Recruits!" 
    
            That deep voice. The Centurion.
        
            The Optio's eyes squint in clear disappointment, but still he turns to the approaching officer. The Centurion ignores him, his gaze is locked on me. There's nothing on his face betraying of his emotions. That is, until a slight sadistic smile comes to view.
            
            I squint my eyes at him, daring him to act, to kill me if he must. I'm not afraid to die. I've already lost everything, I will not lose my dignity.
            
            He arches his brow at my silent show of rebellion.
        
            *fake_choice
                #Stay silent in defiance.
                    My eyes are on him. I stand my ground and keep looking at him, urging him to act first. He knows who I am, I see it in his eyes, he knows I should be dead. 
                    
                    Do it. Let me join my family.
                    
                    "Recruit," he finally says as the agitated line behind me is starting to grunt their displeasure over my immobile state.
                    
                    I nod.
                    
                    "Put your clothes on and come with me." 
                    
                    I nod again and start walking with my head held high.
                    *page_break
                
                #Insult the Romans before my death.
                    *set ch1_insult true
                    "Your precious camp was infiltrated by a—" Before I can continue the sentence, a rough hand covers my mouth, letting only muffles come out through the gaps of calloused fingers.
                    
                    Who dares to deny my right to go down fighting? To insult the beasts willing to kill in the name of their shitty Empire? Rage fills me, feeds on my fear and grows stronger. I shoot my eyes at the man holding me and frown, deeply.
                    
                    It's him. The killer. He hushes me into silence with his eyes, the ridicule and sneer dead in them. I smile behind his hand as a hint of fear in his eyes catches my attention.
                    
                    Good. I don't know why he's afraid, but I'm glad I caused it.
                
                    *fake_choice
                        #Wait for his next move.
                            Why did he stop me?
                        
                            He holds my gaze to make sure I'm co-operative. I suppose I am, if not just for the sake of uncovering what he's up to.
                        #Bite him!
                            *set ch1_biter true
                            Without much thought I sink my teeth into the palm of his hand, taking satisfaction over his flinching frame, his tense arm trying to keep me in place. He says nothing, evidently trying get this over with without a scene.
                            
                            Screw that.
                            
                            "Stop biting, you little witch, or I'll let them gut you," he hisses in my ear, making sure no one hears.
                            
                            He doesn't want them to hear? I halt my struggling and biting, something in his voice tells me he's serious.
                            
                    "Pretend you're unconscious." His commanding hush forces me to obey him, however reluctantly. He seems to be willing to help me, so I close my eyes and go limp. He takes a hold of me, preventing me from falling on the ground.
                
                    *if build = "heavy"
                        "He fainted. I will take him to the infirmary," he says before positioning his hands on on my legs and armpits. Is he trying to lift me up?
                                
                        Trying, is the keyword. He grunts and puffs but can't lift me.
                                
                        "Shit, you're heavy."
                        
                        I almost let out a laugh.
                        
                        "You, help me." He finally yields and asks for help. Who, I don't know, but there's now two pairs of hands carrying me away from the scene.
                        *page_break
                        "He woke up. You can leave." Marcus shoosh the other recruit away.

                    *if ((build = "average") or (build = "lithe"))
                        "He fainted. I will take him to the infirmary," he states and suddenly lifts me into his arms.
                                
                        What in the hells?! The action almost makes me open my eyes, but his strained voice stops me: "Open your eyes and you're dead."
                        
                        *page_break
                        He lands me back on my feet once we are away from the line of sight of the others.

        
He beckons me to follow him further away saying nothing. His steps are quick and heavy, demanding anyone in his way to clear a path for him. The harsh sound of the stone pavement marks the beat for my last walk here on this world. It's not that bad, I suppose; the smell of grass underneath all that dirt brings my mind to… home. I will return there, one way or the other.

*if ch1_panic
    The thought relaxes my soul and the scenery surrounding us becomes more clear. He's taking me away from the training grounds where most of the men are. 

*if ch1_f_marcus
    With my senses heightened I examine the area where he's taking me. It seems the destination is the barracks.
    
*if ch1_emotionless
    I barely register that he's taking me away from the training grounds, away from the others.

Why?

*fake_choice
    #He wants to kill me in private.
        Why in the name of the Twins would he want to do that? He should do it where there are more people to witness the precious Roman justice come undone. That way my death would serve as a better example. 
        
        Maybe I should inform him of this. I accidentally snort at the thought, drawing his eyes on me. His features betray nothing but unveiled amusement as he leads me to the officer's building.
    #Maybe he's saving me...?
        A hesitant thought enters my mind, skeptically weighing the situation and finally condemning me a foolish optimist.
        
        But why would he take me away from the other men, if not to save me? If he wanted me dead, he could've done so in the courtyard by his own hand or let the others do the job for him.
    #Doesn't matter. This gives me an opportunity to defend myself. I'm taking him down with me.
        *set marcus_killer true
        I squint my eyes at his broad back. If he wants to kill me, I'll take him with me.
        
        I only have my dagger on me. It will do nicely.
    #Does it really matter?
        I try to focus my thoughts on the matter, but find the question utterly meaningless. It doesn't matter. Numbness radiates from my head to every part of my body, relaxing everything in its way.

*page_break
As we enter a room, apparently his, my vision is bombarded with dead eyes of different statues. I don't know any of these men, nor women, they're all meaningless Romans. In the corner of the room there is the most expensive-looking of the stone faces. The Emperor.

*if not(marcus_killer)
    Even if – or because – death awaits me, I find myself looking through his stuff as if it's the last chance to invade his privacy. There are more scrolls that I've ever seen in my life. father had scrolls, sure, but they were hard to find and expensive. From what I can gather from the titles, there are poems, geography, philosophy, military tactics. Is that… 
    
    Ovid's [i]The Art of Love[/i]?

    He glances at me, knowing I'm silently judging his literature. His eyes find the target of my gaze. A smirk.
    
    He takes a seat, gesturing me to stay standing. His gaze fixates on the parchments in front of him, completely ignoring my existence. Why does he keep me waiting? Does he have some filing to do before killing me?
    
    *fake_choice
        #"Lord Centurion?"
            He hushes me, bringing his long finger to his lips. The gesture makes a flash of anger shoot through me. How dares he make me wait for my death? The utter—   
        
            Soon his eyes are on me and I ready myself for whatever is coming.
        #Stay silent and stare at the ground.
            *set brazen -2
            As I await for the judgment he has in store for me, the sounds of officers joking behind the closed door reach the hostile room I'm trapped in. For what it's worth, at least the curious on-lookers won't see the end of my life. 
        
            That's some positive thinking. father would be proud.
        
            Soon his eyes are on me, I don't even have to look at him to know that. The thought makes me ready myself for whatever is coming.
        #Stay silent and stare at him.
            *set brazen +2
            I stare at him expressionless. He's enjoying this. His smile is too wide. If I looked long enough, I'm sure I'd see his fangs. Just kill me already. I refuse to wait for my death any longer than necessary. 

*if marcus_killer
    Never mind the artwork, he brought me into his enclosed room. Alone with him. The dagger weighs heavy against my thigh, burning the skin through the leather sheath. I take a deep breath, and another, to clear my head.
    
    He's better than me in combat, his stance tells me all I need to know about that. However, I have the element of surprise. If I could just—
    
    "Are you planning on jumping on me?" His voice smacks me and my plans straight in the face, shaking my core.
    
    "You've been darting your eyes around the room like a caged animal, your hand falling near your concealed dagger." A smirk, already a familiar one. "I admire the tenaciousness, but don't take me for a fool."
    
    There goes my element of surprise. I bite my lip to stay quiet, to keep a disappointed groan from escaping me. Fine. Just kill me, then.
        
"Recruit."

"Yes, Lord Centurion?"

"You may go back to your barracks."

…What?

*fake_choice
    #"What?"
        It takes a moment or two before my mind registers what he just said. And it still refuses to believe it.
        
        "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you're feeling so ill it's taking a toll on your hearing." He furrows his dark brows. "Poor kid."
        
        I look at the man with my mouth wide open. He mocks me as he saves my life.
    #Just stare at him.
        I scrutinize his face, as if there's something wrong with the man. Either that, or my hearing deceits me.
        
        "What were you expecting?" He smiles as if he doesn't see what my problem is. As if I was the irrational one.
    #"You won't kill me?"
        Disbelief floods my mind and I can't help but blurt out the very fear that tortured me.
        
        His dark brows shoot to his forehead while his mouths shapes an exaggerated 'O'. "Why in the name of Apollo would I want to do that?" 
        
        He knows fully well why he would do that. This man mocks me as he saves my life.

"You look quite pale. I could get you a sick day if you're not feeling alright."

*if marcus_killer
    I say nothing, my mind in a state of chaos. I was ready to kill or be killed, but neither happened.
    
*if not(marcus_killer)
    "…Thank you, Lord Centurion." I blurt out before the absurdity of the situation hits me; I'm thanking the man who killed my father.

*if ch1_biter
    "Don't think I've forgotten that you bit me," he says with his brows furrowed in an exaggerated manner as he shows the bitemark on his palm.
    
    *fake_choice
        #He deserved it.
            I squint my eyes at him. There's a smirk on his face, but annoyance looms beneath it. I almost smile at the sight of it.
            
            He squints back at me. "You look like you're ready to bite me again."
            
            Perhaps. I almost nod.
            
            "What a wild beast you are."
        #"It was self-defense."
            He scoffs. "Just don't use that tactic in battle. You're not an animal."

Then, another voice joins in: "Marcus, your dog chewed my favorite shoe. You're going to buy me a new—"

An unfamiliar man enters the room with a chewed shoe on his hand, he's shaking it accusingly at the man I thought would kill me. His arrival is followed by a series of barks echoing from the nearby rooms. He stands much taller than the Centurion, almost touching the door frame. When his eyes find mine, the frown transforms into a surprised smile. It reaches his eyes.

"Hello there!" He's wearing an almost too short of a tunic with gold rims, its rose-red color creating a contrast with his pale face but matching his wavy hair. The shortness of the tunic calls attention to his sinewed calves. He's well-groomed, if that is what you'd call a man instead of a dog. The outfit looks on par with… Marcus? That's the name of the man who killed my father?

The stranger's smile forms two dimples on his cheeks. They're clearly visible from beneath his reddish heavy stubble, almost unfit for the army. "My name is Niall."

A Briton name.

Marcus groans behind his desk. "Are you in the habit of introducing yourself in first-name basis to random recruits? Your barbar— birth-name, no less."

"Marcus." The man, Niall, says his name again, this time straightening his tall posture, forcing more will into his otherwise soft tone. Then, he turns to me, his face still wearing a warm smile. It looks out of place in this oppressive room, as if he doesn't belong.

"What is your name?" There are only hints of accent in his speech, his Latin as fluent as a native-speaker's. I can't place the accent. It's not from the North. Besides, he looks too soft for the Northern climate. 

Before I can answer, Marcus interrupts me. "The boy's name is Hati. If you can believe it."

*fake_choice
    #Shoot Marcus with a stink-eye.
        I turn from the man on a doorway to give Marcus a good stink-eye. The shit-eating grin on his face only widens at my reaction.
        
        Niall sighs. "Why, thank you Marcus, I'm sure he can speak for himself." He examines me, only slightly leaning towards me, as if afraid he'd scare me away. "Hati. Did Marcus do something to you?"
    #"I can speak for myself. My name is Hati."
        I ignore Marcus's attempt at speak on my behalf and give the man my name. He gives me a nod, both of us ignoring the silently snickering Centurion.
        
        "Nice to meet you, Hati." His brows furrow slightly as he scrutinizes me. "You look pale. Did Marcus do something to you?"
    #Stay silent in hopes of getting out faster.
        Why should I care about any of this? The air here is suffocating. I just want out.
        
        The man, Niall, furrows his brows. "You look pale. Did Marcus do something to you?"
        
Marcus objects at the implication. "Why do you blame me?"
        
He ignores the Centurion and keeps his eyes on me, encouraging me to confide in him. Who is this man?

"I'm his boss," he answers before I can even ask. "You can tell me if he misbehaves. And I know he does, it's his… bad habit."

Marcus scoffs. "I was merely giving him a day off. I'm the good guy here." He turns his gaze back to me. "Hati, tell him. The truth."

The truth? The whole truth, as in me being a Pictish infiltrator in their camp? Right. Just spill the beans here and now.

Niall ignores his subordinate's words, waiting for my assessment.

*fake_choice
    #"He speaks the truth. He's giving me a day off."
        *set disciplined +1
        *set manipulative -1
        "Hm." He doesn't look, nor sound convinced. It's not the right place nor time to talk about this, so I give him a small smile as if it would make my words more believable. His stature relaxes.
        
        "Then I do hope you have a pleasant day off, Hati." Another smile; one miles from Marcus's sadistic grin in terms of warmth. But is it genuine, or mere mimicry?
        
        Marcus cuts in, as if to have the last word. "Run along now. You too, Netacius," he says, pointing his annoyed words toward both of the outsiders in his room.
    #Look at the ground.
        *set brazen -2
        A sudden touch of a hand on my shoulder makes me twitch.
        
        *fake_choice
            #Stay put.
                The man looms closer to me than I prepared for. I can make out the color of his eyes, that's too close. Way too close. The eyes are moss-green, radiating an odd sense of warmth and concern, almost disarming me. Is it genuine? 
                
                Why would it be?
                
                He raises his brows with a small smile. "You can tell me."
                
                "Netacius, stop groping my recruit." Marcus snickers. 
                
                The words make wide-eyed Niall let go off my shoulder as if it's burning his hand. "I wasn't—"
                
                Marcus sneers with a shit-eating grin. "You're too easy. Just get out of here, both of you."
            #Dart away from his touch.
                The man looms closer to me than I prepared for, causing my fight or fly reflex to kick in, darting my whole body away from the intruder of my personal space. 
                
                "I'm fine!" I almost yelp in pure reflex. The shout makes the man dart away from me as well, both of us jumping away from one another.
                
                The man is flushed red, almost bending over to apologize. "I'm sorry! I over-stepped my bounds."
        
                An amused voice snickers: "The boy doesn't want to be groped by you, Netacius." The remark makes Niall flare up even more, if that is possible. "Just get out of my room already."
    #"He enjoyed torturing me."
        *set brazen +1
        It's true. He could've told me that he's saving me, that he doesn't aim to kill me (yet). He enjoyed watching me fear for my life. Niall frowns at my words, but not in the sense that he doesn't believe me. For some reason he does believe, and this makes his hardened gaze return to Marcus, who stops his snickering and mockingly raises his hands in the air.
        
        "It's not my fault he misunderstood my intentions," Marcus retorts back, his words all but convincing.
        
        "I'm sure no one has misunderstood your intentions." He turns back to me. "I apologize on his behalf. He's prone to hazing. He's a bit of a prick, you could say."
        
        I nod. He sure is.
                
        Marcus starts shuffling the parchments on his desk loudly. "A prick, am I? Netacius, I tire of this conversation. Get out of my room already, both of you."
    #"He enjoyed torturing me. He's a prick."
        *set brazen +4
        Niall's brows shoot near his hairline as the air of silence falls to the room. Finally it breaks when he starts laughing. "He [i]is[/i] a prick! But you shouldn't tell him that."
        
        Marcus groans. "You're not even defending me."
        
        "You don't deserve it," Niall says nonchalantly. He leans over to me with a conspiratory smirk. "You shouldn't insult him to his face, though. Save it for when he's not around."
        
        "What are you whispering about?"
        
        "Nothing, absolutely nothing."
        
        Marcus starts shuffling the parchments on his desk loudly. "Netacius, I tire of this conversation. Get out of my room already, both of you."

Netacius? They've given him a Roman name?

"I will buy you new shoes." Marcus makes a scene of switching his attention to the parchments on his desk as he shoos us away with his free hand. I salute him and Niall before turning on my heels, holding my stance upright and collected, despite the fact that just moments ago I accepted my death.

I suppose it's something to get used to.

Finally outside air welcomes me back to the land of the living. I take a deep breath of dirt-filled air, appreciating the way it fills my lungs.

I don't need to look to know Niall followed me here. Or is he Netacius?

"Are you sure you're alright?" He asks.

*fake_choice
    #"I'm not."
        *set manipulative -1
        I say the truth, almost by accident. He nods, slightly furrowing his brows.
        
        "Do you want to talk about it?"
        
        I shake my head, because of course I would. I don't even know this man. However, he gives me an oddly understanding nod. Everything this man does seems odd.
    #"I am."
        I keep my eyes dead on the main road, ignoring the man's attempts at making me confide in him. I don't even know him. He seems close to the Centurion, which tells me all I need about him.
        
        "I just wanted to be sure."
        
        I give him a nod, hoping it will be enough to make him leave me alone.
    #Stay silent.
        I have little interest in continuing the conversation. The lids of my eyes fall close, both in exhaustion and in telling him to back off.
        
        "I'm sorry. I just wanted to be sure." His voice rings embarrassed. As it should, I don't know why he would pester me so.
    #"Why did he call you Netacius?"
        *set niall_adoption true
        The question takes the attention away from me and my state of well-being, turning it straight back at him and his Roman identity.
        
        He combs his hair with his fingers and looks away. "It's my Roman name. It was given to me when I was… adopted to a Roman family."
        
        "I see."
        
        "You can call me Niall," he says, as if it would mean something to me.
                
"I won't keep you. I heard you have a day off." He smiles and starts to walk away with an unhurried step, almost in a slothful pace. My gaze lingers after him for a moment or two before it captured by something moving in the corner of my eye.

There's a familiar-looking…

*fake_choice
    #...woman walking away from me.
        *set q_sex "woman"
        *set q_hair "blonde"
        *set q_boy "girl"
        *set q_he "she"
        *set q_his "her"
        *set q_hers "hers"
        *set q_him "her"
    #...man walking away from me.
        *set q_sex "man"
        *set q_hair "blond"
        *set q_boy "boy"
        *set q_he "he"
        *set q_his "his"
        *set q_hers "his"
        *set q_him "him"
        
$!{q_his} gait is soft and soundless, as if ${q_he}'s gliding across the ground.
*if q_sex = "woman"
    Her blonde hair flows freely as she gaits further and further away from me.
*if q_sex = "man"
    Only a glimpse of his messy blond hair is still visible as he gaits further and further away from me.

There's something about that stride that feels familiar, yet foreign. But ${q_his} hair… The person I knew shouldn't be here, and ${q_he}'s not ${q_hair}.

Should I run after ${q_him}?

*choice
    #Run after ${q_him}.
        I take after ${q_him}, not really knowing what to say to ${q_him}. 'Hey, you looked like my friend, I wanted to gawk at you for the heck of it'? With these thoughts rummaging my mind I run, I run past the soldiers littering the route to my destination, one or two of them yelling curses after me. I run despite something in my heart telling I shouldn't.
        
        As if I'm running towards my doom. Why? 
        
        Peculiar.
        
        $!{q_his} step is quick and it's difficult to gain up on ${q_him}. $!{q_he} doesn't run, but I can't reach ${q_him}.
        
        Then, finally, as we're way pass the gate and across the treeline, ${q_he} stops. The forest welcomes me with the scent of moss and bark, the sounds of birds and critters.
        
        Finally my heart rests, despite the sprint.
        
        "Excuse me, I—"
        
        $!{q_he} turns to me with a wide smile, wider than it's usual to aim at mere strangers.
        
        It's ${q_him}.
        
        Quinn.
        *page_break
        *goto quinn_meet
    #Stay put.
        I shake my head. $!{q_he}'s not here, it would be foolish to run after random people who don't even look like ${q_him}.
        
        So I turn away, but something stirs inside as I do so.
        
        *page_break
        It's not even a question of what I should do with my newly-gained day off. My feet guide me towards the tree line, away from the howling of the officers, the clamor of the soldiers, the neighing of the horses. 
        
        The forest. 
        
        Finally my hearts rests. I close my eyes and take in the scent of the forest, the moss and the bark, listen to the scurrying of a nearby squirrel.
        
        But… Someone is looking at me. 
        *page_break
        I turn around to see the ${q_hair} ${q_sex} I saw earlier. $!{q_he}'s wearing a wide smile, wider than it's usual to aim at mere strangers.
        
        It's ${q_him}.
        
        Quinn.
        *goto quinn_meet

*label quinn_meet
"I was ready to kill him if he tried anything."

My eyes widen at the sudden, violent words. "Niall?"

"Whatever that man's name is. Or the other one, the grumpy prick." $!{q_he} shrugs, as if it's a inconvenience to even think of the names of them.

"Quinn, what are you doing here?"

"I came after you, of course," ${q_he} states it as if it's a given. As if it didn't mean hundreds of miles of traveling by land and crossing the sea. $!{q_his} sling hangs from ${q_his} hip, ready for use. "I saw what happened," ${q_he} says as ${q_he} scrutinizes my appearance, making sure nothing is amiss. "They let you go."

I nod.

$!{q_he} gives me a wide, knowing smile. "Good."

[i]What are you doing here?[/i] I almost ask again, the last time I saw ${q_him} was in Caledonia. $!{q_he} stayed behind willingly, even if ${q_he} disliked the idea of me leaving. "Why are you ${q_hair}?" I ask instead. It's the more trivial question, but one that plagues me none-the-less. $!{q_his} hair used to be black.

"Is that important right now?"

I suppose not. I shake my head.

$!{q_he} grins again, reminding me of a trickster. When did ${q_he} start to smile like that? "I couldn't let you leave alone. What kind of a friend would I be?"

*fake_choice
    #Run to hug ${q_him}.
        [i]I'm not alone.[/i] With the thought rummaging through my mind I run into ${q_his} embrace, burying my face in ${q_his} tunic.
        
        "What took you so long?" I muffle against ${q_his} blood-red cloth, trying to control my raging emotions.
        
        "I had to took care of some things first."
        
        I almost want to ask what could ${q_he} possibly do in that burnt village of ours, but the visage of everything black and dead stops the words in my throat.
        
        "Never mind that," ${q_he} says, taking a note of my tensing frame. $!{q_he} squeezes me once more, tighter, before letting me go. $!{q_he} smacks my shoulder and grins.
        
        "Don't get all mushy on me, alright? I couldn't just stay there. You needed me here."
    #"I'm happy that you're here."
        $!{q_he} examines me for a moment before shaking ${q_his} head. "Why are you so formal? Where's my hug?" $!{q_he} widens ${q_his} arms to invite me in ${q_his} embrace.
        
        *fake_choice
            #Give ${q_him} a quick hug. 
                I oblige, quickly taking a hold of ${q_his} frame before letting go.
                
                "That was a poor excuse of a hug." $!{q_he} pouts. 
                
                "That's all you will get for now."
                
                "I will treasure the memory of it, then."
                
                "Do as you will."
                
                Our little exchange lifts my spirits for a moment and I can't help but give ${q_him} a quick smile. $!{q_he} smiles back at  me, victoriously.
                
                "Finally! I thought the Romans had killed your spirit."
                
                "Not yet. Not due to their lack of trying, though."
            #Embrace ${q_him}.
                [i]I'm not alone.[/i] With the thought rummaging through my mind I run into ${q_his} embrace, burying my face in ${q_his} tunic.
        
                "What took you so long?" I muffle against ${q_his} blood-red cloth, trying to control my raging emotions.
        
                "I had to took care of some things first."
        
                I almost want to ask what could ${q_he} possibly do in that burnt village of ours, but the visage of everything black and dead stops the words in my throat.
        
                "Never mind that," ${q_he} says, taking a not of my tensing frame. $!{q_he} squeezes me once more, tighter, before letting me go. $!{q_he} smacks my shoulder and grins.
        
                "Don't get all mushy on me, alright? I couldn't just stay there. You needed me here."
            #"I don't feel like it. I just almost got killed. Again."
                $!{q_he} nods with creased brows. "It was close. That's why you need me here."
                
                I shake my head at ${q_his} over-confident words. "What could you have done?"
                
                "I would've barged in and killed them, of course."
                
                "Two superior officers and their colleagues? And then hundreds of soldiers?"
                
                $!{q_he} nods and shows of ${q_his} bicep. There's hardly anything to see, but ${q_he} shows it none-the-less. "Of course! Then I would've took you to my arms and carried you away."
                
                *if build = "heavy"
                    $!{q_he} takes a quick look at me. "I mean… I would've tried to, then I would've politely asked you to walk."
            #Shake my head. 
                $!{q_he} pouts playfully and lets the topic go.

    #"Why did you follow me?"
        $!{q_he} grins before shrugging. "Why does it matter? Besides, what would I have done alone out there?"
        
        The image of the burnt village pops into mind, making my stomach turn. It's true. There's nothing out there.
        
        "Never mind that," ${q_he} quickly says, as if reading my thoughts. "Besides, you need me here. Right? What if that guy wanted to kill you?"
        
        "You would've killed him instead?"
        
        "Of course!"
        
        "There are hundreds of soldiers—"
        
        "I would've killed every one of them for you."
        
        *fake_choice
            #"That sounds somewhat creepy."
                $!{q_he} pretends to wound from my words. "My love for you is creepy?"
                
                "Well—"
                
                "We would've figured something out. But it didn't come to that, right? So all is well, we're fine."
                
                "Right. I suppose so."
            #"Is that supposed to sound romantic?"
                $!{q_he} grimaces in a feigned state of shock. "You have a weird sense of romance."
                
                "No, I just—" 
                
                $!{q_he} snorts. "Just teasing you, I'm sorry."
            #"Right."
                The image of ${q_him} taking down the whole fort is ridiculous, but I keep the thought to myself.
                
                "You don't believe me?"
                
                I shake my head.
                
                "You wound me! We just met and you're already wounded me till my heart bleeds."
                
                "Uh-huh."
    #"You look different."
        *set clue+1
        $!{q_he} was never the one to wear such bright colors. $!{q_he} lets out a small laugh. "Oh? I could say the same about you."
        
        I look down at my Roman clothes. Right. I guess I have no right to judge.
        
        Quinn winks with ${q_his} mouth playfully open. "They look good on you."
        
        "Pfft. Right. What about you? What are you wearing?" 
        
        $!{q_he} raises ${q_his} brows, taking a look at ${q_his} attire. "Clothes?"
    
        "When has red ever been your color?"
    
        "I had a…" ${q_he} ponders with a playful smile for a moment. "Change of heart. Red becomes me, don't you think?"
        
        "I suppose…"

$!{q_he} lowers ${q_his} voice as a couple of soldiers pass us by. "Also, I came to help you. In your… quest."

*if hatred = "determined"
    *fake_choice
        #"I do need help."
            I don't know how I even thought I could take on this quest alone. Quinn being here… It makes everything easier.
            
            Quinn nods. "You're not alone anymore. I will help you." Soon ${q_his} features darken. "The man knows who you are."
        #"I don't need help."
            Quinn raises ${q_his} brow and snorts. "Oh? Do you have a plan, then?"
            
            "…No."
            
            "You have no idea who's even responsible for what happened?"
            
            I look away and ${q_he} smiles. "I can help you with that. I'm already here, might as well, right?"
            
            Right.
            
            Quinn nods before ${q_his} features darken. "The man knows who you are."
            
*if hatred = "manipulated"
    My quest… "How do you know about it?"
    
    "You told me before you left."
    
    "Did I?" Why can't I remember?
    
    $!{q_he} tilts ${q_his} head at me before giving me a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. We'll get through this together."
    
    *fake_choice
        #"I'm not sure I want to be here."
            Quinn nods, slowly. "You've changed your mind?"
            
            "I'm not sure if I wanted it before, either." It feels like there's a whole month missing from my life before I left here. 
            
            "This is all overwhelming, I understand."
            
            "You do?" I don't think I understand this either, how could ${q_he}?
            
            "What happened was… traumatic. Maybe it affected your memory or something."
            
            "I guess that sounds possible." Something in me doesn't want to believe the explanation is so simple, but another part is relieved. At least I can't deny all of that was traumatic. It's a logical explanation, exactly what I needed in this situation.
            
            Quinn nods before ${q_his} features darken. "The man knows who you are."
        #Just nod.
            I'm not sure I want to unwrap these thoughts just yet. Quinn takes my nod as a confirmation and nods back with a conspiratory smile. If I felt so strongly about coming here, why can't I remember it?
            
            Soon ${q_his} features darken. "The man knows who you are."

"The Centurion?" Yes, he does. I don't know how and why he didn't just outright kill me when he saw me the first time.

Quinn seems to share my sentiment: "I wonder why he let you live. I wouldn't have let anything happen to you, of course, but it would've made things more difficult."

I shake my head. I don't know.
*if sex = "female"
    There was another time when I almost died, too. "Was it you?"
    
    Quinn cocks ${q_his} head. "Me?"
    
    "Someone alerted the camp about the fire just when I was about to strip, was it you?"
    
    $!{q_he} smiles. "Of course it was."
    
    "Thank you."
    
    "Anything for you."

Quinn takes my hand and squeezes it quickly, all too quickly for me to have time to react.

*if hatred = "manipulated"
    "Just try to survive. We will figure out the plan later. Can you do that?"
    
    "Of course. I will."

*if hatred = "determined"
    "You need to play their friend for a while. This takes time, there are too many to act hastily. Bury your anger and survive."
    
I suppose that's all I can do right now. 

*page_break
[b][i]Next day in the training yard[/i][/b]

This is our first day in our full equipment. Kegan stands next to me, his armor too large for his less than average frame. 

*if clothes = "cheap"
    He would look comical if I didn't know I had the same fitting issue with my own armor. At least he can take solace in our mutual clothing disaster.
    
*if clothes = "fine"
    It looks like he's buried under a piece of chained potato sack. I say nothing about it to him, naturally. Wouldn't want to embarrass the boy. 
    
Beads of sweat start their journey down from my forehead and upper lip. They pour without care as the sun scorches the skins of every poor sod gathered on the training ground. Kegan wipes away a stream of sweat of his own with a grimace. The previous cool breeze is gone, in its place a day like any other summer-day. The unusual amount of armor weighs heavy on me.

*if armor = "segmentata"
    It seems to trap all the air, making my situation even more distressing. 
    
*if armor = "hamata"
    At least the ventilation works fine with the holes in the armor. A small grace.

Never in my life have I worn so much armor. My kin fights naked, covered in nothing but paint.

*fake_choice
    #As I used to.
        *set butt_naked true
        It's a terrifying sight when a sea of blue-tattooed naked men and women charge at the enemy. I, too, learned how to kill without any protection. The need for finesse, dexterity… It's an art-form in itself. 
        
        The thought makes the amount of metal on me feeling even more ridiculous.
    #However, I preferred some protection.
        The thought of charging butt-naked to the battlefields wasn't appealing for me. There is sense in protecting yourself, but this amount of armor is ridiculous. 

The unfamiliar wooden sword in my hand draws my attention. It's short. How did the Romans beat us with such tooth picks?

Suddenly every stature around me stiffen and the low chatter dies. The booming voice soon follow: "Recruits!"

Marcus. 

"Today's the day you start to learn how to fight like a Roman."

*page_break

"What differentiates a Roman soldier from the barbarians?" Marcus looks at us, expecting anyone to throw a guess at him.

"Pants?" Someone yells, causing a few chuckles.

Marcus smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes, it's a smile I already know too well. The jester, however, doesn't. He thinks his commanding officer is in on his joke as he happily watches the Centurion walking up to him. 

Then it hits him. Both literally and figuratively.

"Discipline!" He yells as he smacks the man on his bicep. The man manages to keep himself from screaming, but only barely. It looks like Marcus is a heavy hitter. 

Of course the day starts with a casual beating.

"You are [b]nothing[/b] without discipline!" He turns away from the pained man. "You will [b]die[/b] without discipline." Everyone is dead silent, watching the seasoned officer with a gaze mixed with both fear… and awe? His voice does seem to demand it, it's naturally resonant – a voice which will be heard even in the battlefield. "Roman army is built on discipline. A Legionary is nothing without it, and neither are you."

He waits a moment before continuing. "What's the second important thing for a Roman soldier?" His eyes find mine. Shit. He wants me to answer?

*fake_choice
    #"Cooking skills?"
        "Wh…" He hesitates, a ghost of a smile tugs the side of his mouth before nodding.
        
        "You're not too far off. You may find people who vouch for nothing but a hard cracker and a glass of water, but they're wrong. A good meal is a meal for your mind, a meal for your morale." 
        
        He looks at me in thought. "It's not what I had in mind, but it's a good reminder."
    #"Camaraderie?"
        With his brow raised he looks at me, as if he was not ready for me to be correct. 
        
        "Very good." A tone of condescension mixed with surprised pride. He holds my gaze for a moment before nodding and turning to continue his training. 
    #"Fighting skills?"
        "You'd think so, wouldn't you?" He jabs at me before turning to continue his speech. "That is a naive view on a soldier's life. Of course you have to know how to fight. You have to know how to kill a man. But most of the time that's not what keeps you alive on the battlefield." Again a pause. 
    #Stay silent and look the other way.
        *set brazen -2
        I try to mentally shoo him away, but he won't. Of course he won't, the bastard. This seems to only mark me as a target in his eyes.
        
        "Recruit?" He steps closer, his eyes squinted in delight, betraying his sadistic tendencies. Would he deliver the blow for merely a wrong answer, or is he testing my nerves? I don't care to find out. 
        
        "Uh… Camaraderie?"
        
        He stops on his tracks, brows slightly raised. "So you work best under pressure." He smiles. "Good to know." 
        
"The answer is camaraderie. You [b]must[/b] trust in the man next to you. He will save your life, you will safe his." He looks at us, his features solemn and eyes intensive. He could almost fool me he cares if we live or die.

"You are not alone in the battlefield." His eyes find mine, again.

*fake_choice
    #I just stare back at him expressionless.
        *set disciplined +2
        I brush both him and the his preposterous sentiment away. Just get on with the lesson.
    #Why does he point those words at me?
        He knows who I am, he knows I [b]am[/b] alone. Not even that, but he made sure of that.
    #The thought is... comforting?
        Why? Why is it comforting? That I'm not alone? I almost shake my head, to physically banish the thought. How miserable do I have to be to be comforted by the words of my father's killer?
    #As if I'd trust anyone, the least of them him.
        I stare at him as a challenge and almost scoff. I'd never trust any of these people. I [b]am[/b] alone. Who does he think he's fooling?
    #Silently form the words 'fuck you'.
        *set brazen +2
        *set disciplined -2
        I look at him straight in his eyes, fully aware that this, too, could be the cause for my death. However, he would've already had me killed, if he so wished. A surprised grin tugs the other corner of his lips and he continues, ignoring my insults:
  
"Before you get to practice fighting in formation, I want to see how you fare in one-on-one. Germans love it, you Britons crave after it, they will do anything to fight you without your comrades."

"I need a volunteer." 

Heavy silence, no one seems enthusiastic about the prospect of fighting him. 

"You." He points at me. Of course he does. I take a deep breath before stepping away from the lineup.

"Yes, Lord Centurion."

*if ((height = "short") and (build = "lithe")) 
    "You're short and slim, so you're at a disadvantage against over half of your opponents." He circles me, scrutinizing my appearance. "You have both inferior reach and insufficient strength." 
    
    *if brazen <60
        I look at the ground, my cheeks heating up with anger and shame.
    *if brazen >=60
        I look him straight into his eyes cheeks heat up with anger and shame.
    He talks as if I'm not good enough.
        
    "Don't look so grim. You just need to be better than them. And by following my instructions you will be." He looks confident in his words. "You need to think smarter, look for weaknesses, and exploit them without hesitation."
    
*if height = "short"
    "You're on the shorter side, and that means your reach is worse than over half of the opponents." He takes a longer look. "Make it two thirds."
    
    I frown. I'm not that short.
    
    "Now now, you can use that. You need to close the gap between your opponent in order to balance the situation. You can even use your dagger, if you get close enough."
    
*if ((height = "tall") and (build = "heavy"))
    He nods in appreciation. "You're of formidable size and height. You will have an advantage against almost all of your enemies if you have the skill to back it up."
    
    The feeling of smugness raises its head within me, despite my best efforts to keep myself calm. Marcus must have seen this, since with a raise of his hand continues:
    
    "However, that doesn't mean you will inevitably win. You will lose against a more skilled individual who knows how to use their weapon, even if they're of lesser stature."
*if ((height = "average") and (build = "average"))
    His eyes scrutinize me for a while. 
    
    "Well, you're perfectly average. You will have an advantage against half of your enemies, there's much you can do with that."
*if build = "lithe"
    "You're lacking in strength. It will be your biggest defect."
    
    I frown.
    
    "Don't make such a face, now. That just means you need to end the fight quicker than your enemy. You must strike without hesitation."

"Show me your attack."

I take a relaxed grip of the unfamiliar sword. No need to squeeze it. The posture my father taught me comes naturally. It's as if he's summoned next to me, holding his hand on my shoulder, urging me to show that Roman bastard what our people are made of.

Aim for the head to wipe that smirk off his face.

Attack!

He has little problem to evade. He doesn't even have a sword of his own, nor a shield. He just sidesteps away from my reach.

Shit. This sword is too short!

I take a couple of hurried steps towards him to gain up on him, and have little time to register that he has already ducked and kicked me off my feet.

I'm lying on the ground…

*fake_choice
    #frowning.
        My face distorts into a mess of tense, annoyed muscles. Stupid Roman thinks he can beat me—
        
        "Careful, the face might stick," the commanding officer towering over me says. I can't possibly frown deeper, even if I wanted to, so I settle for biting my lip in order to keep my mouth shut. I get up, quickly, annoyed.
    #cursing.
        "Fucking fuck—"
        
        "Language," the commanding officer towering over me says in mocking seriousness. I get up, biting my lip in order to keep the curses at bay.
    #completely silent.
        *set disciplined +2
        My eyes are glued to the sky, which by now is littered with gray clouds. 
        
        "Are you breathing? Did you die, recruit?"
        
        "No, Lord Centurion," I say and get up.
        
"You had a longsword?"

"Yes, Lord Centurion."

"It shows. You will have to get used to the Roman way." He turns to the lineup. "You will fight against training dummies now. Zoilus will make sure your stance is right."

Zoilus? Who's Zo—

The Optio appears beside Marcus with a grin of enjoyment on his face. He glances up to his master with weirdly off place puppy eyes before turning his attention to his future victims.

Oh. Him.

This almost makes me wish Marcus would've continued our lesson. 

Almost.
*page_break Later
My body is beaten. In every sense of the word. The sun creeps behind the hills and paints the sky crimson-red. A groan born of pain and fatigue escapes me as I gawk at the nature's own painting for a brief moment. A brief moment of beauty will keep me sane. At least I hope so.

It's time to get back to yanking the armor off.

*if armor = "segmentata"
    I'm already soaked in sweat after a hot and painful day, and the armor isn't being helpful. As I'm closing in on losing my nerves and readying myself to yell at the noncompliant piece of crap, a steady voice behind me draws me back.

    "Had a rough day?"

    Quinn.
    
    $!{q_he} smiles like a lynx who found a trapped hare, the sight almost making my blood boil in my stuck state. "Need a hand?" $!{q_he} asks as the smile transforms into a warmer one. It manages to cool my nerves.

    *fake_choice
        #"Yes," I say.
            I try to maintain a neutral tone, as if this is a situation like any other. I'm just stuck.
            
            $!{q_he} follows my lead and with absolute seriousness ${q_he} opens a clamp holding the thing in place. With expertise ${q_he} removes the chest piece.
        #"Yes!" I exclaim.
            "Thank the Twins you came! I'm stuck."
        
            "I can see that." $!{q_he} stifles a laugh, but only barely.
        
            "Oh, hurry up."
        
            $!{q_he} proceeds to unclamp the armor, and with apparent ease ${q_he} gets me out of my prison.
        #"...Yes," I sigh in defeat.
            I just want out of this bloody thing. There's a ghost of a smile on ${q_his} lips before I give ${q_him} an evil eye.
        
            "Not a word."
        
            "Uh-huh."
        
            $!{q_he} proceeds to unclamp the armor, and with apparent ease ${q_he} gets me out of my prison.
    
    "You're not the only one having trouble with these." $!{q_he} answers before I can ask.
    
    "Are you in a habit of undressing every soldier in your way?" I tease, taking my opportunity for revenge.
    
    $!{q_he} bursts out laughing, lightly smacking my already tortured shoulder. "You know me!"
    
*if armor = "hamata"
    I thank the Twins as the mail slips easily off. It's like taking off a shirt. A heavy one, but a shirt none-the-less.
    
    Quinn appears behind me and for some reason, ${q_he} looks disappointed.
    
    "You wanted me to need help with this? So you could ride in to save me?" I tease ${q_him}.
    
    "Of course!" ${q_he} doesn't take the bait. "What else would I do with my freetime, but to gawk if you or anyone needed any shirt-removing help?"
    
    "Pfft."
    
Quinn looks at after the violent man leaving the scene. "I think I hate your Optio."

My beaten body wants to agree with the statement.

*fake_choice
    #"I'm too tired to hate right now."
        There's so many people to hate in this camp, I'd have nothing to do but to hate.
        
        Quinn turns ${q_his} gaze back to me. "I can hate him for you."
        
        "How nice of you."
        
        ${q_he} grins. "Anything for you."
    #"I wish he'd die."
        The words are not as strong as I'd like them to sound. It's a wish I'd utter to the sea under my breath, but feel bad about asking the gods of something I should do myself.
        
        "Hm. Maybe the Twins will answer with striking him down," ${q_he} muses under ${q_his} breath, almost inaudibly.
        
        "I don't think we should ask the gods for that."
        
        "Why not? Why wouldn't they help you? You're their druid."
        
        "It doesn't work that way."
        
        "Oh?" $!{q_he} pouts in disappointment. "I suppose I don't know about these things as good as you."
    #Shrug.
        "He just beat you for hours and you shrug at it?"
        
        I almost sigh for the good measure. "It's what I expected in the Roman army. It's nothing I can't handle."
        
        $!{q_he} studies my face for a good while before nodding. "You're strong. That's why you'll win."
        
        "This is not a contest."
        
        "Oh, but it is! It's our lives on the line. Two angry Picts against the whole Roman army."
        
"I can walk you to your tent." $!{q_he} takes the biggest pieces of the armor and starts walking without hearing what I might have to say about that. I shrug and follow ${q_him}.

*page_break
Before we can reach the tent, something unusual halts our steps: a noblewoman walks towards us with a purposeful stride. She looks like she doesn't belong, but as if she doesn't care. At all. That almost makes her belong here. Her blonde hair is made into a complex coiffure; it's almost too blonde to be her natural hair color. A couple of bodyguards follow her step.

"Legate's wife. Camilla something," Quinn says when ${q_he} sees my point of focus. 

"What is she doing here?" And why does she seem familiar, somehow.

"I heard she likes looking at the barbarians." $!{q_he} shrugs. "She's from the palace or something."

"Likes barbarians? Why?"

Quinn merely shrugs. "We're exotic?"

I'd ask how ${q_he} knows so much of the people here but the woman moves with such a speed I'm afraid she'd vanish before I have time to react. Not one soldier dares to look at her when she passes them by, nor even peer after when she’s gone.

*if hatred = "determined"
    She could be my ticket to the Legate.

    Quinn nods. "I know what you're thinking."

    "Getting to know her? Do you disapprove?"

    "Of course not. It's a good plan."
    
    *fake_choice
        #"But it's reckless."
            *set ch1_quinn_wtf true
            It would be a death sentence to approach a woman of her stature so freely.
            
            Quinn merely snorts. "We're way pass the recklessness at this point. Trust me, ok?"
            
            "Trust—"
            
            But before I can question ${q_him} further, ${q_he} shouts to the woman from the bottom of ${q_his} lungs: "Excuse me!" Then ${q_he} disappears, leaving me alone to face the noblewoman and her bodyguards.
        #Nod and run after the woman.
            "Excuse me!"
        
*if hatred = "manipulated"
    *set ch1_quinn_wtf true
    Quinn's gaze follows the woman with interest. "She could be your ticket to the Legate."
    
    "What? You want me to gain up on her and get to know her? Her bodyguards would kill me."
    
    "I hardly think so. Trust me, ok?"
    
    "Trust—"
    
    But before I can question ${q_him} further, ${q_he} shouts to the woman from the bottom of ${q_his} lungs: "Excuse me!" Then ${q_he} disappears, leaving me alone to face the noblewoman and her bodyguards.
    
    Well, shit.

*page_break
She stops on her tracks, as if processing who dared to speak to her. Then, for what feels like an eternity, she turns to face me. Her skin is pale, as if she's never seen the light of sun. However, it's hard to say what her real skin color is behind a layer of white makeup. It reflects the same coldness her measuring hazel eyes do as they're piercing into me. Her expression doesn’t give anything away but what she wants me to see: contempt.

*fake_choice
    #"Umm."
        *set brazen -2
        My mind blanks. What was I supposed to say to her?
        
        "Ummm."
        
        She raises her brow at me and her bodyguards follow her example. I'm stared down by three Romans.
        
        "Err."
        
        A hint of laughter appears on her features. Or am I seeing things? She kills it before I can be sure, if there even was anything to kill.
        
        Well, there's me, I suppose. Just now the realization hits me that I've approached the most important woman in the whole fort.
        
        Shit. Why is this happening, why did I—
        
        But nothing happens. 
        
        There's no command for my execution, nothing.
    #"Camilla, right?"
        *set camilla_rude true
        *set rude +2
        I ask as an innocent question. It's anything but. I address the wife of the Legate with her given name, a feat no soldier should dare to.

        There's barely a visible flinch, anyone with an eye less trained than mine would've missed it. She knows I saw her momentarily shaken posture, the realization making her eyes narrow until they're just two slits. 

        "I'm Hati." I add and smile for a good measure.

        I expect nothing but a hiss to depart her lips at this point, but it never comes. She catches a hair strand back to her ashen-colored coiffure while giving me a look of… what? There's the contempt, but there's something else there, too. Perhaps a hint of interest?
        
        Or am I imagining it?
    #"Ma'am." Lower my eyes on the ground.
        *set rude -2
        I lower my gaze away from her hateful stare. I'm in no place to gawk at her, this way I will show I have some manners. If she decides to get me beaten despite of this, so be it.
        
        But nothing happens. 
        
        There's no command for my execution, nothing.

She turns away as abruptly as our meeting started. Her bodyguards follow her with quick steps, matching her speed after a moment of hesitation. They look at each other before quickly glancing at me in astonishment by the lack of disciplinary actions I managed to walk away with. They were already ready to beat me up, or worse, but Camilla decided otherwise.

*if camilla_rude
    I'm already on first-name basis with the wife of a Legate.

Quinn appears behind me: "That went well."

*if ch1_quinn_wtf
    *fake_choice
        #"You could've gotten me killed!"
            I turn to ${q_him} with a vengeance, but ${q_he} seems unfazed. Instead, ${q_he} offers me an almost apologetic smile.
            
            "I told you to trust me. Nothing happened."
            
            "How could you know that? There was a possibility of—"
            
            "Look, I'm sorry. But I really knew nothing would happen. Everything turned out fine, right?"
        #"Why did you do that?"
            Why is ${q_he} so invested in this that ${q_he}'s ready to throw me to the wolves?
            
            "But this is good process, isn't it?" Quinn smiles, but turns ${q_his} gaze away when our eyes meet. "Look, I already told you that I knew nothing would happen."
            
            "How could you know that?"
            
            "I just did, and nothing happened. Right?" $!{q_he} turns ${q_his} gaze back to me.
        #"I suppose it did."
            "Right? I told you it'd be alright."
            
            "How did you know that?"
            
            "I had a strong hunch."
            
            "But you don't even know her?" At this point I'm not sure what to think of ${q_his} involvement in this. Was ${q_he} truly ready to throw me to the wolves or does ${q_he} know something I don't?

    With my feet still wobbly due to the rushing adrenaline, I sigh. I don't have the energy to confront ${q_him} now. I'm finding it hard to believe that ${q_he} knew nothing would happen. Was ${q_he} ready to kill them all with ${q_his} sling, or what was ${q_his} plan?
    
    "C'mon, turn that frown upside down. I'll buy you a cookie as a compensation."
            
    "A cookie?"
            
    "Yes!" $!{q_his} features brighten up. "I found this baker who makes the most delicious honey cookies. It has these seeds and— You just have to experience it yourself."
            
    A surge of adrenaline still lingers in my limbs and the sight of ${q_his} nonchalant story of a cookie makes me sigh. "How can you talk about cookies right now?"
            
    "It's such a good cookie, though. I'll buy you at least ten."
            
    I guess I walk away from this experience with a new a connection to the Legate, with my life, and a… cookie. Ten of them.
*if not(ch1_quinn_wtf)
    "It did."
    
    "Look, I'll buy you a cookie as a celebration."
    
    "A cookie?"
    
    "Yes!" $!{q_his} features brighten up. "I found this baker who makes the most delicious honey cookies. It has these seeds and— You just have to experience it yourself."
            
    A surge of adrenaline still lingers in my limbs and the sight of ${q_his} nonchalant story of a cookie makes me sigh. "How can you talk about cookies right now?"
            
    "It's such a good cookie, though. I'll buy you at least ten."
            
    I guess I walk away from this experience with a new a connection to the Legate, with my life, and a… cookie. Ten of them.
        
*page_break
[i][b]Later that evening…[/b][/i]

*if hatred = "determined" 
    I stand in front of an extravagant building, clearly meant for the most important man in the fort. The villa of the Legate. Now that I've made progress towards getting closer to Legate, however small the effort may be, my goal seems closer. His house seems more vulnerable, like I could see right through the walls.
    
*if hatred = "manipulated"
    What am I doing here?
    
    That is the question floating in the back of my head as I gaze at the most extravagant building in the fort.
    
    The villa of the Legate.
    
A small but lavish garden decorates the outside of the villa. There's a clear line of vision inside of the building from the road, as if meant to be gawked at from outside. There are guards on the doorway, already ogling me with bored interest. A few slaves shuffle past the entrance, but there's no sign of the man himself.

"Hati! What a pleasant surprise."

A voice almost makes me jump and curse, but I repress the urge, barely. Niall stands behind me, wearing the same big smile on his face than the last time I saw him. His otherwise simple tunic is tied with a lavish belt, decorated with golden plates.

I salute him briefly. "I'm just taking an evening-stroll," I say while trying mentally to shoo him away.

"What a coincidence, so am I. Can I join you?" 

No, you can't, I almost say but it would make me look more suspicious. "…Fine."

*page_break
He takes his place next to me, not close enough to be intrusive, but close enough for a whiff of different herbs and flowers to reach me. It's an oddly relaxing scent, reminding me of the different plants that grew in the grove. The thought involuntarily soothes my mind and I almost curse myself for it. I should be ever vigilant in this place.

"Admiring Legate's villa?" He asks.

I nod.

"It is a beautiful building," he says as he beckons me to walk with him, "more secured than it looks."

A pause. Secured?

He ignores my puzzlement and continues without a care in the world. "Recruit, I don't want to sound arrogant, but you really have no idea who I am?"

I give him a blank stare. He's of higher status than Marcus, apparently, that makes him… I'm not sure. I might've been deep in thought during the briefing about the ranks and such. All I care about is the Centurion, the Legate, and the as-of-now absent General, and that I must salute every superior Roman and non-Roman passing me by. They all look the same.

His smile is wide. "Tribune…?"

"Tribune?"

"Military tribune! Such a fancy title, don't you think. For a Hibernian country boy, no less." 

If my memory serves, that's a rank lower than… Legate? Am I speaking freely with the second most important person in the fort? Also, he said he's from Hibernia? The neighboring island not yet fully invaded by the Romans?

*fake_choice
    #"My apologies, Lord Tribune."
        *set rude -2
        *set disciplined +2
        It's better to keep up the military decorum, even if he seems not to mind the more free way of talking. It could be a trap.
        
        He just swats away my apologies, as if they were a pesky fly trying to invade his nostril. "It was my fault for not being there for your vows."
    #Shrug.
        *set rude +2
        Who cares about Roman titles. They all look the same to me.
        
        He raises his brow, but still smiles. "Others would beat you to a pulp if you didn't address them by their title, you know."
        
        "But not you?"
        
        "No. I know my station without everyone echoing it to me daily."
    #Nod.
        This is an interesting development.
    #"You all look the same to me."
        *set brazen +2
        His eyes widen at my brash words. It's a risk to talk to your superior in such a crude manner, but he doesn't seem the type to kill me for unruly behavior. I suppose he could still beat me for it.
        
        Then, he starts laughing. It sounds genuine, but the reason for such genuine representation of his feelings remains obscure. 
        
        "I can see why Marcus likes you."
        
        The thought makes my features darken with my thoughts. Is he mocking me?

Why is he here? Why is he so keen on pestering me, a mere recruit?

"It's always a pleasure to talk to a fellow Islander, even if a neighbor." There are a lot of Britons here, that can't be the only reason he's talking to me. Before I can question him further, he continues: "You like it here?"

*fake_choice
    #"Can't say I do."
        *set manipulative -2
        He arches his copper brows before giving me a soft smile. "I know. I see it. Thank you for trusting me. However…"
        
        He steps closer, his features betraying no ill will, only weirdly off-place compassion and worry. It still forces me to take a step back. He whispers, as if letting me in on a secret:
        
        "There are more eyes and ears here than you know."
        
        A clear warning. Meant to help or intimidate me?
        
        "But, as I said, I appreciate it. You can speak freely with me."
        
        Can I?
    #"...Sure."
        I say dismissively, not sure what to think about the situation. Even if everything about him would tell me that I could rely on him, why would I? He's a stranger.
        
        "You can speak freely with me."
    #"Yes, Lord Tribune."
        *set disciplined +2
        I answer in the most distant way possible. I have no reason to trust this man. 
        
        "You can speak freely with me."

"Why?"

He studies my features all the while wearing the same smile. He must be a talented actor to conjure such realistically warm emotions on him. Finally he says: "I suppose you remind me of myself."

Me? 

*fake_choice
    #"We're nothing alike."
        He nods. "Oh. Maybe it's just me." He doesn't look offended the slightest, he just… smiles.
    #Nod.
        If he wants to see me as his peer, let him. I don't care either way. He just keeps smiling as he looks at me.
    #Me? A Roman lapdog? What a ridiculous thought.
        I almost scoff out loud, but manage to stop myself. If he saw the dismissal, he doesn't say anything. He just… smiles. 
        
A shudder creeps through the skin of my back. That smile is even more dangerous than the sadistic ones, the ones meant to ridicule or mock me. This is a smile meant to lull others into a false sense of trust and comfort, to make them confide in him. What is his aim?

He continues: "I heard you approached the Legate's wife."

My eyes widen. Of course he would hear about it. There were many eyes.

Then, a jovial and carefree voice interrupts us: "Why, if it isn't my good Tribune!"

Isn't that—

"Legate, what a pleasant surprise!" Niall exclaims with a relaxed salute.

*page_break
Legate. The man responsible.

He pats Niall on the back, displaying a wider smile a man in his position should be able to wear. The blood of my people is in his hands. They are gone, but he is there. Breathing. 

Smiling.

Showing off his white teeth, his expensive cloth. Able to grow old and feeble, unlike my brothers and sisters. Unlike my father.

Boiling hatred starts pump through my veins, burning the tips of my fingers.

*fake_choice
    #Fight the feeling. I need to keep my cool.
        I bite the insides of my mouth to keep my mind grounded. This is not the place to let the emotions take over me. 
        
        Close my eyes. Concentrate on breathing. It's so shallow, it shouldn't be. It needs to be deep.
        
        Deep breaths. Deep—
        
        "Lad? Are you quite alright?"
        
        Legate's face is close as I open my eyes. I yelp and step away. He's left looking puzzled after me.
        
        "Are you alright?" He repeats the question.
        
        "Yes, Lord Legate," I finally answer as I've collected myself. My voice is shaky, broken, more broken than I wanted it to be.
        
        Niall takes a step towards me, worry distorting his smooth features. Worry over what? My well-being? As if. 
        
        "I think we should leave the recruit to take some air. He's not feeling well."
        
        Legate nods with furrowed brows. "Please don't hesitate to visit the infirmary. Oh, and Niall. Don't you have some herbs for him to use?"
        
        "Perhaps, Lord Legate. But I think it's time to leave." Niall starts escorting Legate away, but not without taking one final look at me. It's hard to say what he's thinking. It's easy to say what he wants to me think: that he's worried about me.
    #Let the anger take over.
        *set legate_name true
        I revel in the feeling of hatred. The power it wields keeps me standing upright, looking the murderer straight into his eyes. He focuses his attention at me, still smiling. Like there's nothing wrong. Like he didn't kill everyone dear to me.
        
        I smile back, politely, even give him a relaxed salute.
        
        I smile, even though the insides of my stomach are flaring up. It almost hurts. It hurts my visceral organs to smile.
        
        "Is this your recruit, Niall?"
        
        Niall's gracious features sour as he turns his gaze back to me. Legate doesn't notice and I speak before he has the time to answer:
        
        "Yes, Lord Legate. My name is Hati and I hail from Britannia. It's a pleasure to meet you, my Lord." My words are clear and I keep smiling. Happiness over my clear words and tone coats the anger and lightens the heaviness in my chest.
        
        "Such a polite boy! It warms my heart to see recruits such as yourself. You're the backbone of our Empire." The wrinkles on the corners of his eyes deepen as the appreciation and pride of his troops take over his expression. He turns to Niall. "Don't you think so, too?"
        
        "Of course, my Lord." His words are more uncertain as his eyes judge me and apparently my state of mind. "Hati seems like a fine man. However, Lord Legate, I think we should leave for the dinner. It's already late."
        
        "Ah, but of course! You're a good lad. You, too, Hati. I hope we see again."
        
        I smile so deeply that my cheeks hurt. "I hope so, too, Lord Legate."

The duo of men leave and I'm left standing alone with the waves of hatred still assaulting my veins. I need to… 

Breathe.

*page_break
[i][b]Many days later[/b][/i]

Another day of training passes by, muddling with the rest of the days. I've thrown javelins,
*if build = "lithe"
    not well, but thrown them none-the-less.
*if build = "heavy"
    as one of the best among the recruits.
*if build = "average"
    with some mediocre skill.
I've swam, I've marched, marched, and marched… Countless miles of marching have all but eaten away the bottom of my boots.

And finally, the day of the final test is here. A peek outside brings dire news: it's pouring. The heavy raindrops banged the ceiling of our small hut for the whole morning, but I suppose I wanted to be sure. It's nothing new to me, the life on the Island was wet. Moist. Dank. Damp. One does get used to the feeling of clammy leather clasping ones skin for the whole day, but I can't say I much enjoyed the mud wrestling that the weapon training with my father and his men eventually turned into.

And as it turns out, Marcus doesn't care about the weather. He merely scoffs when asked if the test can be held inside.

"The enemy will attack you even when it's uncomfortable. Get used to it."

A small wave of groans travel through the men gathered on the training yard, but not audible enough for our Centurion to take offense. The ice water has already glued the clothes to my skin and we haven't even started. It's nostalgic, at least.

"You will have to fight me as the final test," Marcus says.

Him? A couple of nervous glances are exchanged. 

"If you are already scared shitless, you can leave." No one does. "I'll take you on one by one. You first."

I'm half-expecting him to call on me, but instead he points to Kegan next to me, whose eyes widen. He's like a rabbit that's spotted by a fox. He turns to me, twitching like a panicked prey.

*fake_choice
    #Comfort him before he leaves.
        *set disciplined -1
        *set kegan_friendship +5
        "You can do it," I whisper to him, not sure if he can even hear me in his distressed state.
        
        "I'm sure the boy can crawl here without your help." Marcus's shout makes the boy twitch. I stifle the urge to growl at Marcus, for making this harder than it needs to be for the boy. Kegan gives me a quick glance and I nod briefly to confirm my words.
    #Keep quiet.
        *set disciplined +2
        
Kegan leaves the safety of the lineup, barely standing. It almost pains to look at his wobbling steps. He steadies his standing with his shield. 

"Boy."

"…Yes, Lord Centurion?"

"Take a few deep breaths."

There's surprise in Kegan's voice as he gawks: "Yes, Lord Centurion!" He does as commanded, filling his lungs with humid late-autumn air. His shoulders relax, just a fraction, but at least he doesn't look like he's in a brink of panic attack.

Marcus nods at the boy's sword. "Ready yourself." 

Kegan lifts his shield and sword, 

barely in time, since Marcus already launches an attack. His training sword bumps with Kegan's shield with such strength the boy is in danger of falling over. However, he stays standing before dodging away from the attacker with more dexterity I've given him credit for.

"Good," Marcus says briefly before attacking again. This time Kegan is more ready, but undeniably overpowered. He keeps his ground for a respectable time before lying on the mud defeated.

"Fine. Next."

There are a few recruits before me. In the end, every one of them find themselves deep in the mud. Finally Marcus points at me.

*page_break

"Your turn." 

I step up to him and ready myself, as I've seen others do before me. I relax my shoulders. Relax my stance. Stop gripping my sword too hard and—

"You're soaked," he says. "That's a good look." His lips curl into a smirk.

*choice
    #"Huh?"
        *set ch1_injury true
        *set ch1_shield false
        My mouth forms a convenient would-be trap for any fly passing by. What in the hells—
        
        Within moments there's an explosive pain on my left hand, making me drop my training shield. My eyes fill with tears. Marcus took advantage of my confusion and attacked. The absolute bastard.
        
        Now my pathetic shield lies on the ground as I gawk at the frowning officer in front of me.
        
        "[i]Never[/i] let anyone distract you!"
        
        He did that to teach me a lesson?
        *goto no_shield
    #"Shut up and attack."
        *set brazen +2
        Marcus gives me an easy smile filled with smugness before attacking. 
        
        I block him, barely, as the strength of his thrust almost shatters my stance. He tried to rattle me, the absolute bastard.
        
        He nods at me with eyes hinting of appreciation. "Don't let anyone distract you."
        *goto shield
    #Ignore him and attack.
        *set disciplined +2
        I don't listen to his distractions but press on. Everything he says or does is a trap, meant to confuse me. I attack with my shield just to wipe that grin right off his face. He expected a charge with my sword, and I managed to at least change his facial expression into a slightly surprised one before he evades my attack.
        
        Too easily.
        
        It's annoying.
         
        He doesn't counter-attack right after. Instead he looks at me with eyes hinting of appreciation. "Don't let anyone distract you."
        *goto shield
        
I take a stance to wait for his next move.

*label no_shield
*page_break
Without my shield, however, I'm left with little defense. It's fine.
*if butt_naked
    I'm used to fighting with no defenses. 
    
Marcus throws his shield on the ground. "I prefer things equal."
    
Ha! I'd laugh if I had time to, but as his shield hits the ground he's already on me. 
    
My mind freezes and my muscles work. I parry, barely, the strength of his attack is
*if build = "heavy"
    nothing I can't handle, but his technique is miles away from mine. 
*if ((build = "lithe") or (build = "average"))
    almost too much, my feet slip on the muddy ground as I try to keep standing.

He gives me no time to launch an attack of my own, and soon I realize all I can do is to keep his attacks at bay. 

I parry, I dodge, but there's no room for a counter-attack.

The mud beneath my feet threatens to make me slip.
*page_break
*if clothes = "cheap"
    Then the worst happens. Time freezes and I realize I'm looking at the gray sky, my face bathing in the rain and my back now wet with mud.
    *goto ch1_fight_end

*if clothes = "fine"
    My sturdy shoes hold and I stay up, barely.
    *goto ch1_finish_him
    
*label shield
I keep my shield up and lock my eyes with him. I wait for him to move.
    
*choice
    #Look at his center.
        I keep my eyes on him, but not on any particular part of him.
        
        The muscles on his left arm twitch and in a matter of moments I'm parrying his shield with mine. A loud clank follows, his face now too close to mine.
        
        I frown. It only makes him smirk.
        
        "Keep it up!"
        *goto ch1_finish_him
    #Look at his sword.
        *set ch1_injury true
        My eyes are on his sword, commanding it to move so I can react to it. Then.
        
        There's a heavy thump sending jolts of force through my body as his shield crashes in on mine. 
    
        I have little to no time to regain my stance — during that he has already gained up on me with a smack of his training sword on my arm. Pain makes me cry out and drop the shield.
        
        Soon I realize I'm looking at the gray sky, my face bathing in the rain and my back now wet with mud.
        
        "Keep your eyes in the center, soldier," he says as he sheathes his weapon.
        *goto ch1_fight_end
*label ch1_finish_him
*page_break
I'm still standing, and now it's my time to attack. With a yell stemming deep from my training days with the tribesmen I
*if ch1_shield 
    drop my shield on the ground and
charge at him with little time to register the look of surprise on his face. Just as I'm about to land a blow on his head, he dodges. My body keeps the momentum of the killing-blow and as I try to halt it, the mud underneath my feet finally betrays me and I fall straight on my face onto the dirt.

And so it's over.

Marcus takes a hold of my arms and raises me up.

"Impressive. You could've injured me." His eyes glimmer with thrill by the prospect.
*goto ch1_soldier

*label ch1_fight_end 
And so it's over. I get myself from the ground with Marcus staring at me from the distance.
*goto ch1_soldier
*label ch1_soldier

*fake_choice
    #look straight at Marcus.
        *set brazen +2
        I raise my chin at look him in the eyes. He smirks. 
        
        "You did good."

        *if ch1_injury 
            My arm throbs in dull pain, this time the damage more prominent than anything I've received from the Optio. Marcus's eyes linger on my arm as he gives it a frown, as if it's the arm's fault it got injured.
            
            "Go see the medic with that." There's something peculiar in his voice, something I haven't heard from it before. Is it… worry?
            
            No. That can't be it. He looks the same arrogant prick as always.
            
        I nod and fall back to the lineup.
            
    #keep my eyes the ground.
        *set brazen -2
        "You did good."
                
        *if ch1_injury 
            My arm throbs in dull pain, this time the damage more prominent than anything I've received from the Optio. Marcus's eyes linger on my arm as he gives it a frown, as if it's the arm's fault it got injured.
            
            "Go see the medic with that." There's something peculiar in his voice, something I haven't heard from it before. Is it… worry?
            
            No. That can't be it. He looks the same arrogant prick as always.
            
        I nod and fall back to the lineup.

I suppose I did well enough to warrant the end of my recruitment phase. I'm all muddy and soaked, and can't wait for a bath.

*page_break
*if ch1_injury
    The medic examined my arm. Nothing's broken, but there's bruising forming near the bone. I got doses of white willow bark to treat the inflammation and orders not to use the hand more than necessary. Easier said than done in these circumstances. Just as I'm about to enter my tent, a voice commands me to stop:
    
    "Soldier."
    
    I sigh. Marcus. What does he want now?
    
    *fake_choice
        #"Did you come to beat me more?"
            He flinches at the words. Why?
            
            "No, you moron." He stays silent for a moment before continuing: "Did you see the medic?"
        #Remain silent.
            "Did you see the medic?"

    "Yes, Lord Centurion."

    He stays silent before biting his bottom lip for a briefest of moment. "I'm sorry."

    "Huh?"

    "I'm sorry you hurt yourself," he says again with a more resolute tone. I hurt myself? More like he hurt me.

    *fake_choice
        #Say nothing.
            I don't have much to say to him, and my silence seems to make him more nervous. Good. If that is all that makes him nervous, I can do this all day.
            
            He shifts his weight from one foot to another, waiting for me to say something. Anything, it seems. It's weird to see him almost squirm. 
            
            Finally he says: "I'll ease your workload for the time being." And with these words he leaves.
        #"It's okay, Lord Centurion."
            *set rude -2
            His shoulders visibly relax. He seems to take a deeper breath before giving me the usual grin he's known for by now. It almost makes me want to take the forgiving words I granted him back. 
            
            "Good. I will, of course, ease your workload for the time being." With these words he leaves.
        #"You mean you hurt me. Lord Centurion."
            *set brazen +2
            I raise my gaze to meet his. It's a way to make him take responsibility for his own actions. He sighs and looks away.
            
            "Well, yes. I hurt you and I'm sorry," he blurts out the words with such force it creates a comical contrast with the words.
            
            "Yes."
            *fake_choice 
                #Silently judge him.
                    I don't have much to say to him, and my silence seems to make him more nervous than I've ever seen him before. Good. If that is all that makes him nervous, I can do this all day.
                    
                    He shifts his weight from one foot to another, waiting for me to say something. Anything, it seems. It's weird to see him almost squirm. 

                    "I'll ease your workload for the time being." With these words he leaves.
                #"It's okay, Lord Centurion."
                    His shoulders visibly relax. He seems to take a deeper breath before giving me the usual grin he's known for by now. It almost makes me want to take the forgiving words I granted him back. 
            
                    "Good. I will, of course, ease your workload for the time being." With these words he leaves.
                    
*page_break Where am I?
[i][b]What am I doing here?[/b][/i]

[b][i]Where is here…?[/i][/b]

The warm rays of the late summer sunlight caresses my skin as the scent of burnt moss pinches my nostrils. I close my eyes, taking in the warmth along with the odor of death and decay. The stench of burnt bodies doesn't bother me as it should.

Should it? Do I really care about these people? Did I ever?

[i]Of course I do.[/i]

Whose thought was that? Mine or—

My gaze falls to the palm of my hand. A blackened robe of a burnt druid taints my icy fingers. The fragile cloth threatens to crumble, to disappear like the person who wore it.

My… hand. It's mine, right? Why doesn't it look like mine?

I try to frown, but my brows don't comply. 

This is not my body. 

My eyes close again, giving me time to adjust to the feeling of invading someone's body. I'm in the… grove.

Burnt, black, tainted grove. 

Demons and evil spirits will haunt that which once belonged to the gods. I need to… get out of here. But I can't move the body I'm in. Panic tries to take over me, but before it can fully invade my mind, a sound disturbs the silence of the dead.

"I will kill them." A voice leaves my lips, emotionless, devoid of everything human. It's not a passioned oath, but a statement.

The Romans.

*fake_choice
    #Yes. They need to die.
        The thought of a common goal relaxes my panicked mind. $!{q_his} voice keeps me grounded, pulling me back to the state of relative calmness. I nod, but my head doesn't move. I will kill them.
        
        I will kill those who did this.
    #Who is this person?
        $!{q_his} voice keeps me grounded, pulling me back to the state of calmness. Who is this person? Why does ${q_his} voice ring both familiar and foreign?
        
        I have to see ${q_his} face. Even if this is just a dream, this feels… wrong.
    #I just want to wake up.
        This is too much. How can I escape when I don't even know how I got here? Is this a dream? Can I just wake up? 
                
        I can't move my limbs to escape, my mind refuses to leave.

My gaze falls to the burnt cloth, all but a pile of ashes by now, defiling the paleness of my skin. Does the taint irritate me?

No. No it doesn't. Once upon a time it would have, perhaps. Now… The taint is necessary.

"I need to find ${xim}." The words leave my lips slowly, surely, as if there's nothing but the fact. 

Yes. That's right. 

I turn my head towards the sun, now residing the Southern sky.

I will find ${xim}.
*page_break
*goto_scene chapter_2