Chapter Eight - The Legion

27 Griev 10.075 Z.C., Dawn

Sunhome loomed over the northern skyline of Precinct Four, its unbreachable walls illuminated by the rosy glow of the rising sun. The sight stirred up warmth deep in Mav’s heart, no matter how often he returned. It felt like coming home. He lived here with uncle Brutus for several years as a squire in the wojek barracks and grew a fondness for the place - but before then, and after too, being here felt like a birthright of sorts. As much as he railed against his uncle’s campaign to enlist him, he always knew this day would come.

Beside him, Splatz yawned and scratched his long pointed ear as they walked. Mav knew his friend rarely woke this early. In all fairness, neither did he.

They both worked odd jobs, and since most of those took place in the afternoon or evening, they routinely stayed up and slept in late. Then again, most of the city didn’t start work until after dawn, unless you were a shopkeeper or porter. They also enjoyed Precinct Six’s rambunctious nightlife, punctuated by Rakdos street performances and festivals, which ran until the arresters broke them up at sunrise. Whether they took upright or crooked gigs, they didn’t need to rise early.

“You ready for this?” Splatz asked, picking a ball of wax out of his ear as he looked up at Mav.

No. He shrugged. “Ready as ever. You?”

They stopped in front of the raised portcullis, looking up at the towering heights of the guildhall complex. Mav felt fate tugging at his insides, pulling him toward Sunhome, into the Legion. Without another word, they entered.

Mav, familiar with the grounds, led the way to the training hall the recruiter directed them to report to when they filled out the enlistment paperwork yesterday. On arrival, they found the large room, musty from generations of sweat and blood, already occupied by about forty other new recruits.

The pair picked a spot in a corner of the hall near a handful of goblins, sizing up their new comrades. Mav counted several minotaurs, a couple half-ogres, some elves and half elves, and even a loxodon and a centaur among the otherwise-human recruits gathered here. One of the goblins glanced in their direction - Mav nodded back and looked to Splatz. Mav himself didn’t care about making friends, but he knew Splatz would have an easier time if he got to know more people.

Splatz shook his head, and Mav continued scanning the recruits. He hoped he wouldn’t recognize anyone, but wanted moreso to not be recognized in return. He wanted to make his own way in life - an impossible challenge when he carried a name with so much history. Time faded people’s memories, perhaps to his advantage in getting out from under his father’s shadow. But not all, judging by the recruiter’s reaction in the enlistment office yesterday, when they saw his surname on the paperwork... Mav prayed to the angels he could prove himself before being recognized.

Through the crowd, a flash of blue caught his eye. Craning his neck to see over the centaur’s back, he spotted a vedalken standing alone, leaning against the wall and rubbing her neck. She looked very lost, her eyes vacant as she stared straight ahead, her face filled with more sadness than he’d ever seen on a vedalken. Mav uncrossed his arms and nudged Splatz’ shoulder, forging a path through the crowd toward her.

Her long white hair hung in a braid over one shoulder, as she stood silent and alone. She stopped rubbing her neck and started twirling the fraying tip of the braid between three fingers. Even though Legion recruits by and large defied generalization, she didn’t look like the typical recruit to Mav. Very few vedalken joined Ravnica’s standing army - their superior intellect and predilection to logic didn’t usually blend well with the angelic warleaders’ fiery passions.

But she didn’t seem like the typical vedalken either. Mav noticed a green tattoo on her upper calf, just under the high cut of her pant leg, but above the rise of her boot. And the deep loneliness in her eyes, such a public display of emotion from a vedalken, intrigued Mav. She must be one in a million, like an honest advokist, he thought as he closed the distance.

“Welcome to the Legion,” Mav remarked, taking a place on the wall next to the vedalken, hands in his pockets. She started with surprise and speared him with her wide quicksilver eyes. Wound tighter than a bowstring, she seemed poised to pounce at the first sign of trouble.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he remarked, raising his hands defensively and turning his eyes to the center of the courtyard. People often found him intimidating, and though she stood as tall as him, he wanted to reduce her obvious discomfort, not exacerbate it. Splatz fell in on his other side, arms crossed, looking as bored as possible.

After a long pause, the woman relaxed a little. “That’s okay, I was just- thinking,” she responded, crossing her arms and looking away. She bit her lip, then cocked her head back. “And thank you. Are you new too?”

Mav nodded. “Mostly. I have an uncle in the Legion, just joining up myself. This is my buddy Splatz,” he introduced, gesturing to his friend. “My name is Mav.” He pushed himself off the wall and held out his hand; she gave it a firm shake before shaking Splatz’ hand too.

“Nice to meet you both. I’m Lilla Arven,” she said, offering a tentative smile.

Splatz beamed a toothy grin up at Lilla, and cleared his throat to say something when the call to attention sounded from the far side of the room. The room quieted as the hopeful recruits straightened up, turning to face a tired-looking sergeant standing next to a large set of double doors.

“Through these doors,” the soldier waved, their loud voice echoing across the hushed hall, “you will leave your past life behind and become a recruit in the Boros Legion. Those of you without the courage to do so may leave now!”

Mav shook his head, watching the recruits nearest the door rush forward. A pair of minotaurs elbowed each other as they each tried to be the first through the door. He shared a look with Splatz. Taking their time, they joined the middle of the crowd. Mav noted Lilla did the same, walking in his blind spot.

Mav knew the initiation process would be invasive, but didn’t expect it to be so boring. After the sergeant ordered he and the other forty-something recruits to strip down to their undergarments, they washed and endured an extensive battery of medical tests, questionnaires, and administrative intake procedures, and Mav second-guessed his decision to enlist.

Thank the angels haircuts were no longer a compulsory part of the entry process. He made the mistake of cutting his hair short at age sixteen, letting aunt Melo convince him it would look good, and spent the next six months avoiding mirrors. He didn’t enjoy seeing glimpses of Ace when he walked by the looking glass.

After he signed the final form in the gargantuan stack of paperwork, a bored-looking nurse dismissed him, motioning to a door at the far side of the room. Mav thanked them and stood, heading for the door. Barefoot, the stone floor cooled him as he joined the line of other recruits heading for the next room. Mav couldn’t see Splatz around the bulky gray frame of the loxodon ahead of him without leaning out of line a bit. Behind, he spotted Lilla still finishing some tests and paperwork. Fewer than half the recruits were ahead of Mav.

As the recruits filed into the next room, only a bit warmer than the last, a demoralized half-elf took their measurements, calling out various numbers to a small team of goblins behind a large counter along one wall. The goblins scurried back and forth in front of the large shelves of standard-issue fatigues, collecting the right sizes for the recruits.

Mav noticed a few of the recruits, particularly some of the women, were embarrassed with this. Dressed in their undergarments alongside the male recruits, several blushed shades darker when the half-elf called their sizes out. A few of the men appeared uncomfortable as well, avoiding others’ gaze or even looking at themselves.

The Boros brat shook his head. He knew from growing up with the ‘jeks to have little expectation of privacy in the Legion, especially in training. A body is flesh and blood after all; a soldier wounded on the battlefield needs to be treated immediately, not bleed out waiting for the gender of nurse they’re most comfortable with. It would be a long time before anyone had private quarters again either.

Mav’s turn came and the half-elf took his measurements, quick as a pixie. He collected the clothing and the cloth satchel of other supplies set out for him, then filed into the next room with the other recruits.

This room was long, but not very wide, both walls lined with benches. Recruits filled most of the benches, spreading out as they donned their first Legion-issued clothes. Splatz already claimed two spots and sat rummaging through his satchel, scooting over for Mav as his friend approached.

“Check this out,” the goblin said as Mav walked over, pulling a pristine white feather out of his bag. “Griffin?” he guessed, twirling it. Mav paused and took the feather with a sense of reverence, turning it over in his hands. An unmistakable iridescent sheen.

Mav shook his head as he handed the feather back to his friend. “Angel.”

Splatz looked at the feather for a few seconds, and with an unceremonious shove stuffed it back into his satchel, ignoring the pained look on Mav’s face. Resting his satchel and spare clothes on the long bench, Splatz began dressing. Most of the other recruits did the same, but a few investigated their new belongings first.

Mav dressed before opening his bag. It didn’t take long to do an inventory of the contents. The satchel held a bar of soap, a washcloth, three notebooks with feather quills and ink, one pair of boots, sandals, a knife, a Legion insignia pin, and a leather wallet for his ID papers, awled with the Legion’s fiery fist. Mav frowned, discovering his angel feather at the very bottom of his bag. He retrieved it with care, smoothing a few crumpled vanes before lashing it into a small braid in his hair, beside his signature golden roc feather.

Watching him, Splatz wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Done combing your hair, pretty boy?” the goblin asked, with a heavy helping of his usual snark.

Mav didn’t answer, retrieving the boots from the satchel and pulling them on, pointing to Splatz’ bare feet.

“Oh,” Splatz said, sitting next to Mav and putting his boots on as well.

As they pinned on their insignias and stowed their gear, Lilla entered the room. Her cyan cheeks were dark with blush, perhaps uncomfortable being in a crowded space wearing so little, despite everyone else’s identical fate. Then he saw it again, the tattoo on her leg. A clan marking, and a common one at that. Did she have history in the Gruul, or perhaps just a drunken dare? Mav glanced around the room. More bad blood had been spilled between the Gruul and the Boros than any other guilds. She could find it difficult to make friends here.

All the benches were full. He could tell Lilla, shielding her chest and exposed stomach with her new satchel, would not be comfortable asking others to make space. Another recruit entered the room behind her, speeding past Lilla to claim a spot that opened up before she could get to it.

Mav waved, the quick motion drawing her eye. Beckoning her over, he hefted his satchel and waited, holding a place on the bench until she arrived. She released a sigh of relief when she joined them. She opened her mouth to say something, but Mav interjected first, hoping to avoid any unnecessary thanks.

“We’ll see you later. Good luck!” With that, he moved out of her way and cut a path through the crowd of recruits toward the next door, Splatz following in his wake.