Acanthus Petronax was a giant bear of a man. Close to seven feet tall, his heavily muscled frame weighed nearly thirty stone. He was currently naked save for a loin-cloth and a loose, linen tunic that fluttered in the wind. The shifting cloth showed glimpses of his torso to initiates arrayed before him. It was a display with a purpose. He needed the new recruits to see him and understand.

His skin appeared to be heavily tanned at first glance, but this was far from the truth. Thousands of faded scars that marred his flesh until they blended into a single darkened whole. Large and small, there were the marks formed by the weapons and magics of men. The jagged lines and pits where the teeth and claws of beasts had laid open his body. The remnants of burns caused by the instinctual magics and foul sorceries wielded by monsters and demons. Even the slightly mismatched and unnatural colouration of his eyes betrayed the fact that at some point they had been regrown. It was a testament of the countless battles he’d fought over his eighty years of service to the legions of the Red Dragons. Proof that even the most advanced armour, protective spells and combat arts had limits. He bore these marks by choice and duty.

The healers of the legion were not so poor as to leave a man maimed and crippled so long as he and they yet lived. The oath-bond of the legion demanded no less. Low ranking soldiers might be left with spectacular scars after a few years of battles but the disfigurations were only cosmetic, nothing to hamper one’s abilities. Even then, centuries of tradition and studies on the matter held that officers should have all scars but a few aesthetically pleasing markings be removed from their flesh.

It was done to engender a sense of confidence in their soldiers. To tell them that their leaders had seen battle and survived. That they too would survive. This was a practice followed by every level in the chain of command from the Dracones down to the lowliest non-commissioned officer. The only exception to this rule was the soldier who held the post of Master of Instruction.

His duty was to ensure that they saw him and understood.

For the few fools who thought him weak because of his scars, he let the physique and skills of a legion veteran do the talking. His powerful legs and hardened bare feet ran distances across the countryside that saw the raw recruits following him vomit. As they watched him in exhaustion, he'd repeat the feat again and again with each class until they were all too humbled to complain. A waist, narrow only in comparison to his broad shoulders, weathered strengthening exercises and wrestled trainee after trainee until they were all beaten into submission. The process continued until even the unruliest of neophytes learned to respect the power of his guiding hand.

Lest he truly break them…

The group before him had been deemed worthy of eventually being allowed to lay hands on a legion weapon. As was now tradition, he called for three shields.

“This is a Thorsican great-shield,” He proclaimed, holding up the round disk of layered ironwood slats, reinforced with the hide and bones of some aquatic magic beast.

He turned the device about in his hands, showing the handle on the back and the rivetted iron boss in front that had been scrubbed of some fell sorcery.

“It is the favoured tool of our enemies in these lands.” He continued, “Note that the markings on the boss have been removed. Such shields will typically have script detailing a warrior’s history or in rare cases an enchantment meant to aid them in battle.” He then tossed the shield to an assistant with a dismissive sniff.

The assistant then began to lecture the recruits on the possible ways that an enemy warrior might use such a shield, listing its strengths and weaknesses. Acanthus used the time to stroll over to a rack of training weapons and casually selected a wooden quarterstaff. He hefted it in his hands, considering its quality, then returned to the fore. He waited until the other instructor finished before speaking again.

“This is how an unenchanted shield deals with a blow of great force.”

The assistant instructor set himself in a guard, covering his body with the shield, as he mimicked holding a sword at the ready while preparing to meet a thrust.

Acanthus took a single step forward, turning his hips and torso as his abdomen and muscled arms flexed. He struck out with the butt of the staff in a seemingly simple movement. The other instructors and a few of the more talented students however, could see the shadow of the Charging Bull combat technique taught to all legionnaires. No magic augmented his body and he withdrew the full strength of the blow at the last moment. The effects however, were no less stunning.

The assistant instructor adroitly danced forward and to one side slightly before contact. He allowed the quarterstaff to clip the left side of the shield turning it in his hand and attempting to deflect the weapon with a controlled push as he sought to advance. Then the remaining force of the blow, heavily mitigated, carried through into him.

The shield smacked against the man’s arm with an echoing crack and he was sent tumbling to one side as a piece of it snapped off. Only the other man’s experience and the pulled blow saved him from a broken shoulder as he rolled on the ground to bleed off the strength of the impact. His body left a furrow in the dirt as he skidded to a stop having dropped the ruined shield.

Checking to make sure that the assistant was uninjured, Acanthus turned back to the class.

“Now that was an unenchanted shield, wielded by a skilled warrior. Thorsicans tend to favour shield enchantments that aid in attacking such as a curse of fettering that would allow them a chance at a counter blow.”

Acanthus fingered the end of the quarterstaff as he continued, “Such tactics favour the individual combat style that the thorsicans prefer, however, against beings that greatly overwhelm them in strength the result is as you saw.”

Bringing the weapon to a rest beside him, he mused, “One might argue that had the shield been enchanted with a protection spell, things might have been different." Nodding to himself, he continued, "In the end it comes down to the fact that the thorsicans favour individual combat.”

“Oh, they can fight in formations,” He admitted with a mild sneer. “They’re shit at it but they know how to do it.”

Continuing he stated, “Their preferred tactic is having their shamans summon demons to aid them in battle. They use them along with war beasts and their iactitantur, the screamers, to bust open enemy formations to get the kind of battle they’re good at.”

Motioning to the pieces of the broken shield he looked at them meaningfully, “Screamers hit harder than that, war beasts and demons hit harder still. The protective enchantments on a thorsican shield might be able to withstand such a blow but the warriors holding them can’t.”

“Even with their blessings, a Thorsican's focus is on the glory of the individual. One enchantment, one shield.” He stressed.

"In a battle of formations they get rumbled just like instructor Palestrio did just now and scatter the lines.” He paused and gave them a nasty grin, “Assuming they don’t immediately die and have their corpses turned into projectiles.”

Judging his moment from the now nervous looks on the faces before him he called forth the two instructors bearing elongated, hexagonal shields. The set themselves in a guard position together as Acanthus continued speaking.

“These are legion shields, they’re the product of centuries of refinement on countless battlefields.” He boasted.

“But at a very basic level these shields are made using the same materials as the one before.”

Holding up a hand he counted with his thick fingers for emphasis. “Wood and a metal boss reinforced with the hide and bones of a magic beast.”

Sniffing at the recruits in disdain he said, “For you lot, that’ll be bristle-boar hide or ironquill. The real soldiers get wyvern hide.”

Then he gave them a grim smile as he set himself into a ready position, saying. “They also do their best work in the company of another of their fellows because legion shields are designed to work in formation and their enchantments reflect this.”

Acanthus struck at the left shield and hit it with a loud bang. Despite not trying to deflect the blow, the instructor bearing the shield merely rocked back slightly as a faint blue light flickered for an instant. Curiously, the instructor beside him had the same thing happen as well even though he hadn’t been hit.

Turning back to the murmuring men Acanthus told them, “The protective enchantments on these shields are linked, the strength of a blow to one shield is shared among them all.” Grinning again, he added. “The more of them there are in a formation, the weaker the blow on any one shield becomes.”

Clapping his hands in seeming excitement he continued, “Now let’s get started learning how to use these shields… By getting used to carrying their weight.” Pointing to the long logs bordering the training field he smirked.

“Instructor Callum has some errands to run down at the docks.” He said to them pointing at the distant horizon. “You’re going to deliver some wood for the shipwrights and fetch some fish for the Optio’s dinner.”

His joyful smile was gruesome in their eyes, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to catch them with your hands this time.”

They’d just have to run the length of the valley, twice.

Later, dressed in his serjeant’s uniform, Acanthus entered the office of Optio Mabon Wathen. Pausing at the entrance he thumped his chest twice in salute. “Serjeant Acanthus Petronax reporting as ordered, sirs.”

He carefully blinked at the sight of Dracones Uthyr standing in the office with Optio Mabon as the two men peered at a map laid out between them. There was an extremely nervous looking munifex off to one side, standing at attention. At his entrance the red-haired man looked up but it was Optio Mabon who responded. “Serjeant Acanthus, come in, the Dracones has need of your services.”

“Yes sir!”

"Looks like it was time to earn another scar."

The Dracones looked at him squarely and nodded with a smile when Acanthus met his eyes without flinching. “Ah, yes, Acanthus. You were assigned to light duties after you lost an arm putting down that demon the raiders unleashed last year, yes? How are you doing?”

“Yes, sir. That flying brute was a tricky one, caught me with its tail just as I killed it, I’d have walked it off if it wasn’t for the acid. I’ve had enough time to recover and I am fit for duty.”

Uthyr laughed ruefully, “Glad to hear it, if only I had more of you. I hope Ariana wasn’t too upset about what happened after I had promised to stop sending you home to her in pieces?”

Acanthus grinned. “If there were more of me, I’d have to share my wife. Ariana’s a strong woman sir, she had my arm regrown and me tending the farm by the end of the month. Not that I minded, I got to spend the time with Bedwyr.”

“Your son’s growing well I hope?”

“Strong as a bull sir.”

“Good, good.” Uthyr answered, "I hear we're getting a delivery of salted fish from the markets. I'll have a barrel sent over to Ariana witth some pressed olives and wine from my stores."

Acanthus smiled wordlessly in thanks.

Then Uthyr asked him. “I’ve also heard that you were born in the Hiberian territories, how’s your fieldcraft?”

Acanthus nodded slowly, “I was raised on an estate in the outskirts of Sardon, spent my youth hunting bristle-boars with my father and brothers. I originally joined the legion as a scout. Some things don’t leave you sir. My Da scouted for the Red Dragons under Aureolus Ambrosius, The Red Drake himself, he taught me everything he knew.”

Uthyr’s grin was sharp as he shared a glance with Optio Wathen.

“Just what I wanted to hear.” He remarked. “I have a job for you Acanthus. Munifex Lewys here tells me he knows a footpath used by hunters to get through the mountains to our north.”

Acanthus’ eyebrows rose. That could be bad if their enemies discovered it, he was beginning to think he knew what his Dracones needed from him.

He was proven wrong by Uthyr’s next words.

“I’ve already had the path scouted and have begun setting up a fortifications to guard it at a narrow pass along the trail.” The Dracones’ eyes gleamed with excitement as he pinned Acanthus with a fervent stare. “What I want from you Acanthus, is for you and a detachment of soldiers to guard a group of Conclave sorcerers while they build me a road.”

“Oh, that was so much worse.”

Myra led Myrelin to what appeared to be a temple built of stone and wood. He grinned when he recognised the familiar aura coming from the aspen tree planted in the courtyard before it.

“Hello again, Mother.” He murmured softly.

The tree’s leaves shivered.

Beside him, Myra dipped her head and uttered a quick prayer before hurrying through the temple doors leaving Myrelin to follow after her. The main room of the temple had been designed for use as a hospice in keeping with the nurturing aspect of the Goddess Naermid, as the chanting priestess called his mother. He shrugged to himself, mother had always been mother to him.

Backless benches had been pushed together and covered with clean linens to form beds. Four injured men and one woman lay moaning upon them. Most waited with wounds dressed with poultices and bandages while a green robed priestess pressed a glowing light over a sucking wound in a man’s chest as she repeatedly chanted.

Myra made a choked sound as she looked at the other side of the room where a pair of acolytes wearing black robes wrapped a form in light brown fabric. Visibly gathering herself, she went forward to lend her aid to the priestess. Washing her hands in a bowl of blessed astringent, healing light sparked to life between them as she joined the woman in prayer over the dying man.

Rather than joining them, Myrelin instead took a moment to quietly focus. For the first time since he left the safety of his mother’s grove, he drew back the shutters that protected his inner eye and looked at the world. Normally, his mystical senses were limited to intuitive impressions more closely associated with his sense of touch. Now though he could see streams of light of a hue indescribable by words. If pressed to describe the colours he saw, perhaps he would say it looked like life, growth and ecstasy with subtle undertones of death, decay and violence.

The lights swirled thickest about the altar and the aspen tree outside the temple, welling up from the earth like water from a spring. He knew without seeing that the source of the lights flowed from the forest itself, giving and taking life. Faint threads were drawn into the praying women, joining with their own light before the blended mixture was passed into the man.

The beauty of it made him want to weep but he fortified himself. Closing his inner eye, he recalled his teachings on the human form. Comparing his knowledge to what he had seen of the injured before him, he reached out to them with his magic. A faint whisper coming from the door beyond caused a smile to slip across his features as phantom lips pressed against his brow speaking words that he echoed quietly.

“Bod yn Dda.”

About him the pained moans of the injured gave way to relieved sighs. A cool wind stirred the temple as if the world sighed with them. Broken bones eased into place and knitted as torn flesh began to mend, expelling poisons and debris from wounds. The priestess looked up at him sharply as Myra exclaimed with joy.

Myrelin had already turned away, walking toward the shivering aspen tree and the myre-bird sitting perched among its branches.