Ethan walked through the gate room, giving the 25 battered but unbowed beneath the weight of wounds, years or anything resembling give a damn, veterans his full attention. These were the backbone of the line. The men who didn't know how to quit. When hell stared them in the face they looked for a bucket, and if a bucket wasn't there, then they’d find something else. Be it their very hands or some other part of their anatomy. They’d piss the flames out if they had to, and spit in a demon’s eye to do it. What's more they'd bring other men to do the same merely by example.

  God damn but men like these made a commander proud!

  "You know the risks." He didn't need to coddle them. No bombastic speeches or exhortations. If they needed either they wouldn't be here. "We don't have an alternate uncommon class. Not for you. If we did, you’d already’ve taken it. Succeed and become Pahadi, or fail and lose two levels." He looked each and every one of them in the eye. "Don't fail."

  "Hoa!' They barked in unison, hands slamming to chests in salute.

  "Go and return ascended."

  ____

  Bertilus pushed against the freezing wind, eyes squinted to mere slits to protect them against shards of ice on the wind that cut like knives. He took another step. The winds were harsh, the temperature frigid, but there was no other path but forward. He knew the risks, knew the costs. And he was equal to the task. He placed one foot in front of the other. Moving ever onward.

  Never backward.

  ___

  Severus shoved his mangled left arm deeper into the wolf's mouth, slamming his knee against the broken haft of his spear and driving its head deeper into the massive white furred beast's chest even as his boot ‘spear’ thrust into its side.

  Again and again. If he was born with any give up and go, it had bled out clean on a dozen battlefields. Only one of them would limp away from this field.

  And it would be Severus.

  __

  The waves struck against him, blow after salt-stained blow, unending. His hands tightened against the rough piece of hawser till they bled, riding out the blows that sent his fragment of a boat dancing on the surf, kicking steadily to drive it onward.

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  There was no other way. A Bandsman didn't back up, and down was right out.

  That merely left forward.

  His exhausted legs kept kicking.

  __

  Ethan strode into the council room, tossing his sword belt onto the back of a chair and filling a chalice with water, and if it wasn’t quite the snow it melted from, its temperature bore more than a passing resemblance to it. He glanced at the unpalatable liquid with a grimace and took a drink anyway.

  "How goes?" Conner asked, if in a softer tone than was his want.

  "How the hell do you think? A test of grit with that lot?"

  Conner snorted and took a drink from his own cup, glancing longingly at a sealed amphora on a shelf in the corner. The last of their wine, and my but it was a temptation at times. "True. True. But what happens when we let the rest try?"

  Ethan shrugged uncomfortably. "I'm not sure we'll find out any time soon." He raised a hand to stop Conner's instinctive protest. "The stories the men are telling follow a general shape, Conner. It’s a test of grit. Of resolve as much as it is strength of arms."

  "Lotta wounded coming out." He pointed out doubtfully.

  "I didn't say they didn't need some skill to." Ethan allowed. "Just that it isn't the most important aspect. First is the resolve to try. It’s not a small thing to risk, 2 levels. If they can face that, then they're halfway to victory already."

  "That other half is not nothing."

  "True, but this lot? Not the ones I’d worry about in a near-equal fight. They’re the cream, and when lesser men attempt it, why then we will see who is brave, and who is foolish."

  "Whats about the Basic’s? Theys have options." It was an observation, Ethan noted, not a recommendation.

  "Spit it out Conner. No need to lead this old horse to the water first."

  "Old?" Conner snorted, picking up a napkin from the table, one of Ermina's newer improvements. "Here, wipe behind yous ears a bit, I think I's see some shine."

  Ethan, unimpressed, stared back at the man. "Get on with it, will you."

  "Alright, alright. Tis an uncommon class, no? An what do uncommon classes have in common? Yous got to have skills maxed. Several related ones. Riding, Armor and Weapon for a Lancer. But a Bowyer needs 3 maxed bow-related crafting skills. We need to teach these Aspirants at least a weapon and armor skill, marching should count for the third with a travel class focus."

  "Labori don't get those as class skills." Ethan pointed out dryly.

  "Then wes teach them as non-class skills. No reason they can't max out a tier 0 skill."

  "No reason except time." Ethan pointed out, though with little conviction in his voice. "Without class support that is a slow, hard grind."

  "Yous just went a blathering about grit, Ethan." he barked, baring his teeth. "If dey don't have it in them to work for it, then they won't succeed."

  Ethan raised a hand in mock surrender. "And how do you plan to organize this? A tier 2s time is valuable." And only they could teach the skills. Any skill could be taught, without class or skill stone, but it was limited to two tiers below the teacher and it wasn't a quick process.

  "I'm glad yous asked." He pulled a rather ratty scroll from the table and rolled it across to Ethan, who was already wincing. Gingerly he unrolled it to glance at the spiderly, jagged scribbles within that might be called text. Maybe. if you held your head just right.

  He hid a sigh and started translating.