"What did you do to earn a posting like this?"
Before you can even open your mouth to answer, Caius silences you with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand, hauling himself to his feet with a weary groan. The reason for his replacement couldn't be more obvious—even the most reliable of commanders grow old, and though Caius still boasts the broad shoulders and strong back of a man half his age, he is no exception.
"Not important." he muses, his faded blue eyes studying you. You've heard men talk of him as a fatherly figure—and you can see why. Under his gentle, yet stern gaze, you feel almost like a child eager for his approval.
"I didn't think a ${gender} like you was the right ${race} for the job," Caius intones, his lips curling upward in a faint smile. "But perhaps you'll do after all. Come. Walk with me."
He doesn't wait for you to fall into step beside him, instead loping from his tent with quick, efficient strides that leave you jogging a few steps to catch up.
The encampment seems to be at rest, full of mud-caked men in shabby, mismatched sets of armor loitering about, some chatting, others throwing dice: The men of Black Company. At Caius' approach, they disperse, taking up nearby tools or vanishing into the sea of tents before he can utter a reprimand.
"These are the soldiers I'll be commanding?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at the undisciplined display.
"Prisoners," Caius corrects you curtly: "This is a penal legion. Don't be fooled by the uniforms. Thieves, murderers, rapists: Never forget what these men are. The moment you do, you'll find a dagger in your back, or worse."
You're about to ask him what could be worse, when a guttural shout echoes through the camp. Ahead, a thick group of men are gathered in a circle, though their bodies block your view.
"What's going on?" you ask, craning your neck to see.
"Entertainment." answers Caius grimly.
You shoulder through the men, to see they've surrounded an Orcish woman, her hands still bound in shackles. She