Strutting, as best can be managed with her condition, is Corporal Gojar, a native of the Capitol but no stranger to the field-- the new commanding officer of the garrison, on her approach to the dinner table.  Out of respect, the other officers present straighten their postures and affix their eyes to the horizon, assuming attention without the call of command.  Gojar is propped aloft by her arms' strength despite the withering of some vile spell's curse on her lower extremities-- a condition that, according to the camp rumors, is to be cured... but slowly.  Her legs hang in her uniform wool like dried vines, invisible but for the subtle rustling of dessicated flesh and bone beneath as she carries herself on twin crutches under her arms.  She would not miss this moment for history's sake.<br/><br/>"I see the wild bitch has yet to grace us with her presence," she says with a callous spit-- her face would be pretty if not hardened by war and scowling, her thirty-odd years worn into her skin like a map of this land.  "Fuck her.  Let's eat, fellows.  We've earned it."<br/><br/>There's a clatter of steel as the head cook rings a suspended pan three times, signaling the serving of the meal, and soldiers' plates are filled one by one in military precision.  The coverlets are lifted from the fare table-center, and all are invited to sit and dine.<br/><br/>"Dig in, kids," says Gojar, taking the first slab of ham from the top as ceremony without regard to its size or weight.  She makes no move to eat, but glowers if anyone tries to wait for her.<br/><br/>"So I understand you're mapping the frontier.  Sealed scrolls and all... that's my order.  Supply you with our dozen best scouts, loaded for indefinite-- that was the word, "Indefinite"-- provision.  You are a brave lot, I must say."<br/><br/>She smirks as she lifts her cup first, taking a long swallow of water as if she had almost died in the desert the night before.  A private refills her mug and she drains it again before he can leave, letting him refill it while she focuses on the coffee.  "Can't get enough water.  Think it's the healing salves or somesuch.  So... I'm sending you with the best scouts and foragers we've got.  That'll tax our resources a bit, but the supply lines will connect.  You're doing the Empire's own work out there, drawing a picture of the destiny so many have suffered for, and died for."  She looks hard at each of them.<br/><br/>"I know you, but just for formality's sake... pretend I do not.  Tell me your names, fellows, and let's drink to the talents you're giving the crown on this mission."