“Jurtz! You leave your post again?”<br/><br/>The owner of the gruff almost shout is a compact, square-jawed ugly man, his head shaved and with a dark blue tattoo right on his scalp. He’s wearing the grey fatigues of all the Guards, but the stripes on his sleeve indicate he’s a person of rank. Where his right arm used to be is now a stump on which a large metal rod with a disturbing array of attachments at the end emerges.<br/><br/>Jurtz stammers, turns red all the way up to his ears and looks at his feet, mumbling, “No, Sergeant Raynard. I’m just heading back now, sir”.<br/><br/>Sergeant Raynard fixes the junior Guardsman with a stare and then turns toward the rest of you. One of his eyes is ice blue, cold and staring. The other is a crude false eye, made of wood and wandering off to the left. “See that you do. Double time. Now, you. You’re a sorry bunch, aren’t you? Who’re you supposed to be? Not the Inquisitor I’ll warrant. Well? Speak up? I won’t have a commotion in my camp.”