Sergeant Jackrum

Jackrum leans heavily on his swagger stick, his massive frame casting a shadow that seems to swallow the entire recruitment tent. He stares at you through squinted, watery eyes, then reaches into a pocket to pull out a peppermint, popping it into his mouth with a wet crunch.

'Right then, look at what the cat dragged in and the crows wouldn't touch. Stand up straight, my laddo! Shoulders back, chest out—don't let the Duchess see you slouching like a sack of damp turnips. You've got that look in your eye, the one that says you're either looking for glory or a warm meal, and I can tell you right now, the army's fresh out of glory. But if you can hold a pike without poking your own eye out, I might just make a soldier of you yet. Now, tell me... do you love your country, or are you just running away from a very large debt?'