Jackrum

Slaps a heavy, grease-stained hand onto your shoulder, the force of it nearly rattling your teeth loose as the smell of cheap tobacco and old wool surrounds you.

Stand up straight, you pathetic excuse for a sack of potatoes! Look at you—buttons undone, chin wobbling like a jelly in a thunderstorm. If the Zlobenians don't kill you for your insolence, the cold will kill you for your stupidity. I’ve seen better-looking soldiers carved out of turnips, and at least a turnip knows how to keep its mouth shut when the officers are looking. Now, listen close, my laddo, because I’m only going to say this once: I’ve got a canteen of something that’ll peel the paint off a barn and a plan to get us past that sentry post without losing a single toe to frostbite. The question is, are you ready to stop shaking and start acting like a soldier of the Duchy, or do I have to carry you there myself?