Dungeon of Pride, Laplace

Amidst this chaos stood a figure, towering over the rest, a presence that demanded respect without having to ask. His armor was a patchwork of scars and dents, each one telling stories of battles survived, and wars endured.

Across his shoulder was slung a massive longsword, its blade nicked from overuse, but no less menacing for it. This was Knight-Marshall Dravik Kaldor or otherwise also known as 'Ironjaw'.

His voice was like thunder, deep and heavy and vulgar words flowed out of his mouth like water thus giving him his nickname.

"Listen up, you pack of soft-limbed greenhorns! I don't care if your daddy was some two-bit lord or a bloody pig farmer!"

His voice roared across the training grounds like a landslide crashing down a mountain. The soldiers snapped to attention, their spines stiffening under the weight of his gaze.

"Out here, you're all just one damn thing—meat that hasn't been cooked yet! And it's my job to make sure the enemy don't turn you into a meal."

He stalked down the line of soldiers, inspecting each one like a butcher selecting cattle for slaughter. Whenever he found one unsatisfactory, a barrage of insults would fly towards them.

The man's eyes gleamed with the kind of intensity that only came from a lifetime spent on the battlefield.

"Look at you lot," Dravik snarled, a sneer curling his lip. "Bunch of rabbits thinking you're wolves! You think the enemy's gonna give you a kiss on the cheek and send you home to mama? HAH! Not bloody likely!"

Suddenly when he was passing through a row of soldiers, He stopped abruptly and slammed his gauntleted fist into the side of a shield, making the soldier holding it stumble back a step.

"This? This is your bed. Your lover. Your gods-damned life now! You keep it close, you feed it with your sweat, and maybe, just maybe, it'll keep you breathing one more day."

Right after that, he spun on his heel and glared at the rest of the soldiers.

"Now, here's what you're gonna do for me today, ladies and gentlemen!" His words dripped with sarcasm and challenge.

"You're gonna give me one thousand horizontal swings, One thousand vertical swings and one thousand cross swings. Repeat each of the sets three times. That's right, three times".

Hearing his unreasonable command, some of the soldiers groaned but Dravik didn't have any of it.

"Did I hear complaining? Who the hell said you could whine, huh? You have to ask for my permission to even utter a peep here. In the first place, do I look like I give a shit?"

"The only thing that matters is that sword in your hand and whether you can use it when the bastards come knocking at your door. Now stop crying and start swinging! SWING, DAMMIT!"

At Dravik's roar, the already cowered soldiers started swinging their swords. The clang of steel meeting air filled the training grounds as the soldiers began their drills, gritting their teeth with every motion.

Swords sliced through the air with relentless passion, shields braced at their sides. The repetitive sound of a thousand swings began to build into a rhythm—a dull symphony of metal, sweat, and effort.

"ONE!" Dravik bellowed, stomping through the rows, checking form, glaring down anyone who faltered.

"TWO! Put your backs into it, you maggots! Do you think this is a tea party? Swing like your life depends on it—because one day it will!"

The soldiers grunted with exertion, muscles already burning from the intensity of the drill, but none dared to stop. Meanwhile, Dravik continued to hurl out abuses.

"Swing faster you pipsqueaks!!"…

"What's the matter, huh? Forgot to drink your mama's milk this morning? Or do you want me to fetch a teat for you?"…

"You call that a strike?! My grandmother could hit harder, and she's been dead for twenty years!"…

"Put some muscle into it, you sad sacks of pig shit! You're swinging that sword like it's a broomstick! If the enemy saw you now, they'd laugh their asses off!"…

"I swear to the gods, I've seen drunk tavern brawlers with better form! You lot better shape up or I'll have you scrubbing latrines until you dream of shit-stained buckets!".

After what felt like an eternity, the soldiers completed their thousand swings. Their limbs trembled, their breath came in desperate gasps, and they flopped onto the dirt like marionettes with their strings cut.

Some lay flat on their backs, staring at the bleak sky, while others doubled over, coughing and wiping sweat from their brows.

Dravik watched them collapse with a half-satisfied grunt. Then, with a sly smile, he turned on his heel and strode away from the field, his armor clinking softly with every step.

Dravik entered his personal tent. Inside, the air was warmer, with a faint musky scent lingering around.

A brazier glowed softly in the corner lighting the place. Seated at a wooden table, going over maps and reports, was General Rothgard, another high-ranking official in the military.

When he heard the sound of incoming footstpes, Rothgard raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smirk.

"So? How are they? Are these fresh recruits any good?"

Tossing his sword onto a rack, Dravik spoke bluntly "What can you expect from serfs and peasants? Strength they've got, but finesse? Discipline? Strategy?"

He shook his head and scoffed "Not a damned bit of it."

He poured himself a cup of stale tea from the kettle and continued "They're tough—I'll give them that. A lifetime of tilling fields or hauling carts makes strong backs. But they're no soldiers. Hell, half of them couldn't tell you the difference between a longsword and a plough handle."…

"Hmm," Rothgard pressed his temples, his body leaning forward towards the map on the table, eyes grim.

"The fight ahead won't be easy".

Dravik closed his eyes briefly, the tea tasted like ash on his tongue and the heat from the brazier suddenly felt suffocating.

Outside, the low rumble of the earth was a grim reminder of what lay ahead—the Black Army of Vael'Zoth, an unholy tide that blotted out the horizon like a gigantic black cloud.

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