For those being trained in the ways of the Knights Templar, there is scarce in the way of "free time" to be had, what with the demands placed upon them. First of all, there are the lessons and practice sessions in the martial arts – with and without weapons. Young squires, accomplished Guards, Lancers and Champions alike take part in these exercises. Even if skills are often mismatched, the assumption is that those with lesser skill will learn from those with greater skill … If nothing else, they will learn humility in the face of defeat, and those who haven't the patience to keep trying will be soon enough winnowed out of the ranks.

But that is not enough. Even the greatest swordsman cannot take on an entire army alone, all other factors equal. His great skill is of little use if he is not capable of working as part of a team. Especially when firearms are involved, chaotic situations can lead to great tragedies, when fighting becomes so confusing as to make it hard to distinguish friend and foe. Furthermore, there is the need to be able to communicate in the heat of combat … or, lacking that, to know each other well enough to be able to take educated guesses – so that if a comrade is about to take the opportunity to make a run at the enemy, one will be prepared to provide cover fire.

Hidden in the midst of these overtly martial exercises are tests for those being considered for knighthood. How does one react to unexpected situations? What if everything seems to become routine … and then your supervisor suddenly – and perhaps even unfairly – changes the rules? What happens when tempers flare? What happens when a hot-shot marksman is not given the credit he thinks due? In war, not all heroism is recognized, and concern to being "fair" to every trooper is less than secondary.

Even a big Vartan hero, with many names and titles, known by name to perhaps every Knight Templar in Rephidim, skilled in hand and strong in muscle … still can be ordered to peel potatoes, or to take orders from a squire less than half his size.

"All right," barks a Jupani cub. His wagging tail shows that he's having entirely too much fun in this latest "exercise". "Those are enough potatoes. Now … back to polishing armor! Only this time, you … ah … have to polish it while you're doing one-handed push-ups!" Squire Tor is a pip-squeak of a wolf, but right now he might as well be twice Zoltan's size.

"Really… " groans Squire Cryptic, and he sticks his chitin paring knife into a half-peeled potato, then drops and grunts as he tries to support himself on one arm, fumbling with a rag in his free hand. "Can't you ask – ugh – something physically possible?" The young adult Paradysian Sphynx is white-furred, but with black tiger stripes, and with a white-black pattern to his feathers that continues the bold contrast. He has a touch of accent to his speech, but he's learned Rephidim Standard fairly well. He might have been one of those who was mistaken for an Exile and Processed before anyone caught on to the mistake.

Beside him, a full-blood Vartan – a female by the name of Arita, with smoky gray plumage, with charcoal-tipped wings – struggles to prop herself up on one talon and to polish with the other. At Golgotha, there is no difference between the push-ups required by the men and the women. She just silently struggles to perform the absurd feat, not having enough breath to spare to say anything about it.

Another wolf – this one an adult, wearing the garb of a Guard Sergeant - stands behind Tor, holding an hourglass in one hand.

Zoltan manages to suppress a smile, figuring that an expression might earn him a few glares from his comrades and the wrath of the Sergeant. "Scrub down when you're pushing yourself up with your other hand. You can use your momentum to your advantage with some work." He hoists himself up with one arm and then slowly pushes himself back down, his free arm sliding the polishing rag across the armor as he does so.

Cryptic lets out a heaving gasp, and slams down on the ground, knocking the leg-grieve he was polishing over with a clatter. Arita follows suit, letting out a scrawk of alarm and anger. Tor grins impishly, and prepares to fire off some wise-crack, but he looks at Zoltan, still working away. His mouth starts to move – perhaps to issue an order to make the challenge even harder – but then the last grain of sand falls through the hourglass.

"Time!" shouts the sergeant.

Tor turns to the sergeant. "Huh? What about time?"

Zoltan allows himself to drop with a light thud as the Sergeant counts time. Slowly he pulls himself up to a sitting position and rubs the arm that had been supporting his weight.

The sergeant says, in a gruff tone, "I make the rules, and I say that when the time's up, we have a new leader. I pick … " The wolf's finger drifts over to Arita. The edges of her beak curve up into a wicked grin, as she looks back at the cub. The cub gulps, the exhilaration of his leadership having completely vanished now.

"… you. Squire Cambio," Sergeant Yarrick proclaims.

"Yes sir, Sergeant Yarrick," the black Vartan scrawks, pulling himself to his hooves and saluting.

The sergeant flips the hourglass over. "Your turn to determine the nature of the exercise." He leisurely leans against a wooden crate that has several charred holes blasted through it, the facade of a battered and war-torn warehouse framing his burly form from behind.

Zoltan peers at the room and the things inside of it. His eyes fall on the armor and a glimmer of an idea pops into his head. "Men, my exercise is to put pieces of armor together that we just polished as fast as you can." He nods to himself, figuring his job will be a good enough breather for Arita to recover in, but busy enough to still be quite a workout in and of itself, even if it's not one that requires raw muscle-power.

Tor squeaks, "But … but I didn't polish any!"

"Means your job's a bit harder, then, pip-squeak!" laughs the tiger-Sphynx, as he scrambles to arrange a suit of ceramic plate armor.

"You can assemble armor I polished, Squire Tor," Zoltan scrawks in reply, glancing at the hourglass.

Tor gulps … and rushes over. He grunts as he tries to drag around the heavy pieces of armor … pieces, of course, which aren't nearly so much a burden for a big Vartan like Zoltan.

Arita nose-whistles as she works, then makes a look of alarm at the unintentional noise, her hackles turning out like a bottle-brush.

The black Vartan watches silently, following the progress of the three squires.

Grains spill through the hourglass, as the squires assemble the pieces of armor. Poor Tor hasn't much of a chance. He's having enough trouble just trying to rearrange the armor pieces on the floor. Cryptic is doing a passable job, though it's nothing to inspire wonder in all onlookers. Arita … alas, she is obviously a full-blooded Vartan. She has gotten a bit distracted, and is gazing a bit too fondly at each piece of armor as she slowly fumbles about in something resembling an attempt at assembling the gleaming pieces.

"Squire Arita, you can shiny-gaze at it later. It needs putting together right now," Zoltan scrawks to the gray Vartan before turning his attentions on the wolf. "Squire Tor, try assembling the lighter pieces first."

The cub nods to Zoltan, and starts assembling a gauntlet. He's doing considerably better at that. Arita snaps out of her shiny reverie, and gets back to business. Cryptic tries to hide a smile.

The hourglass is about halfway empty. The sergeant stands as still as a statue as he watches.

Marching back and forth to examine the work of the three squires, Zoltan eyes each suit in turn. "Cryptic, that leg-piece is backwards. Good job, Arita… keep it ups. Tor, try using some leverage on larger pieces. Armor was made to be tough – you can be rough with it somewhats without damaging it."

The last grain of sand falls through. "Time!" barks the wolf again.

"Aw!" protests the cub. "I was just getting the hang of it!" He falls back on his tail.

Zoltan smiles and folds his arms behind his back, checking on the progress of each of the three squires.

Truth be told … they need practice. Lots of it. If someone were wearing the parts of armor that have been assembled … they might break something if they tried to move.

Suppressing a wince, Zoltan turns back to look at the Sergeant, waiting on word for the next exercise.

The sergeant barks, "Now, clean up the mess!"

The cub whines, and he struggles again with the large pieces of armor. Arita sighs, shaking herself out of another "shiny" reverie.

Zoltan walks over to Tor and takes the breastplate of the armor in his arms. "Hfff," he grunts. "Gots to wonder if these no mined out of a mountain or something."

Some difficult shuffling around and rearranging later, the armor is put away. Once the group exits the warehouse, they are met by a group of white-armored felines, wearing capes of magenta.

( I wonder if it's time for the Champion to try and knock my head off my shoulders a few more times… ) The black Vartan smoothes down his squire's robes and salutes the Lancers.

The Champion isn't with them presently. One of the Lancers steps forward. Thorn, perhaps, if the Vartan is getting better at telling them apart. She says, "You are doing well. For upcoming exercises, you are going to be assigned together as a Training Lance. You will be Delta Lance."

"Yes sir," Zoltan scrawks, glancing at his companions. A rather interesting group they make, really.

Thorn says, "Now then … each of you, decide who you think should be the leader of this Lance. When I give the word, point to that person."

The Vartan nods his head, sizing up the other three squires.

"Okay. Now," declares the Lancer.

Zoltan raises his hand and points to Squire Cryptic. The Sphynx seems more mature than Tor, and less distractible and slightly less likely to take advantage of his leadership than Arita might. The Sphynx and the Vartan come rather close though, and he makes a point of picking Arita in the next leadership vote.

Cryptic points at Zoltan. So does Arita. Tor points at himself … but then notices everyone's choice, and tries to cover it by pointing at Zoltan instead.

Thorn proclaims, "That settles it nicely."

The black Vartan lets a nervous hiss escape his nostrils. "What will our exercise be, sir?"

Thorn points at Arita. "Training Sergeant Arita, you are now in charge of your Lance, as you were the only one that nobody voted for."

Tor reflexively barks, "But that's not fair!"

Zoltan grins, "Congratulations, Training Sergeant, sir." ( I'll have to remember some of the lessons with the cubs sometime… )

Arita swallows a hard lump in her throat, and salutes Thorn. "Th-thank you, Lancer Blossom."

Thorn doesn't bother correcting her. "Take your Lance to the mess hall, with the potatoes you peeled, as your first duty."

The black-feathered squire gives Arita a salute and takes the standard 'awaiting your orders' stance. His hooves click together lightly.

Arita gulps again, looks to Zoltan, then bows. She then looks at her Lance, and scrawks, "All right, Delta Lance! Let's bring these potatoes IN!" With that, she scoops a few potatoes back into a burlap bag, and slings it over her shoulder with a smile.

"Yes SIR, Training Sergeant!" Zoltan scrawks and drops to his knees, scooping up as many potatoes he can into a bag, setting it upright next to him, and then filling a second bag as well. He hefts one bag over each shoulder, kicking a bit of loose peel stuck to his hoof off and then moving to follow behind the gray Vartan.

As the sun sets, clouds roll in, bringing threat of a severe storm, as lightning can already be seen flashing between the clouds and the rim of the sky island. A chill wind blows through the facades of "Battle Street", but they do nothing to diminish the new pride that swells up in a smile on the beaked face of Training Sergeant Arita. Tor sighs loudly and frequently, and Cryptic just shakes his head at it all.

The Vartan looks down at Tor, "That bag getting heavy? You making lots of panting noises."

Tor looks up at Zoltan, then furrows his brow and closes his mouth tightly shut. A blast of wind tousles his hair, and he stumbles, but he presses on. "I can handle it," he claims.

Zoltan rustles his wings a bit, unfolding them just enough to catch some of the wind blasting at him as he tries to form a small 'barrier' between the winds and the two behind him.

"Hurry up!" barks Sergeant Yarrick. "Weather's getting bad. Get those potatoes in, and we call it a day!"

The sizable kitchen is just a stone's throw away. Several other "Training Lances" are bringing their hauls in as well. Looks like dinner is heavy on potatoes again tonight. And kyootcumbers.

The Vartan nervously glances over his shoulder, feigning the movement as a readjustment of his load. "Hfff. So whats you think? Potatoes going to be mashed up in dinner tonight or fried in oil?"

A wooden shaft sails through the air, and impacts the ground near the large Vartan's hoof. Red ink spreads out from the impact point.

A horn blows from somewhere unseen. "Attack!" shrieks an Eeee voice. "Destroy all the potatoes!"

The sergeant brings a whistle to his mouth and blows it. "All right! We're under attack! Any bags of potatoes hit are lost! And anyone hit by an arrow is dead and therefore doesn't get to eat supper tonight! Move it!"

Tor yelps in alarm, and promptly falls flat on his face.

Zoltan scrawks and jumps back. He hastily readjusts his load and hauls Tor to his feet. "Training Sergeant, sir… what do we do?" He keeps his eyes open for arrows, preparing to dive out of the way just in case.

Arita pauses in shock for a moment … but she recovers at Zoltan's call. "Squire Cambio … grab Tor! Cryptic … I'll help you carry Tor's bag! Let's go!" she eagle-cries.

Grinning, the black Vartan snags the Jupani by the seat of his trousers and dashes after Arita as best he can.

The Jupani cub lets out a yelp, but he's an easy burden for the Vartan. With three winged Squires heading for the kitchen, they get their cargo there in record time … without a single splat of dye against them. Mmm, mmm! Good eatin's tonight!

Zoltan drops Tor as gently as he can manage with two bags of potatoes under his arm, allowing himself a moment to gloat. "We did it, Sergeant! Potatoes probably going to taste extra good tonight."