They stood tall and strong, five rows of ten, though all were silent as they took to the stage, adorned in their armours, not quite as uniform as the other companies the half elf had seen, but they all wore purple and yellow, purple skirts, and yellow scarves. They each carried with them a blade and a bow, each of varying designs. The fifty did not shout, they barely stomped their boots. As the Priest prayed, he did so zealously, though not because he wished to for this particular company, but because he prayed to Lord Noor, and regardless of why he had to pray, he prayed as though it was his last prayer. 

Once the prayer ended, the fifty strong company stomped a foot and saluted, and though they did not wish for it, the sizeable crowd, much smaller than the previous military procession, saluted them in return, with less pride in their hearts. 

“Purple Hearts?” Adam asked, wondering why it sounded so familiar, recalling a name for a medal from his first life, but that felt like a lifetime ago, and if he was to fall upon technicalities, two lifetimes ago. 

“Some call them the Unsleeping Fifty,” Dunes said, sipping upon his kafa lightly, the pair relaxing on another day of buying this and that, lightening their heavy purses after the Amira had handed them over so much silver and gold. “They are descended from the Iyr.”

“Huh?” Adam sat up a little taller. “Excuse me?”

“It was around the time of the plagues when they formed, the Purple Hearts, some from the Iyr, some from other paths of life, each uniting under a shared banner, a shared burden,” Dunes explained. “They…”

Adam sipped his kafa, and Dunes stared at his cup, so the half elf placed it down. “Yes?”

“They gave up so many of their connections to the world, including their attachments to their various identities, and… their…” Dunes inhaled sharply. “Certain appendages connected to their bodies.”

Adam winced, shifting upon his seat. “Ah. Right.”

“They no longer do so, now they consider themselves ungendered, for their gender, their people, their role, warrior.”

“Reminds me of the Sacred Band,” the half elf said. 

“Who are they?”

“A small unit made up of gay lovers, though I’m not sure that really works in this context, but it just reminded me of them,” the half elf admitted. 

“There were many companies throughout history which were similar,” Dunes noted. “Noska, Aldland, Aswadasad, Floria’s was probably the most famous, and technically lives on with the various Orders, who are named after the various flowers they once named themselves after.”

“Oh!”

“Unfortunately, it was difficult for them to have children, and it was the same for the Unsleeping Fifty, who adopt orphans into their rank, and thus rid themselves of various traditions, and, I have heard, may even be allowed to marry and have their own children now.”

As the group passed them by, they paused, noting the pair of Priests and the Black Lion, not entirely surprised by the half elf’s bow of the head, which they returned, nor surprised by the Priest of Black Mountain’s respect, partly surprised by the Black Lion, but they supposed he did so because of the awkwardness which would have remained if he did not. 

There was one, however, whose focus lingered on the half elf, before they all continued, making their way out. 

Adam felt it, the focus of the group. They were each somewhat ambiguous in appearance, though some were taller, larger, wider, but they were all fairly lean, and considering their weapons, fought with great skill than great might. However, he couldn’t deny they held a great aura among themselves. 

‘I kinda wanted to talk with them, but they seemed kinda scary,’ the half elf thought, having no idea how close to death he had been. 

As noon approached, the loud prayers filled the districts, and the half elf made his way to the nearby temple, not the royal temple, but another, a temple that was rather large, expansive, with as many gardens as one could find, and most importantly, one that was dedicated to Lady Arya. 

“One of the two great temples within the capital for Lady Arya,” Dunes said.  

“I expected to see another giant sword sticking from the ground,” Adam admitted, carrying a half sleepy Kizwolima within an arm, thinking once more about spending his XP for the Rogue’s Mastery Ability. As the group settled themselves towards an outer region of the temple, they sat down with the older soldiers, smiling and bowing their heads, the half elf noting this particular region was fairly bare in terms of decorations, and people. 

“Are you…” Dunes began, noting the badge upon the older man’s turban, his skin weathered by time and war. 

“Seventy Seventh,” the man confirmed, fixing his yellow turban, causing the Priest to small, though awkwardly. “Sit, Mo, sit. This carpet is not just for myself and other soldiers, it is for all who wish to eat, by Lady Arya’s grace.”

“Aryashukhur,” the Priest said, taking a seat beside the soldier, while Adam sat opposite them, settling Kizwolima down beside them, the girl shaking her head to awaken, for soon, delicious fruits would arrive. 

“Seventy Seventh?” Adam asked.

“The Mango Company,” the soldier said, nodding his head. 

“Adorned in yellow, wielding curved blades, the Seventy Seventh,” Dunes said, as though repeating the words of a song. “They originated from those who would protect the mango gardens of the royal family, before they were then given a chance to fight upon the battlefield. If nothing else, they are the soldiers with the greatest of heritage, matched only by a handful of other companies.”

“Shukhur, I was blessed to fight in the company,” the old man said. “I am Illias, Mo.”

“Mo Dunes, of Black Mountain.”

“Brother Adam, of… the United Kindom, a business that works near the Iyr.” The half elf smiled, not wanting to give the wrong impression. 

“You are both so young, able bodied, will you fight in the skirmishes to the north?” The old man noted the pair’s company, noting the Black Lion, who stood to one side, adorned in black, as well as the various Iyrmen who sat around them. 

“Not yet,” the half elf replied. “We’re going to be speaking with Black Mountain soon, but after a few years, if the Aswadian army hasn’t dealt with them, we will certainly have to go, if nothing else, my daughter will bully me until I beat a few Reavers.”

“You must be careful, betta, for these Reavers, I hear they are so strong, as strong as any great warrior, from Mithril Mubashar to Scholar Muh, Arya save us.”

“We’ve come across a couple, and you are right, they are quite strong, but do not let our youth fool you, ahm,” Adam said, leaning in. “I have fought some of the strongest in this land, and I am related to some of the greatest warriors across the land.”

“Which great warrior are you related to, Brother?”

“I am the grandson of Flame Brand, and the-,”

“Brother!” Illias grabbed the half elf’s wrist, his eyes wide as he stared at the nearby Iyrmen. “Aryahabi, Brother, you cannot say such words. The Iyrmen, they will kill you, if they wish to show you mercy.”

“I get that, but, Jurot, can you confirm my words?” Adam asked, before switching to Aldish, remembering how little of it the Iyrman spoke. 

“My brother speaks no lies,” Jurot replied, causing the old man to pull back, noting the red skinned Iyrmen nearby, furrowing his brows, for though he didn’t understand Aldish, the tone seemed calm. 

“They are Gaks?”

“The grandnephews and the grandniece of Flame Brand, but she calls me her grandson, and I, my grandmother,” the half elf stated proudly. 

“Aryahabi, how can this be? I fought in the Tariff Skirmishes many years ago, when my hair was black, my arms strong, my stomach empty.”

“Ah!” Adam smiled. 

“Flame Brand, I remember. Her name, her face, I remember her blade. We crossed blades once, but I was too weak. I was a young man, training in the Mango Company, and I thought the rumours of the Iyrmen were false, but when I fought Flame Brand, I was just another soldier to her, and,” the old man snapped his fingers, “like that, I woke up the next day, within a medical tent, and I remember flashes of the fight, but I remember, Brother. Her name, her face, I remember her blade.”

Adam smiled proudly, nodding his head. “Shukhur, let us pray she will come with us to deal with the Reavers, to stretch her arms.”

“These Reavers, they are strong, maybe stronger than Flame Brand,” Illias said, shrugging his shoulders. “If they are, who can save us?”

“What are you doing here?” Dunes asked. “As someone in the Mango Company…”

Adam wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but Dunes could see it, the signs of the homeless upon an Aswadian. 

“I have no family, I have no wealth, so I am here now, Brother,” the old man replied, smiling, but his tone and his eyes held no joy. 

“Why not?”

Illias shook his head lightly. “I was plagued by demons, and I lost it all. I am better now, but… sometimes, they return. I remember few names, few blades, but I remember many faces.”

Adam frowned, glancing towards Dunes, before noting Kizwolima was staring at him. “What?”

“Mango?” the girl asked, having heard the word several times, and though she did not speak Aswadic, she knew that word in particular.

Meanwhile, Bael’s eyes fell to the side, towards a figure that had been trailing them oddly now and again, but today, they had remained closer than usual, and their gaze lingered for longer.

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Kizwolima learning a language, one fruit at a time.