Volke Atkinson

[LONGBOW]

Flight Journal

Entry Three,

There are 1,300 initiates in our group alone...1,300...that's staggering. There were 1,700 of us, but the days and weeks since I last wrote have taken their tole on our class. Those who couldn't make the cut were removed from the training during that time, men who weren't fast enough or strong enough or smart enough for the Core. Some, such as those who were dropped due to injury or illness, will be given the option to try again, but many of them will not. Most of those who failed will be returned to the houses to hunt or trade or mine or some other other meager means of existence, or so we've been told. For those of us who remain, they are of little consequence. The exercise remains grueling, but our bodies have hardened against the exertion, and our instruction has begun to shift towards tactics and basic fighting techniques. Each of us has also been assigned to a group of eight men in total, our conturbenium. Mine consists of myself, Michael Harding, John Wescott, Benjamin Sanders, Nathan Clark, Lionel Thomas, Patrick Boon, and Giles Norvayn. Together, we will be responsible for each other's readiness and overall performance; for the remainder of our training, we will no longer be graded individually, but as a single unit: Epsilon Phi Omega. Shame and honor will be shared alike between us, so it seems I've been assigned seven new best friends.

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