Artorias was counting loudly, glancing over their ranks. And as soon as Hakon stopped, he repeated the same number once, twice, thrice, up until Hakon decided to get up and proceed the pushups. They were at seventy-six now.
Arngeir glanced at Artorias and nodded. Artorias returned the nod and sighed loudly. "Attention! To your feet! Combat position!" He called out. The recruits all bore various arms,. There were those with one handed swords, maces, zweihanders or warhammers, shields or parrying daggers. Some even with pikes and spears. And all took their assorted stance, ready for battle.
It was then that Artorias started to move past the line, inspecting their equipment. He stopped infront of one fellow, who had a rather lavish looking sword. "Present blade." He stated coldly, before being handed the sword. "A family heirloom?" He questioned the recruit, who returned a nervous nod. "The sapphire in the pommel outbalances the sword. The hilt's decoration is useless." He pressed the tip of the sword into the ground, unsheathing his own blade. "And inscriptions on the blade," he started, slamming the swords together to test durability. As expected, the family heirloom's blade split in two. "Make it useless," he threw the hilt down on the floor infront ofof the, recruit and, moved on with a soft sigh.
"You little twerps need to learn one thing. These mages will eat you for breakfast," he stated coldly. "Each and everyone came here with certain ambitions and dreams. Yet all I see is wasted potential. Trash that can only be used as a distraction."