"Service?" he makes a face.

"Never bothered with 'em. I don't think God cares about people like me, anyway."

Or whatever form 'God' took in this little backwoods town out in the middle of nowhere. Mercenaries were not typically a religious sort, though superstitions were rife among soldiers. Bad omens, good signs, Death itself waiting over your shoulder. A priest of the Holy See would condemn such things.

None of it felt as real as his sword or the ground or a panting horse under him. He keeps watching the moon, the silvery crescent becoming more visible as the night darkened.