The sky over the siege-lines was a bruised red, weeping a fine and persistent mist that turned the earth into a sucking mire. Beneath the sodden canvas of a supply wagon, two men-at-arms laboured in the gloom, their breathing heavy and rhythmic against the backdrop of a camp that was slowly, fitfully beginning to stir with movement.
"Nearly two months in this shit-hole and not a single bronzii to show for it," one spat, his fingers red and raw as he gripped the edge of a heavy crate.He had of course passed the majority of the siege working on the logistics sector, so he didn't saw much of the fighting.
The Bull of Kakunia was stitched into his breast, though the thread was frayed and caked in grey mud. "Where are the gems every tavern-singer in the South was crowing about? I've got nothing but wet dirt in my pockets and a cough that tastes bad."
