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wolfdwg

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  1. "Blasted pox..."

     

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    It'd been a rough start to the new year, Tarwen had come down with boils and rashes plauging his skin. He never knew skin could be so raw before, and burn like the pits of Hades. Meekly working about the camp, donning his dirt stained linen short, with his uniformed pants of his majesty's levy. Ever so often he'd cough harshly, though that seemed muffled by the tedious sounds of war. Trees gave way to stockades. Flat arable land was toiled for all sorts of uses for camp-life, ranging from pitching tents to digging ditches for waste.

     

    "Ave Renatus," Was all Tarwen, a pox ridden lad, could stifle before violently erupting into a coughing fit.

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