Having finished a letter, Meredith stretched, his fifty-odd-year-old bones giving several sharp cracks inside the military tent.
He rubbed his aching wrist and set the quill beside the inkwell. At some point, the cannon fire outside had ceased, replaced by the heavy footsteps of patrolling soldiers and the occasional neigh of a horse.
Meredith rose, the hem of his dark blue uniform brushing the corner of the desk. He walked over to the bronze mirror in the corner of the tent and studied himself in the flickering candlelight.
A few more silver strands had appeared at his graying temples, and the wrinkles around his eyes had deepened since he set out on the campaign. Instinctively, he touched the three medals on his chest, proof of half a lifetime spent serving the Empire.
"My lord, shall I prepare some hot water?"
His bodyguard asked quietly from outside the tent.
"No need."
Meredith undid the top two gold buttons of his uniform, revealing the crisply starched white shirt beneath. He turned toward his camp bed, only to stop suddenly halfway there... a sharp pain shot through his knee. This damned rheumatism had plagued him ever since his mission to the Northern Snowfield three years ago.
He slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled a silver hip flask from beneath his pillow, and tipped back a mouthful of strong liquor. The fiery sensation burned its way down his throat into his stomach, finally driving away some of the chill. Outside the tent, he heard soldiers talking.
"Did you hear? The Third Company lost another dozen men beneath the walls today..."
"Those damned hillmen archers aim straight for your eyes..."
"Bwooooo..."
The sudden blare of a horn interrupted everything. Forgetting all courtesy, the captain of his bodyguards burst through the tent