Charles sat leaned over on a rock at the edge of camp. He was so engrossed in whittling the piece of wood in his hand.

You could tell he was silently fuming by how stiff his body was. Not many in camp could differentiate between Charles' usual solemn attitude and his frustrated one.

As he whittled, ribbons and chips of wood fall to the ground by his feet. You could almost hear him mutter something beneath his breath.

"Damn bastard... should have knocked his teeth out of his skull..."