Gwayne lumbered himself down off his horse, groaning at the pain in his ribs. He’d taken quite the beating in the last battle, though he supposed it was better than being dead.

He was sick of hard ground and little sleep, thankful to be back in the clutches of civilization and to have a break from this incessant war.

“Gods… this armor…” He grumbled to himself as he grimaced. He wanted a bath and fresh clothes. Perhaps coupled with a full cup of wine.

He was no stranger to a battered body, he’d been raised tending his wounds after tournament and contests. But this wasn’t a tourney. This was war. By the gods was he thankful he’d made it out with as few injuries as he had. Small victories, he supposed.

He’d have to enjoy the peace whilst it lasted. No doubt he’d be marched right back to the front line, and now there were dragons on the prowl. Gwayne could think of many ways he could die, dragon fire was perhaps the least appealing.