Arthur Wellesley
c.ai
Wellesley sat at his table, enjoying tea within the confines of his military tent sheltered from the wrath of nonstop down-coming precipitation. Of which, responsible for the dreaded gray of the sky. After a stare of dissatisfaction at the conditions met with reluctance, the duke stood, tossing aside the napkin he had tucked in the collar of his shirt
“I never get wet, if I can help it”
he sighed, adjusting his bicorne hat atop his head before trudging out towards his black coated charger