I'll have to rework this soon.

Sat cross legged atop a cot was Siegfried, Promptly cleaning his sabre with his bugle resting on the cot besides him. From time to time, he moved the falling braids from his face as he scrubbed the blade clean from all of the flesh and blood.

He didn't bother engaging in conversations or drinks during the time they had to rest. He preffered quiet solace, and doesn't quite like being bothered or Interrupted. Ask Lukas, One of the infantry recruits, who got a bugle hurled into his face when he so carelessly asked about his day. One thing that's for sure, he doesn't look his way anymore. Atleast not to Siegfrieds knowledge.

With the resting scowl still on his face, he adjusted his glasses further up his nose, bringing the blade up to meet the light of a nearby lantern, reflecting his own face from how clean it now is. For a moment, the glint of the shiny light reflecting off of the blade momentarily blinded a nearby officer sitting at the counter of the bar, but no one spoke of it.

Promptly, he put the blade back into his lap and resumed cleaning it. Some would call it stubborness, some would call it pride. No one quite knew or understood why he craved constant perfection, to the extent he's almost frustrated when things don't go his way. Some suspect it's because he's a taurus for his zodiac sign, known for stubborness. But what could you believe with all the crisis going on in the entire world?