The thick musk of rot, stale piss, and sour animal dung drifted heavily on the morning wind, slapping the Warden of the Yarzat forces in Oizen square in the face the moment he punched through the flap of his command tent.
The washed-out grey of dawn was just beginning to turn into a pale, golden light, the rising sun creeping slowly over the hastily built timber palisade that encircled the camp.
Edric spat into the dirt, his jaw clenched tight. The state of the legion's quarters was a disgrace, a double insult to any man who took pride in the iron discipline of Yarzat. With proper time and architecture, they could have erected a proper military camp: wide avenues between the tents, deep latrines dug downwind, and fortified watchtowers guarding every corner of the square.
Instead, they were hoarded together like hogs in a slaughter-pen.
