Guardsman Nok huddled as close to the gate-house fire as he could, pulling his wool cloak closed with one hand while clutching a cup of warm, weak tea with the other.
Right now, more than anything, he wanted to return to his bunk in the barracks and wait for the sun to burn off the frigid fog that covered everything, even his rough beard, in a layer of frost. Or, if he couldn't return to his bunk, at least a trip down to the kitchens for a fresh roll and a bit of whatever kind of stew Head Cook Otis had put together to warm the bellies of the men who were forced to man the walls at this unholy hour of the morning.
Still, it would be at least an hour before the balding cook made his way to the top of the walls with a bag full of rolls and a pot filled with breakfast stew, and…
-HAAAAARRUUUUUUMMMM-
A deep, resonant trumpet blast interrupted Nok's dreams of breakfast and startled him so badly that he nearly tripped over the hem of his winter cloak.
