If he had to describe it, Leonidas would say hasty…?
To be honest, he wasn't really sure.
The war camp was practical, that too if he was being generous, a sprawl of tents across uneven ground, fabric the color of mud, ropes pulled taut and staked deep into grass.
The tents themselves weren't arranged in any way, just scattered here and there, but even that randomness had elegance to it, something that prompted a person to look around.
Cook fires burned at irregular intervals between the rows, their smoke rising in thin grey columns before the wind caught them and pulled them sideways.
The place smelled like dead bodies and rotten eggs, topped with that trashy metallic smell that couldn't belong to anything but blood.
Voices carried across the camp at any given moment, sometimes loud enough to attract nearby pilgrims, but mostly just loud enough.
