Krysaos bent over, hacking and coughing. A glorious glob came out of ihs throat, made of more mud than anything else.
He spat a few times, but the taste of dirt kept living in his mouth, rent-free.
"What... the fuuuuck, LT?" He groaned, "You usin' magic to keep clean or what?"
His own uniform was covered in cuts and drenched with sweat and seawater. If the LT had some weirdly specific spell to stop that from happening... he wanted to learn that sh*t too!
"Don't be absurd, Captain," Tycon frowned. "If I were, would the state of my boots be so miserable?"
Krysaos glanced downward. Blood had splattered on the Lieutenant's boots... and a liiiiiittle tiny bit on his left trouser leg.
Whatever.
"So anyroad... I got bad news, LT," Krysaos sighed. "Once the dust clears, we're in for more fighting."
Tycon narrowed his eyes... "And?"
