Two soldiers sat on overturned crates near the edge of a sprawling refugee camp. The air was heavy with the mingling smells of unwashed bodies and meager cooking fires. Their armor was dented, their boots caked with mud. One leaned on his spear, muttering under his breath.
"Portions've been gettin' smaller by the day," the first soldier grumbled not only about his , casting a glance toward a group of refugees huddled around a cookpot, but of everybody . "Folk are gettin' restless. Saw a couple of 'em shovin' each other on the line for supper, which soo' tuned into fistin'."
His companion scratched the back of his neck, his face drawn in a frown. "Aye, I heard. And I'll tell ya somethin' worse—there's talk the carts bringin' food were ambushed. Bandits took the lot."
The first soldier straightened, turning sharply. "Bandits? You havin' me on?" His voice rose slightly, incredulous.''Where ya heard that horseshit?''
