"Ah, damn it! Constans's son!"
Watching the blood oozing from his finger, Old Laver quickly shoved his bread-crusted finger into his mouth.
Several recruits around burst into mocking laughter.
Old Laver glared, "What's so funny?"
Three days had passed since the little altercation, and Old Laver had mingled well with the recruits in this barrack.
Sitting in front of the only fireplace, the briquettes radiated rolling heat, cooking the peas, sausage bits, and bread soup into a steaming, sticky mush.
With cloth strips barely bandaging his wound, Old Laver continued chiseling away at the black bread with his fingers embedded with ironwood splinters.
The bread crumbled like wood chips into the soup, with crumbs mixed with drops of frostbite's yellow ooze falling into the pot.
Sitting on a straw mat laid with animal skins, ten pairs of green, hungry eyes fixated on the pot.
