Robert struggles to gather respectable clothes out of the pile he has lying on the floor of his tent. If he were sober, he probably wouldn’t bother since he knows they are all nasty. As he fails to find something to wear, a thought crawls through his mind. He misses the comforts of the Capital so bad; he misses his cleaning ladies and his bed. He misses rubbing elbows with the other knights of the Capital at Maverick’s.
The horn blows again.
“Somebody shut that idiot up! We heard you!” Robert shouts.
Relics of the Old Age 