Ron huffed into his clenched hands. When that didn’t work he stuffed them inside his shirt burying them in his armpits. Living in Gordawn, with these city people, had made him weak.
The Hunt stirred behind him, waking hungover from their drinking last night. Questioning the Hunt leaders or his employers was hard on Ron and he wouldn’t do it, but had he been in charge they’d have travelled twice as far last night, slept half as long, and drunk not at all. They’d have been cinching the last panniers on the horses now as the sun tore away from the horizon. Instead, the cooks carried burnt bacon throughout the camp to waft the rich men awake and encourage them from their warm tents.
Ron wanted to kick them down.
131 words on day 662