"So, our esteemed Lord Simon is otherwise engaged." Tyler's grave expression melted away, though Carl knew the earlier doubt still lingered in his mind. "You two should rest. Lord Carl and I need a word with Simon."

"Hold on there, my lord. Lord Devalosfang's orders were—" The scar-faced guard interrupted. "They're with the Captain, you idiot. Let 'em in. Gives us a chance to grab a few drinks and find some whores. What's not to like?"

Maggot shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever. If there's trouble, it'll just mean two more heads rolling. Go ahead, my lords." With that, he and his companion departed.

Carl pushed aside the tent flap, Tyler close behind. For a wounded man's quarters, Simon's tent was remarkably opulent. It sprawled twice the size of others, liberally dotted with tallow candles. The luxurious double bed, desk, and wardrobe - all premium goods from Elnya or Illuviλofer - spoke of wealth. Must be the squad captain's own tent, given up for Simon's recovery. Tyler's widened eyes confirmed Carl's suspicion. They searched through the flickering candlelight before finally locating Simon in the tent's darkest corner, supine on the bed. A woman was moving rhythmically on top of him.

Gasps, moans. Gasps, screams.

"Simon..." Carl chose his moment carefully. The woman shrieked anew at the sight of unexpected visitors. She scrambled off Simon, their entangled blanket sliding away. "Gods damn it!" she cursed, panic and anger flashing as her eyes darted between Carl and Tyler. Her two hands proved inadequate coverage - though perhaps she deliberately exposed her brown nipples and the wild thatch below. Fat Simon propped himself up, his face souring like curdled milk, clearly vexed at the interruption. Yet recognition brought a broad smile. "Well! If it isn't Carl, Cornell's son, and Tyler, Ternence's boy!"

The woman, realizing these intruders were Simon's friends, softened though remained wary. "Oh... my lords, I didn't know they were your friends..."

"Well, now you do, don't you?" Simon pried her shielding hands away. "Come now, why so shy? Let the good lords have a proper look." Unshielded, her white breasts danced in the shifting light. "My lord—" the brown-haired woman purred, "You didn't say anything about three... if these lords want in, one silver coin ain't gonna cut it..."

"Oh, don't you worry about that. Lord Simon's got enough coin in that gut of his to buy the whole damn brothel, not just three of you," Tyler quipped, crossing his arms as he leaned against the tent post. "Though you should mind your health, my lord," Carl added. "We came worried about your wounds, though clearly our concern was misplaced." He gestured at Simon's bloodied bandages. "Still, being recently wounded, perhaps moderate your... vigorous activities with camp women."

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Simon's laughter turned quickly to coughing, darkening his bandages further. "I truly appreciate your concern. And I was genuinely relieved to learn you both were safe." He patted his chest, staining his hand red. "But Lord Carl, you've one thing wrong. This woman's no camp follower - she's our wine server." Simon squeezed her buttocks with his bloody hand, drawing out a moan. "Tonight's battle was a bit rough, but... a man's gotta live, right? I swear by the Triad of Destiny, I'll avenge our fallen brothers with enemy blood." He clenched his bloodied fist over his heart. "Did you need something? I can send her for more wine."

"Unnecessary." Carl waved dismissively, turning to leave. "You've had enough wine - I can see your drunkenness through the blood on your face. Hah! Earlier the squad captain sent his blessing: 'May your belly be half as thick as your face!' Now I rather hope your belly grows as thin as those bandages, letting all that wine pour out to properly honor our fallen brothers." He made a face at Simon before sweeping out.

Simon and Tyler burst out laughing, while the wine server looked utterly bewildered. "My lord? Oh... haha." She joined in nervously, clearly not understanding the jest.

Tyler coughed twice, preparing to follow Carl. At the tent's entrance, he turned back to Simon: "Thanks for your help tonight. Should we fight together again, I'll gladly trust you at my back. Until then, enjoy yourself." He glanced at the brown-haired woman. "Please take good care of Lord Simon. Good night." The wine server blushed deeply.

Outside, both guards had succumbed to Crimson Sunset wine, huddled together beneath a fir tree, snoring. Hearing approaching steps, Maggot stirred first. Clearly over-served, his first waking act was to relieve himself, using Scarface's lolling head as a chamber pot. A dark yellow stream arced through the air.

"Don't do that, Maggot," Carl frowned. "I doubt he'll appreciate a hair-washing during his rest."

"Oh... no worry, my lord. Scarface never washes anyway." Maggot turned, grinning with wine-purpled teeth. Scarface kept rolling in dreams, his nose occasionally twitching at the acrid scent. "He'll never notice." With that, Maggot emptied his remaining Crimson Sunset over Scarface's head.

Just then, Tyler emerged from the tent, barely containing his mirth at the scene. "Quite the optimist," he said, pinching his nose. "Everyone knows camp Crimson Sunset is swill - weak color, worse taste and bouquet. And your piss reeks so strongly it's choking me from here. How could that poor wine possibly mask your deed? Come morning, when Scarface finds his head soaked in your waters, he might just report to the squad captain about your midnight hair-washing service!"