A man such as I finds little solace, yet I keep to small labours when the guns fall silent. I mend my kit with needle and thread, for torn cloth is a slow death in cold and rain. I set flint and steel to carving bits of wood, shaping crude tokens to the hours. At times I scratch ink upon paper, setting down the day’s misery so it does not rot wholly within me. And when coin permits, I take to dice or cards, wagering what little I’ve left—if only to feel some flicker of fortune in a life ruled by shot and powder.
A man such as I finds little solace, yet I keep to small labours when the guns fall silent. I mend my kit with needle and thread, for torn cloth is a slow death in cold and rain. I set flint and steel to carving bits of wood, shaping crude tokens to the hours. At times I scratch ink upon paper, setting down the day’s misery so it does not rot wholly within me. And when coin permits, I take to dice or cards, wagering what little I’ve left—if only to feel some flicker of fortune in a life ruled by shot and powder.