Here is something I sent to GiantBeardedFace.
"It was dusk as the Protagonist made his way back to the war tents. His garments were caked in mud, his armour lost its lustre, his helm was cracked and his complexion pale. All signs of a humbled warrior who had been pursued by his enemies after being defeated in battle.
He made a valiant effort to head back to his lords and masters, trying to stride masterfully like a general who is unscathed by defeat. All that he managed though, was a limp. As he passed through the guards, who were slovenly and lax, he smelt the stench of wine that has passed through the lips of a man sober no more.
His raised his brows but any sign of disapproval was masked by the mud that caked his face. As he entered the war tent that housed his lords and masters, his eyes widened and his heart froze.
What beheld his eyes was worse than any defeat imaginable, at least to him. There were dancing women. There was music pleasant to the ear. Food and drink that would intoxicate anyone who laid his lips on it. Laughter and merriment resounded through the tent. But the protagonist found the dancing women lewd and obscene, found the alluring music most jarring, saw the food and drink as poison and the laughter he heard was as racuous as a choir of crows squawking all at once!
Aren't they supposed to be at war?