W_A_R levers himself off his nursing home cot, the thin mattress stuffed with hay is now damp with bodily fluids that have seeped through the rough hessian cover.
Some of the damp is from W_A_R's involuntary evacuations, others are from spills of the Black Keep's apothacaries and medics, from the regular blood letting and application of leeches.
He waves help away, useless as they are, as his chainmail undergarments crack away a thin crust of rust and odious substances.
Did I hear someone say 'retirement home'? Piffle! These youngsters think they have it tough. Wait until you until you can't distinguish a bedsore from your dinner.
Luxury, NG. Bloody Luxury.
Congratulations on your tenth anniversary. May your superannuation be enough to sustain you into your enivitable dotage.
W_A_R falls back into his bedding, which embraces the Knight XXI of OBR with a thick moist slurp.