Guard duty. Eugh.
Dorian hated standing in front of the tunnel, armed with his sword and armor and his pack of breath mints alongside one of his fellow Third Cohort members: fighting was such a hassle, and frankly nobody really interesting ever came through, especially during his shift. It was early morning, a little after breakfast-time; the sun was still rather low in the sky, but it was bright and warm like it was still summer. The legacy didn't know if that was because Camp was located in California, or if the weather had been manipulated; if he had known before he quite forgot now.
Reaching into his back pocket, Dorian pulled out his pack of Altoids and flipped it open, pouring one out into the palm of his hand and popping it in his mouth. Delicious mintiness -- always good to clear his nose, if it got too stuffy. He shut the little container and slipped it back into his pocket, glancing around distractedly. His fellow guard wasn't paying attention; he looked like he was sleeping, leaning against the wall. Secretly, the boy hoped a Centurion or Legionnaire would come by and talk to them, if only to yell at his partner for sleeping -- that would be infinitely more interesting than standing here looking pretty.
But nothing of that sort happened within the next five minutes. Sighing in defeat, Dorian gazed at the entrance with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for any sort of danger to enter and, you know, let him do something of interest. The Fates were so cruel sometimes.
Dorian hated standing in front of the tunnel, armed with his sword and armor and his pack of breath mints alongside one of his fellow Third Cohort members: fighting was such a hassle, and frankly nobody really interesting ever came through, especially during his shift. It was early morning, a little after breakfast-time; the sun was still rather low in the sky, but it was bright and warm like it was still summer. The legacy didn't know if that was because Camp was located in California, or if the weather had been manipulated; if he had known before he quite forgot now.
Reaching into his back pocket, Dorian pulled out his pack of Altoids and flipped it open, pouring one out into the palm of his hand and popping it in his mouth. Delicious mintiness -- always good to clear his nose, if it got too stuffy. He shut the little container and slipped it back into his pocket, glancing around distractedly. His fellow guard wasn't paying attention; he looked like he was sleeping, leaning against the wall. Secretly, the boy hoped a Centurion or Legionnaire would come by and talk to them, if only to yell at his partner for sleeping -- that would be infinitely more interesting than standing here looking pretty.
But nothing of that sort happened within the next five minutes. Sighing in defeat, Dorian gazed at the entrance with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for any sort of danger to enter and, you know, let him do something of interest. The Fates were so cruel sometimes.