"That was too easy.... Those motherfuckers didn't have the marrow for a real scrap. Why the fuck do you raise a banner of rebellion if you aren't prepared to hold it until the crows come for your eyes?"
A soldier muttered the curse, rhythmically tapping his warhammer against the crest of his dented helmet. The metallic clink-clink-clink provided a steady, hollow beat to the shouts of victory.
"Am I hearing you grumbling against easy loot? The fuck is wrong with your head, Drusus?" another soldier barked, dunking his face into a barrel of scummy water to wash away the grit and gore of the day.
"Honestly, how much spoil do you think we're prying from those wretches?" Drusus gestured vaguely toward the fields of the dead. He patted the sturdy interlocking rings of his own chainmail with a smirk of superiority. "Most of them didn't even have proper weapon , let alone iron as armor. Their weapons are notched scrap. It wasn't worth risking my skin for a pile of rust and rags."
