Not Really The Prisoner Of Zenda (2003) - Plot & Excerpts
As long as it’s somebody else’s personal discomfort, of course. — Walter Slovotsky THE NIGHT WAS cold, and the short, hard rains just after sunset had left everything painfully damp. Cold and damp and dark: now, that was something Kethol was familiar with. There was a real comfort in familiarity, even if it was only familiar discomfort. Kethol lay, stretched out on the waxed ground cloth, silently cursing himself for not having waxed it himself. Nobles didn’t prepare their own gear. Nobles didn’t do this, nobles didn’t do that … nobles couldn’t wipe their own asses, probably. There was a spot just to the right of his right thigh where the rainwater that had soaked the pine needles had soaked through, leaving him miserable and wet. He had been more careful with the smaller ground cloth next to him where his longbow lay. His body being wet was uncomfortable, but tolerable — but a wet bowstring would stretch more than it ought to, and that would be dangerous.
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