“You smell like a grox’s arse.” That, of course, was a lie. Rather, the target of his disgust was more reminiscent of an especially pungent mixture of stale urine and ammonia. The effect was, well, nauseating.
Nervously, the private shifted back and forth on his feet, clearly not having expected this to be the first words the man had said. “Sir, Colonel Peslan would like to see you in his quarters. He sent me here as an escort.” Still locked in a too-loose approximation of the position of attention, the newcomer continued his implacable glare. “…sir,” he feebly finished.
Shroud in a black greatcoat and eclipsed in shadows, the figure remained silent. The moment stretched on, awkwardly, as the pair stood at the foot of the shuttle's ramp.
Last edited by Boc; 05-17-10 at 11:31 PM.