Vilon always tried to be a man of sunny temper and of kind disposition, but he found himself deeply misliking almost everything about Rosh.
He misliked the sardonic twist of the man's mouth, along with the black gap where his front tooth should have been, the only white peering from a great and matted red beard. He thoroughly detested the casual, grubby way the mercenary's hand had wandered back inside Martha's woolen skirt, especially when he could see it . And he misliked the muffled, performative moans she was now breathing directly into the soldier's ear.
The sights, the sounds, the smell of cheap ale and desperate skin, they reminded him entirely too much of the shit where he had spent his boyhood.
