Setting up camp. That never really changed, did it? Different locations, weather, it never really changed the base actions. There was something very comforting in the routine of it. Her hands didn’t shake when she pounded the stakes into the ground and tied the canvas taut. But then, was that because of the routine or because of the several hearty swigs from her flask? Routine, she told herself. It was the routine and the ease with which she slipped back into the task. 

She kept her awareness on their surroundings, grinning to herself when she heard the vigorous splashing coming from the stream. Just what was the scribe doing? Playing with the chipmunks? Trying to catch trout bare-handed? She made a note to throw a line in before she went to bed, fresh fish for breakfast was a luxury of the road she didn’t want to pass the chance up for. She looked over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of sun-starved flesh in the gloom and returned to the task at hand. 

Grabbing some nearby kindling and larger branches she laid out a fire after having scratched out a wide circle in the ground. Deer had no need for a fire-pit and the lack of any evidence of one told her they were the first people to seek shelter there. This was comforting to her, she might get some decent rest this night if they were as tucked away as she thought. They had traveled hard this day and were not far from the city so their supplies were good which was a relief. While the fire crackled merrily and snapped and ate its own dinner she went fishing through their supplies. In short order she picked out a ring of smoked sausage and some carrots, onions and potatoes and with deft hands chopped, peeled, sliced and then dropped them all into the pan she’d found among their goods. They wouldn’t always be able to make a hot meal, she knew, so she planned on appreciating this one. 

Her employer walked through the camp as she was just beginning to stir dinner and the scent was just rising. She nodded at his comment about the water being cold, her face a professional mask as her dancing eyes stayed fixed on the pan and their dinner. When he’d slipped into his tent she stood, stretched her own sore body and swung by her saddlebags to grab her wash kit. A hard bar of herbed soap and a dingy but clean cloth that had almost as many miles on the trail as she accompanied her to the edge of the stream. She stripped off her armor and shirt, standing in the growing dark with just her breast-band on. Her wound was healed enough for work, but she still needed to be careful with it. She bent and washed arms and face and then slowly, carefully washed the ruin of her stomach. The scars were extensive and horrific, a mix of battle wounds and flesh gone necrotic having been removed. She felt a little sick looking down at the ruin of her body and thought about how close she’d come, several times over from the wound. She swallowed hard as the memory of the scent of her dead friends pressed down on her, the feel of her hands having to claw and dig through the charnel pile. She stood up abruptly and stumbled back. Her heart racing, her hands trembling. 

No, she was not going to lose it. Not now. She’d lived, she’d fought to live and she was going to keep at it. 

With shaking breath she slipped her shirt back on and then her armor. She kept the buckles on the side loose too tired to make them tight but unable to lose the habit of wearing it when on duty. She hastened back to camp and stashed away soap and hung up cloth, each little task helping to slow her breathing and her racing heart. 

“Sir,” she called as she stirred their dinner. “Food is just about ready.”