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Here, have a little something while you wait for the other writefag.
Sandy sat near the campfire, morose, leaning against a boulder. Her shoulder ached, swollen into immobility, her arm tucked in a makeshift sling. The other initiates were similarly keeping to themselves, mulling over their own wounds and lumps, trying to absorb the lessons their instructors had literally beaten into them. The instructors--veteran warriors, all of them--kept to themselves, talking in low murmurs over the crackle of their own fire, passing around their flasks.
She looked up as a stout figure clomped back into camp, from checking the pickets. He strolled over to the fire, looking down at Sandy, the dim light eventually revealing the stern, asymmetric face of the Training-Master, Cazmar Stonejaw. An ogre-wielded club had shattered his jaw in his distant youth, and it had healed crookedly, giving his face a perpetual look of twisted disgust beneath his bushy, mane-like beard. It also gave his speech a distinctive, gravelly mumble, which generations of recruits had come to dread. He had no kind words for any of them; but seemed particularly offended with Sandy herself, ceaselessly reminding her of the failures of her breeding among her many other, imaginatively described inadequacies. But this time, he wordlessly sat, producing pipe and pouch from a deep pocket. He took his time with the process of packing, lighting, and taking a long puff of the faintly acrid smoke. Sandy dreaded what he would say.