Lestor made himself hold still, save to move as he was bid to assist in the process, while soldiers dressed him. After four months of stiff, filthy uniforms spattered with mud and blood, it felt strange to don the sort of elaborate clothing he normally only endured for formal functions.
He shrugged his shoulders to more comfortably settle his heavy, dark green jacket. Winter was slowly coming to an end, but it still clung tightly enough to put a bite in the air. The jacket was trimmed in gold, the buttons polished to a shine, and there were short bits of gold lace at the cuffs. His breeches and boots were black, the latter as well-polished as the buttons. They'd finally managed to trim his hair and shave his face, for which he was grateful.
The soldiers fussed a few minutes more, adding
