We few, we happy few. We band of buggered.

.
The next afternoon was even funnier. He, the General and Pemberton-Oakes. Lots of bottles. Cards.
Bloody old times! Nothing seemed like old times. It was true the three of them now had some degrees of grey in their hair. Merry and Pem had too-full cheeks and new clothes.
The General got his ribbons in his early youth. He was a crack shot, firm steady hand and sharp sight. Old Pem was better with swords and any sort of blade stuff, something that needed close contact. He was really good at that. The adventurer lived in his own world of trees, leaves, changing winds and shooting stars. The tracker.
They had been months in lands that should be in maps, really. Sometimes arguing, sometimes not. Days each one alone. Nights sharing their paths. Sharing whiskey and women. Sharing themselves. Welcoming the oasis of civilization because of what it was, something unusual.
There was a reason why he now walked with his merry men.
"Wait until you see Penthesilea, mate."
"She's here too? What did you do, founded the Overseas Club?"
"Indeed."
.