Shortly after she’d passed the legal drinking age and made Private First Class, Honour had been inducted by her seniors into attending a slightly more upscale kind of piss-soaked watering hole. One with actual furniture — some of which was even upholstered — and more entertainment than a fiddle, fife, or squeeze-box could provide when accompanied by the percussion of hind-kick-roundhouses and forehoof-haymakers from the crowd. Sure, the drinks were more expensive, and they actually checked her ID, but as a result, Honour could usually return to base clad in her coat’s natural tones, instead of sporting a black welt accessory. She’d even managed to get halfway decent at eight-ball, before she got swept off her horseshoes to become hitched up, largely abandoning the bar for what she’d hoped would be a happy married life.