Character: Gondorian OMC
Disclaimer: Only the OMC is mine, and the poor guy doesn't even have a name.
The blisters on my hands are turning to calluses. I'm grateful; it's much easier to dig when I'm not trying to ignore the pain.
I'm growing accustomed to the constant stooping, pushing, pulling. My back and shoulders don't ache as they used to; when I wake in the morning, it's no longer a torture to stand upright.
I'll never grow used to the smell: men, horses, Orcs, gargantuan mûmakil, rotting slowly on the Pelennor under the spring sun, the stench nauseatingly heavy on my tongue. My wife doesn't understand why I push my dinner aside without taking a single bite.