Especially true if the person doing it had designed them in the first place.

The twin streams of dried blood had flowed down his sparely haired chest, pooling at the top of the cotton shorts, matting the hair to him so that when he shifted, even a little, it ripped up from the roots. Sure, it wasn't the worst pain he'd felt in the last day, not even close, but it was a further indignity. Not exactly a hero’s welcome, was it?

If he didn't have a good explanation soon, he was going to have to do something. Lack of water was taking its toll, as the men and women with him hadn't had any for a day already by then and the sun had baked the rest away. His mouth was parched and bitter, so much that it tasted like sand inside his mouth. Everyone else had shoes at least, his feet were sore, tender, but not bleeding when they got around the outer wall, the far side, away from the river. He couldn't even smell water in the air. His shoulders were burned red as well as his back, causing a less than friendly guard he'd never met to slap him there several times. Hard.

“Stupid little peasant should have worn a shirt!” The man quipped as he struck again several times. He didn't react to the pain, so it became a game to the bored men, coming up behind him and slapping while they walked past. Each coming in with an insult, as if the guards were trying to outdo each other in creativity with each curse. The blows got harder and harder too, each one finally rocking him forward as he walked, the blows making enough sound that the people around him jumped from it. Tor didn't let himself do that, sinking deeper within between each.

No one else got such treatment. The girls had even been given water. Smythe too, but not Count Ward. He looked about ready to kill someone, even though no one had even spoken harshly to him. Too big, and a sitting Count, if one out of favor. No, most of the abuse got heaped on Tor, being the smallest and youngest looking one there.