Color instantly drained from Sir Rain's face as he imagined the fate of such a soldier. Bad enough to try to hold onto your saddle when your bowels were in a twist and you felt like your gut would explode at any moment. It was undignified in the extreme but men had soiled themselves rather than stop to dismount and remove their armor when the army was on the move.
But this flatleaf nettle poison, if Sir Ollie and Lady Ashlynn were to be believed, was far worse than a simple case of the squirts, and the notion of inflicting such a fate on a man, any man, even your worst enemy, was one he shuddered to contemplate.
"With legs that go weak and his guts in a twist, your man can't grip the horse with his legs. He can't rise or fall in the saddle and has to suffer the bucking and bouncing of the horse's gait," Sir Rain explained, looking at Darragh with a new level of disgust.
