"You fucking prick --" the soldier on the ground shouts, scrambling quickly to his feet. He's not immediately flanked by the others, given that one of them may well have a broken jaw, but their furious aggression is definitely moving them all in that direction.

"Stop!"

Dain strides over, all billowing coat and severity, every inch of him the stern shepherd. His scarf trails down his back where he's pulled it down off his face; the cold bites, but most of the soldiers know his face by now. All except the first soldier hesitate when he intervenes. The first was already in the middle of a wild swing at Lorne.

It was only a matter of time before a violent incident. Civil war, freezing cold, a commander quite happy to brutally punish anyone for the unforgivable trespass of raising a complaint -- it's a wonder alcohol hasn't pushed a soldier over the brink before this.