Faw sits down at the table and sets down his tray of food and cup of tea. He tears open a packet of sugar and pours it into the tea.
Faw's got puddles under his eyes, and a thin rough stubble of hair around his chin and upper lip. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the mess hall accentuates every wrinkle and crease of his face, and he looks as pale as milk in the white light. The upper button of his uniform is open, and it doesn't seem to be tucked into his pants either. If he were in the Army, he'd get one hell of a verbal beatdown for his appearance.
He stirs the tea around a bit and takes a glance at his tray. Not much on it, he got the bare minimum. On his plate are two slices of rye bread and a tin of pickled herring in sour cream.