May the Weaver take a steaming shit on that man's thread!
All had gone to madness. Madness and vain ambition.
He stomped along the battlements of the city, the very city whose fall had flipped the gaming table and scattered the odds of this conflict to the winds. For nearly a year, the patronage had been a smooth, profitable glide. Everything was moving with the grease of a well-oiled machine, and then, inevitably, a stone had jammed the gears. When was the last time life had handed him a gift that wasn't a splintered stick up the arse?
Steel clattered as he moved. The rhythmic click-clack of Yarzat-forged ringmail hauberks signaled his approach, the soldiers , whose equipment most likely was also Yarzat-made, parting before him like a tide. He radiated a heat that seemed to turn the biting late-September air into a humid, stifling swamp.
