Ulvath, the Dying King's Champion
Ten Thousand Gates > Conversing in the Doorway of the First Coin

Faugh, it burns yet! A curse of the runes, a King's Curse upon this filth-laden rain! Black upon the cobbles, black upon leather, filth upon all these huddled of low Halls and their strange hovels about - yet it burns naught and none but Ulvath and Bethen! A curse upon this witchery we have been brought to!

Black upon Leli who looks of Anseme's blood, but she cares not; to dance upon the cobbles as though a child or charmed by witchery. By my ax, there is naught of sense here for a champion thrown rune-bound.

Is this to be a Demonland? Where then are the Witch-Queen's foulnesses, waiting to be called forth to despoil Tulsrealm? I am to have no liking for this cloud and filth, be it so or be it not - and what of this Hall and archway you have found? If shelter it is, why do those of no Hall not shelter here? But see, they pass in rags without so much as eyes cast aside, burned not but wet with the filth of it, and bowed against it.

Aye, and what of he who brought us here; naught to be seen ... and no cursed filth and rain for his finery. A saga speaker who pretends to ax and shield, no more, mark my words. Plague and warm rot upon this burning, and him, and his gate!

[ Posted by Reason on July 29, 2006 ]