It was her favourite phrase; she said it twice before breakfast, six times by lunch, and once before the cook had time to explain why her afternoon tea had gone cold. Through a single sentence, she has forced grown men into tears.
Many enter and leave these halls most are only graced with the former. With them, they bring complaints: we're hungry, we're weak, we're poor. It's what they come to do. Yet what could there possibly be to complain about, when even our walls are covered in solid gold?
Each one of them advertises a wide collection of mysterious stains, which not only stretch across their clothing but extend onto their leathery, sun-burned skin. They come in filthy and uneven pieces of cloth that are crudely sewn together in a patchwork fashion. Rough strings, that strangely resemble the hay we leave out for the horses, stick out of them from every which way. Frayed holes plague the fabric like a disease something most of them seem to have themselves. Still, she b