From your window you watch her procession snake through the streets of Serault Town. At its head rides the Divine, reaching down into the crowd to bestow blessings on the poor, the stricken and the lame.
Behind her comes the coiling body of advisors, bodyguards and hangers-on. Tight-lipped Templars and blinking scholars. Liveried emissaries. Solemn sisters and stiff-backed Revered Mothers. An august company, their steeds caparisoned in deep crimson and blazing gold!
There is no red for the ones that come next. No gold. Their smocks are brown from the road-dust. They have no horses, but lead plodding donkeys. They are the serpent's tail: a winding train of baggage and servants that stretches out beyond the town walls.
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