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- “If it were up to me I would find whatever part of them this rot has set in, and prune it root and stem. Fingers. Tongue. Heart... Mark my words: the only way to keep this evil from spreading is to cut it out. But their fate is yours. I am no longer young, and my soul does not need the stain.” ―The Acerbic Dowager
The Acerbic Dowager's face is moon-white. Her hands shake. Her hair - normally tight as a steel cap - is unruly. Something brown and malodorous clogs one side of it.
She points at the peasant boy and girl in her servants' meaty hands. "These chattel accosted me as I returned from my prayers! They threw filth at my carriage! Some of it came through the window...and..." her voice breaks, her eyes shining with tears. "I bring them to you for judgement," she hisses through grinding teeth. "If I do it it myself I will forget they are little more than children!"
The serfs are terrified, both at the Dowager's ire and the splendour of your hall. They are not yet twenty years. Their hands are damningly stained.
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