( A joyous conversation has left lord and liege Deimar especially unenthusiastic this evening, ruminating over his fifth-sixth-eighth cup of wine while picking at his dinner.

Please excuse the morose glare, when he finally summons his guard. It's born of an entire hour of performative indifference. It's so difficult being king, when you can only threaten your subjects with a fork that lazily stabs a half-baked potato scavenged from some... dying woman's hands. No salt. )

You. You! You, you, you. Are you trying to kill me? ( A distinct wave of the potato. ) Are you planning to be any good at it?