"There is no cardinal imperator over all, but my own neck!" Thus jeered Fedé, as he fondled the Rogueite Rough. The tables had turned, one clot versus another. Yet on they turned, again and again. If they were hell-bent, they could, and perhaps, should, lose. An ability to capitulate for noble purposes, such as their own decomposition of Paralvanwa, would have enabled them to have their cake and eat it too. Sorrow would have made the fellas greater. Perhaps the great ones, their love of fighting not through ardour or brutality but through the ear, like the cruel Fedé. However, I, Yandrada, am a murmur of annihilation in every gasp.
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