In his battered armour, bloodied, yet somehow ever so proud, there was a picture more perfect than the one that had come before it. That beautiful piece of artistry that Harmon had poured his heart and soul into. The engravings of beasts, and tigers, torn up, and bloodied, and even more terrifying, and that torn up surcoat of the Patrick House that he wore, everything dripped with the significance of something beyond them – and beyond Oliver himself.
He lifted his sword, Dominus Patrick's blade, his hand guided to do so, still the leaf in the wind that he was before, his eyes wide, and solid purple, with only the slightest bits of gold. He remembered the speech that he had been making, before he had seen the horse to mount, and he did so continue it.
