It had been Lord Verrell who welcomed Fat Mike, Amilia, Cedric, and his party of a hundred at the front line some days later. They were settled in behind the wall before a large feast had begun.
It hadn't been larger nor grand, but within the banquet halls of the Silvermane, three large roasted boars sizzled and popped with the rendering of fat, caramelizing into crunchy fat caps. And spritzed with an apple cinnamon blend every half an hour, the scent alone had many in tears.
When the chef carved the Suckling Pig, the outer crust crunched with each pass of his knife. Juices erupted from out of the pig, rolling into the fire.
"..." Altair had been staring at his steaming plate. He had never liked pork. Even now, when he was starving, he felt hesitant. The smell had never been something he liked. It wasn't a foul stench, yet it always upset his stomach.
'Fat rats,' he'd often called them.
