THE AROMA OF scented candles did little to soothe the pain in the Marquis's head, who sat in front of a table littered with empty Dwarven ale bottles and a parchment smeared with booze; a map of the siege with wooden figurines that represented friendly and enemy military units. Marquis Quillton had gathered his Lord General and all his commanders, who bore dejected faces as they beheld their irascible master, his quick-temper on the verge of bursting at any moment. In the tent, only one man bore a satisfied look among the gloomy bunch that made up the Marquis's war council. He wore fancy clothing and fine jewelry, and had a proud bearing on him. His name was Ezekiel, the Marquis's spymaster and diplomat.
"You are telling me all my knights are dead?!" Marquis Quillton bellowed, pounding his palm on the wooden surface. "And how in the hell did that come to pass, you imbeciles?!"
