"Thank you, Mr. Irene," Lyle said, sitting in a chair facing the quiet gentleman, who had a book resting on his lap with his palms stacked on top of it. If not for Lyle's interjection, he would have already been immersed in the text, "Thank you for extending your hand to me in my time of need."
"Emphasizing someone else's assistance while neglecting your own ability is not the behavior of a wise man, Lyle."
"I stand corrected."
A man named Reed, clad in iron armor, walked over and sat down in the chair next to Mr. Irene. A lion was depicted at the center of his glossy black armor, and as the iron body sunk into the soft cushion, the lion too remained steady.
Reed started a conversation on his own, as if speaking to both of them, yet it was as if he was talking to himself.
"The same old poetry and essays, I hope their eloquence is as sharp on the battlefield."
