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My precious wife, he writes...
Flee the city.
We fight now to death instead of yield, in mead halls, streets and markets.
Even within the walls you are no longer safe.
The giants do not gather to us the way they bend to the governor, but our ranks have grown thick.
He believes we are only rabble.
And we are no rabble. We fight with courage.
As his men fall in the streets, ours grow stronger.
True, we have strength. But more importantly... we have skill.
And you should hear the confidence in their voices...
You see, my love? All your worry is misplaced.
We go to claim the governor’s seat as you read this,
You throw a feast! Did you think we would join in?
and when his faint-hearted reign is over, I will meet you..
Stay out of this! It has nothing to do with you!
with joy bursting from my chest.
Like a rabid wolf, that one. How did it come to this?
We fool ourselves believing that peace will last.
My grandfather built all this from a poor fishing village, you know.
(horn blows)