"TEAR DOWN WHITEWALL!" CRIES THE GODDESS.
"Well, Sartari," mused Broyan, his lips dry, "You are a musical folk,
can you not match that?" He spoke lightly, but his soft words were
weary.
"TEAR DOWN WHITEWALL!" CRY WE ALL.
The weather-beaten features of the soldier beside him, hair caked in
dirt, blood and sweat, tensed for a moment, as in contemplation.
Finally he turned to the king. "Well, they've got a very good bass
section, mind..." he started, and then a proud grin smoothed his
features, as he finished "But no top tenors."
Eyes closed, the faint call of a soft humming rose in the air, as the Sartarite found his tune.
"Men of Whitewall, lie ye dreaming..."
Stu.
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