Later, much later, when the day came down beating on the horizon, the legate of the third made way to his his new home.
He made step with the lead-filled, unsteady gait of a man who had been wrestling with giants. Each step across the red Azanian carpet felt like a labor, his boots sinking into the plush pile, leaving no sound but the heavy, rhythmic rasp of his own labored breathing and the clinking of his crimsoned armor.
Behind him, his squire hovered like a nervous moth, hands outstretched as if to catch a falling tower. It was a pathetic sight, had Asag turned to look the squire to do , he would have kicked him away.
He was the legate of the Third, no way he would fall in the arm of a green boy, he was the linchpin; he was the "Mountain" of the Bastion, and if he crumbled, the stone walls would surely follow.
No to hell with that, the walls would fall before he would.
