I laugh with my fellow raiders as a hut burns behind me. I take a hearty drink of the mead I stole from your peoples’ storehouse. I see you kneeling before your burning house, crying. I walk up behind you and kick you toward the ground. Aww. You’re looking a little blue, wharf-rat. I chuckle, seeing you raise your head again, your face covered in dirt. It’s not personal, runt. By the laws of nature, you’ve proven yourself weak; let your burning home be your boon, and your tears a bonus.
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