Odestus panted, hurrying to keep pace with the Medusa as she strode imperiously through Listcairn’s Eastern gate. “If the little shit will not come when ordered then I will go and drag him to my council by that twisted thread he calls a beard.” “Dema, stay a moment please, my legs are too old for such a race as this,” Odestus gasped. It had already been a frantic march from the castellan’s keep to the city gate and there were still barely halfway to the Gutshredder’s camp in the midst of which towered Galen’s crimson pavilion. Thankfully, the Medusa stopped and turned to look back at the wheezing wizard. There was even a smile playing on her lips. It creased the ragged half-healed wound which Rugan had left in her cheek but she seemed not to notice any strain or discomfort. Instead there was just that familiar amusement at his enduring weaknesses. “Your legs are only as old as the rest of you, little wizard. Is your whole body no longer fit for purpose?”
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