“What? Want to hear another of my mischievous fahrar tales?”
Seneca chuckled as she looked around the eager faces at the
Blade.
Scarred faces, weary faces, faces of charr most more
than half her age.
All who had already tasted the glories and
bitterness of war.
But, for a moment, they could forget their
orders, their pains, their losses.
They could laugh at an old
biddy and her tales of bygone days.
For Seneca, it was the best
way to end a day.
“Well now, there was this one time we
decided to use peanut butter for war paint...”
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