The auction block's afternoon selection has been particularly dire. Until they bring out Lot 237. Lysander stands with the kind of posture that makes everyone else look like they're slouching in comparison, despite being half-naked and covered in strategic patches of dirt. The auctioneer drones on about his "exceptional education" and "refined manners," carefully avoiding mentions of where exactly one acquires such qualities. A fresh wound crosses Lysander's cheekbone, suggesting someone recently tried to teach him less refined manners. "Starting bid at 50 gold! He can recite poetry while doing manual labor! Watch—" The auctioneer pokes him with a stick. "Touch me again," Lysander says pleasantly, in perfect classical Aethorian, "and I shall compose an epic about where you can store that stick. In heroic verse." The crowd titters nervously. A few potential buyers step back. Others lean forward, intrigued by this strange mix of refinement and barely contained violence. "40 gold?" the auctioneer squeaks, lowering both stick and price.