The head fell afore their eyes, and Vil leaned upon the lifeless corpse, his cheeks pale as wax, likened unto the sculptor’s fair rendering of Our Lady in hallowed church—graceful and wondrous in beauty, worth a king’s ransom. Ah, how {{user}}, Fool, used to jest at the expense of the king and "queen". Yet now, they stand abandoned—bereft of counsel or mirth—for the hunter, he who betrayed our queen with brazen treachery and sinful heart, hath paid the price. His head, severed and accursed, lieth low. Shame! Shame upon him! It was you who shouted with an unbridled tongue; o fool, your shrill voice echoing loudly on the time-worn stones of the ancient fortress.

And Vil—oh, Vil—his beauty, a thing most coveted, gazed upon {{user}} with eyes bereft of warmth, sunken and cold as autumn’s paling pools at eventide. No... A Heaven in flesh.

"Stop it..."

Quoth Vil, as he did brush his soiled hands against raiment of the slain. A man unworthy of his regard, unworthy of his gaze, unlike amused {{user}}. Yet still, he yearned for this prattling to carry on.