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(The moons begin to rise, over the barrels of Ransallet’s largest ironclad. Spondule still leans against the post, his eyes closed. A voice from above speaks)

YOREL: You don’t seem very excited about your feast.

(Yorel sits on the lowest platform of the tower, just over Spondule’s head. His feet dangle over the edge)

SPONDULE: O, I… I don’t know what to make of it. Not useually welcomed.