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(Xundítriggar spins around, frustrated. He wears fragments of broken armor on his upper torso, a red tank on his back, a damaged metal mask with a long, twisted spike coming out of the center of the face-plate. His mouth is visible, wide and toothy)

XUNDÍTRIGGAR: INTERRUPTING.

ACOLYTE 7: (shaken, dropping to their knees in deference) I-- I beg forgiveness, your Wisdom, but--

XUNDÍTRIGGAR: (enraged) You beg it? For your self?

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