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Honey Bud
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The moment the carriage pulls up before the gold-leaf gates of the Lyfberg Grafhouse, you swing yourself out of the door, and, with a hasty farewell to your comrades, stride into the foyer.
You are aware you're disheveled, and that you smell of axel grease and of the road, but you're quite early. The only occupants of the foyer are a few underfoot servitors, apologetically dusting, and a slight, greenclad Stadtgraf, overlooking their efforts.
Last time he saw you, you were very small, and he won't recognize you, but you know of him. His name is Fustus.
Godruf. Make sure you get the fringes, boy. That carpet is worth twenty times your scrap metal.
And what's that smell?
He turns around.
Oh, dear. I wasn't aware the Markgraf allows his stableboys to tramp around his main hall. Unless you're going to tell me you're a lord.
A] No, milord. You're right, milord. Sorry, milord. The Stadtgraf of Luffbridge will be here soon, milord.
B] Careful, Fustus.
C] My apologies, Stadtgraf Fustus. You were mistaken. I'm Stadtgraf Gerhold Ergheis, of Luffbridge. Pleased to make your acquaintance.
D] I have neither the time nor the patience to suffer the Markgraf's bootlicks. Which way to the Meeting Hall?
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