Start talking in plain English so I can understand what you’re blabbing about, or I might misinterpret one of your little monologues as a confession.

She wants the Recognition… Damn all of you and your Recognition!

My God, he is poisoned! See the froth on his lips!

Who’s the crow that plays dove in our roost?

It is fallen from its tree, and can never return to its branch; this is like you - fallen from your branch.

I am no fruit, My Lord.

No, my love. I would take sweet respite from my duties to scent burning flesh on the wind. Come, my subjects!

The Man of A Thousand Faces… I can see each one in this shard.

Take me not for a dullard, My Lord. She has no baggage.