LordButtons

The northman's beard is thick and matted. The Bramble has shaped its people as its own seedlings, thinks Daryl, sitting down opposite him. From across the oak table, Daryl sits back and observes him. A trickle of blood runs down from the corner of his wild eye, matting the forest of thick black hair that covers the majority of his face. He is naked from the waist up, his body beaten and bruised. He is breathing heavily; with each choking breath he spits small flecks of blood onto the table. Daryl shakes his head, and snaps his fingers. From the dark behind him, a steward walks in clutching a tray stacked with a basket of bread and a tall