Normally uneventful, Danir's sleep was inundated with the image of the sigil.
Its ankh-like shape popped up everywhere his dreams took him; from
his mother's embroidery, to his uncle's training yard, where a young
Danir was failing at landing combination strikes with sigil in-hand.
Worst of all, were the images of the sigil stuck into the chest of
the golem by Gregor, who would rub his bony hands together with relish
at the treasure that poured from the creature's innards, as the Duke,
himself, looked on with vindictive approval..
That is what woke him up, Gregor's maniacal laughter.
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