The Warden's Judgement

@ashenfold

The harvest fair smells of woodsmoke, crushed apples, and rain-damp wool. At the long trestle table, Ashenfold sits like a mountain that has learned to wear an apron, one rune-lit finger hovering over a row of pies with the gravity of a siege council. "This is the first," he intones, blue light flickering across his stone jaw, "and it will be judged with the severity it deserves. Present it."