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The [[Chillmark]] manor can be seen for miles around as it rests on its lonely hill surrounded by rocky outcroppings and stunted trees. The narrow road winds its way upwards from the small village, the footing now made even more treacherous by the sweeping spring rain. A lonely figure is hobbling along the muddy path and at first glance one could easily mistake the figure for a beggar or fool. But his gait has a certain magnitude and purpose that is not found in the hearts of the peasants. Living within the thin frame lies authority and in his dim eyes one can easily see the twinkling sin of pride. When Urien walks on to the manor ground a wave of tension hits Chillmark’s every inhabitant: the guards straighten their backs, the maids scurry into hiding and when the young Lord hears the rapid tapping of the chaplain’s cane his heart leaps. [[Maelgwyn]] is already standing when Urien enters the long hall and shakes the rain of his tattered tunic. ’’Curse the little bastards! They will get what they deserve!’’ the old man mumbles and bites the knuckles of his free hand as the other works the cane. [[Maelgwyn]] sees the anger flashing in the chaplains’ eyes as he stands to greet his tutor. ’’In the village my lord! The little bastards have no respect! Satans piss what is this land coming to!’’ [[Maelgwyn]] simply nods his head as Urien sits down by the hearth to dry his weary bones and as a serving girl arrives with some warm milk the old man’s anger starts to sputter. There will be no lesson today, just another bitter sermon formed in Urien’s wheezing chest. The children of the village are not as frightened by the aging Chaplain as Urien thinks proper and every time he hobbles through the muddy roads they follow him and sing their little ditties: ''‘’Rotten brain''<br> ''Rotten Cane''<br> ''Ay ay! Urien!’’''<br> As the warmth of the hearth and milk slowly makes Urien as amiable as he ever can be [[Maelgwyn]] carefully sits down beside him. Blood trickles from the knuckles where Urien had worked his anger unto himself and as it slowly drips unto his tunic [[Maelgwyn]] gently grabs the man’s hand. For a while the mumbling increases but the old man lets [[Maelgwyn]] tend to his hand only to let his thoughts race to his wounded pride. The day’s lesson is, again, about the teaching one can learn from ones elders and how any curses, ditties or disrespect directed at them is an affront to the Lord.
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