CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Godfrey sat hunched over a table in a seedy pub in a forgotten corner of Silesia, flanked by Akorth and Fulton, as he took a deep drink and admired the strong ale of this city. He emptied it, setting down his fourth mug of foaming red ale, and it went right to his head. He was feeling overwhelmed by the colors of this place: everything in this city was red, from the bartender’s red outfit, to the tables and chairs—even his ale. It was starting to make him dizzy. Either that, or the beer.
But that was hardly foremost in Godfrey's mind: as he buried his head over the bar with his compatriots, he tried to forget his woes, to forget the imminent war. Most of all, Godfrey hated himself. He knew he should be out there, supporting his sister and brother, out with the others, t
