Forsyth: Do you think you might be able to pick up the pace, Python?
Python: I could consider it—if we hadn’t been marching nonstop since yesterday.
Forsyth: I’m sorry, are you whining? Was that a whine? In case it slipped your mind, the fate of all Zofia is at stake. We must join the Deliverance and do our part. Now show a little backbone!
Python: This is gonna SNAP my backbone! Are you really so keen on joinin’ up?
Forsyth: I am. Why? Are you getting cold feet?
Python: ‘Course not. But joining the Deliverance ain’t exactly a whopper of an idea, if you ask me. I hear they’re a buncha mamby-pamby knights and stuck-up young nobles. Which means you’n me are walking halfway across Zofia just to be snubbed.
Forsyth: They would never do that! …Er, probably. At least, I hope not.
Python: See? The only future you got there is as a peon among peons.
Forsyth: I admit you…could be right. But I also hear their leader, Sir Clive, is a just and reasonable man. I wager he’ll judge us based on what we can do and not the station of our birth. Or perhaps you’d rather turn around and continue working for Lord Dunderhead?
Python: Ha! Not bloody likely. So is leaving the soldier game for good completely off the table at this point?
Forsyth: You’re welcome to return home and be a carpenter like your father.
Python: Eh? Ugh… The only thing I hate more than swords is hammers…
Forsyth: There you go, then. You’re a gifted archer, so use the gifts you have. You won’t catch me running home to be some bookworm like my sire. I’ve made a name for myself as a warrior. May as well take that to its logical conclusion and do some more warring.
Python: *sigh* Everything has to be a step forward for you.
Forsyth: In truth, I’m too scared to begin questioning myself now.
Python: You? Scared? Well, slap my butt and call me a rented mule.
Forsyth: I try to keep it to a minimum. Now walk, mule! Walk! The Deliverance hideout is just beyond these woods. We should attempt to reach it before the sun abandons us.
Python: Yes, m’lord… Right away, m’lord…