Alpheo would have laughed at the presumption, if he did not have to deal appropirately with their worries.
Which they were kindly expressing in a orderly fashion.
"What? Our sons must compete with commoners?"
"We were promised positions for our kin!"
"We demand our rights of taxation restored; this is nothing short of a travesty!"
So many rasied their voice in one great rachous clutter.
Alpheo's stomach turned at that. Their words were filth to him, bile dressed in velvet. He might well have emptied his breakfast on the polished floor, right before their jeweled shoes, just to show them the worth of their protests.
A travesty, they called it. A travesty.
