Dawn Treader Valley but you look good tonight, girlfriend

She would not stay. Faustus would not make her.
He turns his gaze to the swing of gold-tipped grass, to the dustbowl slowly morphing into their home. Something Greek and Roman, something both and neither; Myros and Florentia and in between.
Perhaps I will seek to hire a guard of my own, he muses aloud; a silent agreement that yes, these were good choices. He would not argue so long as such titles kept the Macedonian mouths closed. we will need to recruit more people soon. We cannot have an empty empire. Bicolored eyes turn, again, to the woman.