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Chapter 23 The Envoys
The signaller and the troops on Altdorf's wall were all but hypnotized as they drank in their first view of elf-kind. The approaching trio were tall by human standards, and they made the simple task of walking look so sinuous and graceful that any human dancer would be put to shame. Their scale-and-plate armour was polished to a mirror finish and trimmed with gold. It protected their heads, shoulders and torsos but left their limbs unencumbered. They wore long swords at their waists, and each carried an ornate staff. Two elves walked side by side. They trailled swirling cloaks of gold and blue, were fair haired and radiated youthful vigour. The third elf followed a few steps behind, contrasting the others' appearance by having dark hair and an older appearance. His cloak was rich scarlet in colour.
The three glided to within ten paces of the gate and stopped. As the gate showed no signs of opening, the blue cloaked elf looked up and spoke in musical tones to the men above him. Although he made no apparent effort to project his voice, the words carried clearly to the signaller’s ears. The man gaped stupidly and nodded.
Another voice intruded. This one was as harsh and unpleasant as fighting crows. The signaller wished the elf would speak again, but the harsh voice grew more insistent.
"Signaller! What did he say?" Graf Mahrlecht bellowed from the inner court.
The glamour was broken. The signaller hurried back to the other side of the parapet and peered down at the anxious electors who were clustered together awaiting his report.
"There is a problem, sir. They said they would only treat with the Emperor. We had three emperors to choose from this morning. Who should be chosen now?”
"Mahrlect.” Several of the electors cursed aloud.
"Wait!" thundered Heimlich, Priest of Ulrik. He thrust his improvised banner into the hands of an unfortunate Captain of the Marienburg Citadel Guard and began counting on his fingers. When he arrived at a satisfactory number, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head towards Mahrlecht.
"Congratulations on your election, Emperor Mahrlecht, and with a clear majority of electoral votes, too. Now by the power vested in me, get your Majestic arse along to the Imperial Palace and look imperious."
"What?" spluttered Mahrlecht.
"What?" spluttered the remaining elector counts.
Heimlich leapt to his feet and propelled the Emperor Elect and his peers in the direction of the citadel. "Your Graces, you will need to fill out the throne room and look wise and resolute. When all is ready, signal the gate to open. Come along!"
Heimlich dragged the newly elected ruler along. The retinue of baffled Electors jogged behind.
"Another wild gambit, Mahrlecht?" Elector Arnulf grunted, "I've heard that elves do not suffer fools."
The Emperor Elect dug in his heels and stopped. "They do not suffer fools? Hmm." The two disguised lizardmen-flagellants were still trailing along. They were not looking for trouble, but recent history told Mahrlecht that they were rarely out of it. "Brothers Joe and Bob, I have a special mission for you. Go with one of my black companies and capture the Chaos coven you discovered last night. They are to be imprisoned in the Imperial Zoo cages, rather than the city lock-up. The red robes are not to know."
"Red Robes not to know? I was expecting you to say… Oh, I see. You may rely on us, captain, commander, umm…"
Mahrlecht cut Joe off mid-honorific. "Brothers, take your time. And Heimlich,"
The wolf priest raised his eyebrows and pointed at his own chest.
"Yes. You, Heimlich. Go with them. You know the brothers’ special... condition and the discretion that is required. Perhaps you can keep them and yourself out of mischief."
The Priest of Ulrik departed with the enthusiastic Brothers of Purity and the electoral party hurried towards the Imperial Palace.
Like usual, news travelled faster than seemed credible. Before the Emperor Elect had travelled half the length of Heldenhammer Grand Allee, citizens of Altdorf lined both sides of the triumphal way. They didn't cheer or shout for the new Emperor Elect. Instead they murmured quietly about the unexpected turn of events. One word was repeated often and could be heard clearly over the susurration – ‘Mahrlecht.’
It seemed somehow to be a discouraging start to potentially the shortest Imperial reign on record.
At the Imperial Palace itself, the Imperial Door-Warden was astonished by the thought of actually having a patron. However, he could not dispute the legitimacy of the Imperial election - eleven grim warriors stood impatiently before him, bearing the Runefangs which gave them the right to choose from among themselves.
The warden released his adjutant to guide the electors to the throne room, although he did feel some distress at sending the junior officer away. That action had reduced the strength of the Imperial Guard by fifty percent and left him no one to talk to.
His loneliness was cut mercifully short by the arrival of the entire combined command company of the state armies. Marshalls, generals, knights, batmen, squires and signal corps had all tagged along behind the Emperor Elect trying to look official and essential. One of them, the magnificently moustachioed First Marshal of Averland, felt the need to affirm his own relevance by giving some orders.
"Assign an honour guard of the Knights of the Order of the Black Bear to escort the envoys from the gate,” he barked at a lesser officer. Then he turned to the warden, "Go and run the Emperor's colours up the palace flag staff."
The ward snapped off a crisp salute. "Immediately, sir! Err, what are his colours, sir?"
The miserable Captain of Marienburg proffered the spear which had Heimlich's precious silk underhose fluttering from its tip. "I've been following him around with this. I gladly surrender it into your custodianship."
"I can't take that!" The warden shrank away from the improvised pennant with absolute horror on his face. "There is a protocol we must follow. You need to lower it while we all salute. Then you fold it the special way. Then I can take it."
The captain leant very close so that only the warden could hear his next words. "Take the filthy thing, or you will have your protocol and this spear rammed so far up your behind that the only way anyone will be able to see the Emperor's pennant will be if they look deep into your eyes."
The warden snapped another very quick salute before fleeing with the precious icon.
The warden’s adjutant scurried down the echoing marble hall with the electors. On the way he pointed out features of note, such as portraits, friezes and sculptuary. In amongst the commentary he apologized for the sparseness of the Imperial staff.
The staff was but a remnant of the glory of the Empire's heyday. The titular roles had become almost hereditary and many departments had shrunk to virtual non-viability. The Imperial Guard was now only composed of their young guide and ‘Papa.’ The title of Imperial Chef had been passed from father to son for fourteen generations. The current Imperial Astrologer was also the Imperial Herbalist and through lack of anyone else who had the time, Imperial Gardener.
Despite the Imperial functionaries being few in numbers, they had faithfully maintained the tradition and the dignity of their roles for eleven hundred years. They had kept the hearth fire burning for the inevitable return of Sigmar's heir.
Rapid introductions and explanations were made as the new electors found the ancient Imperial Herald and the Imperial Protocol Advisor playing draughts at a small table to one side of the high throne. The electors examined the twelve ancient granite thrones which lined both sides of the audience chamber, one for each province – including Drakwald which had been lost to the Empire a thousand years earlier. The Imperial throne itself was elevated on a dais at the end.
Emperor Elect Mahrlecht lowered himself gingerly onto the high throne. There was no thunderbolt or earthquake, but he did not feel at all comfortable on the God-Emperor’s throne. Holy Sigmar had probably never used a cushion in his entire earthly life.
Mahrlecht set to preparing for the delegation. "Herald, would you be so kind as to summon the Imperial Signals Officer."
To Mahrlecht’s surprise, the herald did not below the order down the hall way. Instead he marched over to the dais, pulled up a funnel ended speaking tube from the shadows beside it and bellowed into that. His powers of voice projection probably obviated the need for the sophisticated communications device, because he could be heard in every corner of the palace without assistance anyway. The signals officer arrived in less than a minute.
"What news from the gate?" demanded Mahrlecht.
"The elves remain. They have made no other demands."
"We have kept them waiting long enough. Signal the gate captain to admit them and have them brought to the citadel."
"At once, Sir." The signal officer turned on his heel.
"Adjutant.” Mahrlecht addressed the young warden.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Instruct… Papa to admit the envoys and escort them here."
The adjutant scurried away.
"Your Grace, if I may-" began the Imperial Protocol Advisor.
"Have you lost all decorum in the last three hundred years?” Elector Oswin of Westerland sneered. “That should be 'Your Imperial Majesty,' you dolt."
The advisor sniffed, "The Emperor Elect is properly referred to as 'his grace' until his rule is confirmed by the Imperial Religious Orders."
"Hmmph. It seems you will be 'Your Grace' for some time them, Mahrlecht.” Elector Arnulf was blunt, as always. "The Orders won't even stand in the same room, let alone agree on anything."
"Please,” the Emperor Elect smothered the conversation quickly. “Titles and confirmation are of no consequence at this time. We have a powerful army outside our gate. Their intentions are unknown but their posture is threatening. Our first priority must be to avoid more needless bloodshed this day. Furthermore, I have no interest in the squabbles of the Orders, nor in minutiae of court etiquette."
The three elves had been left waiting in the shadow of the Marienburg gate for what seemed to be the ideal length of time to indicate contempt. When the gate creaked open, they maintained their haughty posture as the gate captain crept reluctantly out to hail them.
"Sirs?" The trio did not even look at him. "Sirs, the Emperor Elect awaits you in the Imperial Citadel."
With that they were off, striding through the gate without uttering a single word of acknowledgement. They did not ask for directions to the citadel. Indeed the gold cloaked one had already seen the location of the palace from atop his dragon mount. The gate captain hurriedly stepped out of their path and, once they entered the city, their escort of knights-afoot needed to trot awkwardly to keep up with them.
The dark one glided a pace behind his fuming kinsmen with a mounting feeling of unease. "There is a pall of Chaos over the city,” he muttered.
"If the barbarians have already fallen to Chaos they will be of no use to us," the gold-clad elf pronounced. "As I told you from the outset, Teclis, this mission is futile.”
The dark haired elf spoke again, "but Lord Finreir, these people have not fallen, or at least not all of them. There is something else here, another power which balances the evil. It is not magic. What can the third power be? It eludes my insight.”
"Whether these humans have fallen or not, we have won no friends this day," the blue cloaked elf stated without apparent concern.
"Why do you say so, Lord Yrtle? I sense no peculiar hostility. These people seem curious, or expectant."
"No peculiar hostility?" Finreir scoffed. "The Masters of Hoeth put too much emphasis on using mystic insight. Use your ears instead, child."
The citizens of Altdorf lined both sides of the triumphal way, murmuring quietly among themselves. Two words were repeated often and could be heard clearly over the susurration - The first was 'elves'. The second was 'mahrlect’.
"That is... quite offensive." Teclis observed. The trio ran the rest of the gauntlet of profanity in silence.
At the doors of the Imperial Citadel the three elves found their way barred by crossed halberds.
"Who seeks audience with the Emperor Elect?" boomed the Imperial Door-Ward.
Finreir favoured him with a withering glare. "Dragon Mage Finreir of Caledor, High Mage Yrtle of Eataine and Mage Teclis of Hoeth."
A messenger boy ran ahead to relay the titles to the herald. When he had a good head start, the halberds were uncrossed and the wardens marched down the echoing hallway at a stately pace. The mage lords fell into step behind them.
The Pearl of Imperial architecture it may have been, but the Imperial Citadel held no interest for them. Even their meanest dwelling seemed to have more elegance than this dim, squat monstrosity. The lack of natural light served only to darken Finreir's uncharitable thoughts, if that were possible. There was a patter of feet behind the elves, but they were too dignified to turn.
"Excuse us, if you would, Your... Elfishnesses. Imperial Business - very important!" Three figures pushed past.
One wore a tattered wolf skin, the others wore grey hooded cloaks which trailed muddy hems on the polished marble of the floor.
"Oi! You'll have to clean that up yourselves - Mavis isn't back in 'til Tuesday," the Imperial Door-Warden bleated.
The errand runners ignored him and hurried ahead to the throne room.
When the envoys themselves arrived at the throne room doors, the two escorts turned and crossed their halberds again. "Your Excellencies will wait to be admitted at the Emperor Elect's pleasure."
More footsteps approached. This pair did not even excuse themselves as they darted around the startled wardens and admitted themselves to the throne room, closing the doors behind them.
Teclis leaned close to Yrtle and whispered a question. "Was that a skink and kroxigor of Lustria?"
The High Mage shook his head vigorously. "They cannot be. The larger one appeared to be female, and Lustrians have no gender."
After another minute, the elves’ intolerable wait for an audience with the Emperor was disturbed by the approach of what sounded like a lynch mob. What approached was a collection of mostly old men waving their fingers and angrily accusing each other of heresy, religious atrocities, apostasy, proselytization and poor upbringing. The three elves were forced to leap aside or be trampled by the procession of religious animosity. The wardens also knew when they were beaten and wisely uncrossed their weapons to admit access to the throne room.
As the last of the queue jumpers reached the doorway, he turned and made eye contact with the elves. "Screw you and your whole bleeping race." he said before slamming the door in their faces.
The signaller and the troops on Altdorf's wall were all but hypnotized as they drank in their first view of elf-kind. The approaching trio were tall by human standards, and they made the simple task of walking look so sinuous and graceful that any human dancer would be put to shame. Their scale-and-plate armour was polished to a mirror finish and trimmed with gold. It protected their heads, shoulders and torsos but left their limbs unencumbered. They wore long swords at their waists, and each carried an ornate staff. Two elves walked side by side. They trailled swirling cloaks of gold and blue, were fair haired and radiated youthful vigour. The third elf followed a few steps behind, contrasting the others' appearance by having dark hair and an older appearance. His cloak was rich scarlet in colour.
The three glided to within ten paces of the gate and stopped. As the gate showed no signs of opening, the blue cloaked elf looked up and spoke in musical tones to the men above him. Although he made no apparent effort to project his voice, the words carried clearly to the signaller’s ears. The man gaped stupidly and nodded.
Another voice intruded. This one was as harsh and unpleasant as fighting crows. The signaller wished the elf would speak again, but the harsh voice grew more insistent.
"Signaller! What did he say?" Graf Mahrlecht bellowed from the inner court.
The glamour was broken. The signaller hurried back to the other side of the parapet and peered down at the anxious electors who were clustered together awaiting his report.
"There is a problem, sir. They said they would only treat with the Emperor. We had three emperors to choose from this morning. Who should be chosen now?”
"Mahrlect.” Several of the electors cursed aloud.
"Wait!" thundered Heimlich, Priest of Ulrik. He thrust his improvised banner into the hands of an unfortunate Captain of the Marienburg Citadel Guard and began counting on his fingers. When he arrived at a satisfactory number, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head towards Mahrlecht.
"Congratulations on your election, Emperor Mahrlecht, and with a clear majority of electoral votes, too. Now by the power vested in me, get your Majestic arse along to the Imperial Palace and look imperious."
"What?" spluttered Mahrlecht.
"What?" spluttered the remaining elector counts.
Heimlich leapt to his feet and propelled the Emperor Elect and his peers in the direction of the citadel. "Your Graces, you will need to fill out the throne room and look wise and resolute. When all is ready, signal the gate to open. Come along!"
Heimlich dragged the newly elected ruler along. The retinue of baffled Electors jogged behind.
"Another wild gambit, Mahrlecht?" Elector Arnulf grunted, "I've heard that elves do not suffer fools."
The Emperor Elect dug in his heels and stopped. "They do not suffer fools? Hmm." The two disguised lizardmen-flagellants were still trailing along. They were not looking for trouble, but recent history told Mahrlecht that they were rarely out of it. "Brothers Joe and Bob, I have a special mission for you. Go with one of my black companies and capture the Chaos coven you discovered last night. They are to be imprisoned in the Imperial Zoo cages, rather than the city lock-up. The red robes are not to know."
"Red Robes not to know? I was expecting you to say… Oh, I see. You may rely on us, captain, commander, umm…"
Mahrlecht cut Joe off mid-honorific. "Brothers, take your time. And Heimlich,"
The wolf priest raised his eyebrows and pointed at his own chest.
"Yes. You, Heimlich. Go with them. You know the brothers’ special... condition and the discretion that is required. Perhaps you can keep them and yourself out of mischief."
The Priest of Ulrik departed with the enthusiastic Brothers of Purity and the electoral party hurried towards the Imperial Palace.
Like usual, news travelled faster than seemed credible. Before the Emperor Elect had travelled half the length of Heldenhammer Grand Allee, citizens of Altdorf lined both sides of the triumphal way. They didn't cheer or shout for the new Emperor Elect. Instead they murmured quietly about the unexpected turn of events. One word was repeated often and could be heard clearly over the susurration – ‘Mahrlecht.’
It seemed somehow to be a discouraging start to potentially the shortest Imperial reign on record.
At the Imperial Palace itself, the Imperial Door-Warden was astonished by the thought of actually having a patron. However, he could not dispute the legitimacy of the Imperial election - eleven grim warriors stood impatiently before him, bearing the Runefangs which gave them the right to choose from among themselves.
The warden released his adjutant to guide the electors to the throne room, although he did feel some distress at sending the junior officer away. That action had reduced the strength of the Imperial Guard by fifty percent and left him no one to talk to.
His loneliness was cut mercifully short by the arrival of the entire combined command company of the state armies. Marshalls, generals, knights, batmen, squires and signal corps had all tagged along behind the Emperor Elect trying to look official and essential. One of them, the magnificently moustachioed First Marshal of Averland, felt the need to affirm his own relevance by giving some orders.
"Assign an honour guard of the Knights of the Order of the Black Bear to escort the envoys from the gate,” he barked at a lesser officer. Then he turned to the warden, "Go and run the Emperor's colours up the palace flag staff."
The ward snapped off a crisp salute. "Immediately, sir! Err, what are his colours, sir?"
The miserable Captain of Marienburg proffered the spear which had Heimlich's precious silk underhose fluttering from its tip. "I've been following him around with this. I gladly surrender it into your custodianship."
"I can't take that!" The warden shrank away from the improvised pennant with absolute horror on his face. "There is a protocol we must follow. You need to lower it while we all salute. Then you fold it the special way. Then I can take it."
The captain leant very close so that only the warden could hear his next words. "Take the filthy thing, or you will have your protocol and this spear rammed so far up your behind that the only way anyone will be able to see the Emperor's pennant will be if they look deep into your eyes."
The warden snapped another very quick salute before fleeing with the precious icon.
The warden’s adjutant scurried down the echoing marble hall with the electors. On the way he pointed out features of note, such as portraits, friezes and sculptuary. In amongst the commentary he apologized for the sparseness of the Imperial staff.
The staff was but a remnant of the glory of the Empire's heyday. The titular roles had become almost hereditary and many departments had shrunk to virtual non-viability. The Imperial Guard was now only composed of their young guide and ‘Papa.’ The title of Imperial Chef had been passed from father to son for fourteen generations. The current Imperial Astrologer was also the Imperial Herbalist and through lack of anyone else who had the time, Imperial Gardener.
Despite the Imperial functionaries being few in numbers, they had faithfully maintained the tradition and the dignity of their roles for eleven hundred years. They had kept the hearth fire burning for the inevitable return of Sigmar's heir.
Rapid introductions and explanations were made as the new electors found the ancient Imperial Herald and the Imperial Protocol Advisor playing draughts at a small table to one side of the high throne. The electors examined the twelve ancient granite thrones which lined both sides of the audience chamber, one for each province – including Drakwald which had been lost to the Empire a thousand years earlier. The Imperial throne itself was elevated on a dais at the end.
Emperor Elect Mahrlecht lowered himself gingerly onto the high throne. There was no thunderbolt or earthquake, but he did not feel at all comfortable on the God-Emperor’s throne. Holy Sigmar had probably never used a cushion in his entire earthly life.
Mahrlecht set to preparing for the delegation. "Herald, would you be so kind as to summon the Imperial Signals Officer."
To Mahrlecht’s surprise, the herald did not below the order down the hall way. Instead he marched over to the dais, pulled up a funnel ended speaking tube from the shadows beside it and bellowed into that. His powers of voice projection probably obviated the need for the sophisticated communications device, because he could be heard in every corner of the palace without assistance anyway. The signals officer arrived in less than a minute.
"What news from the gate?" demanded Mahrlecht.
"The elves remain. They have made no other demands."
"We have kept them waiting long enough. Signal the gate captain to admit them and have them brought to the citadel."
"At once, Sir." The signal officer turned on his heel.
"Adjutant.” Mahrlecht addressed the young warden.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Instruct… Papa to admit the envoys and escort them here."
The adjutant scurried away.
"Your Grace, if I may-" began the Imperial Protocol Advisor.
"Have you lost all decorum in the last three hundred years?” Elector Oswin of Westerland sneered. “That should be 'Your Imperial Majesty,' you dolt."
The advisor sniffed, "The Emperor Elect is properly referred to as 'his grace' until his rule is confirmed by the Imperial Religious Orders."
"Hmmph. It seems you will be 'Your Grace' for some time them, Mahrlecht.” Elector Arnulf was blunt, as always. "The Orders won't even stand in the same room, let alone agree on anything."
"Please,” the Emperor Elect smothered the conversation quickly. “Titles and confirmation are of no consequence at this time. We have a powerful army outside our gate. Their intentions are unknown but their posture is threatening. Our first priority must be to avoid more needless bloodshed this day. Furthermore, I have no interest in the squabbles of the Orders, nor in minutiae of court etiquette."
The three elves had been left waiting in the shadow of the Marienburg gate for what seemed to be the ideal length of time to indicate contempt. When the gate creaked open, they maintained their haughty posture as the gate captain crept reluctantly out to hail them.
"Sirs?" The trio did not even look at him. "Sirs, the Emperor Elect awaits you in the Imperial Citadel."
With that they were off, striding through the gate without uttering a single word of acknowledgement. They did not ask for directions to the citadel. Indeed the gold cloaked one had already seen the location of the palace from atop his dragon mount. The gate captain hurriedly stepped out of their path and, once they entered the city, their escort of knights-afoot needed to trot awkwardly to keep up with them.
The dark one glided a pace behind his fuming kinsmen with a mounting feeling of unease. "There is a pall of Chaos over the city,” he muttered.
"If the barbarians have already fallen to Chaos they will be of no use to us," the gold-clad elf pronounced. "As I told you from the outset, Teclis, this mission is futile.”
The dark haired elf spoke again, "but Lord Finreir, these people have not fallen, or at least not all of them. There is something else here, another power which balances the evil. It is not magic. What can the third power be? It eludes my insight.”
"Whether these humans have fallen or not, we have won no friends this day," the blue cloaked elf stated without apparent concern.
"Why do you say so, Lord Yrtle? I sense no peculiar hostility. These people seem curious, or expectant."
"No peculiar hostility?" Finreir scoffed. "The Masters of Hoeth put too much emphasis on using mystic insight. Use your ears instead, child."
The citizens of Altdorf lined both sides of the triumphal way, murmuring quietly among themselves. Two words were repeated often and could be heard clearly over the susurration - The first was 'elves'. The second was 'mahrlect’.
"That is... quite offensive." Teclis observed. The trio ran the rest of the gauntlet of profanity in silence.
At the doors of the Imperial Citadel the three elves found their way barred by crossed halberds.
"Who seeks audience with the Emperor Elect?" boomed the Imperial Door-Ward.
Finreir favoured him with a withering glare. "Dragon Mage Finreir of Caledor, High Mage Yrtle of Eataine and Mage Teclis of Hoeth."
A messenger boy ran ahead to relay the titles to the herald. When he had a good head start, the halberds were uncrossed and the wardens marched down the echoing hallway at a stately pace. The mage lords fell into step behind them.
The Pearl of Imperial architecture it may have been, but the Imperial Citadel held no interest for them. Even their meanest dwelling seemed to have more elegance than this dim, squat monstrosity. The lack of natural light served only to darken Finreir's uncharitable thoughts, if that were possible. There was a patter of feet behind the elves, but they were too dignified to turn.
"Excuse us, if you would, Your... Elfishnesses. Imperial Business - very important!" Three figures pushed past.
One wore a tattered wolf skin, the others wore grey hooded cloaks which trailed muddy hems on the polished marble of the floor.
"Oi! You'll have to clean that up yourselves - Mavis isn't back in 'til Tuesday," the Imperial Door-Warden bleated.
The errand runners ignored him and hurried ahead to the throne room.
When the envoys themselves arrived at the throne room doors, the two escorts turned and crossed their halberds again. "Your Excellencies will wait to be admitted at the Emperor Elect's pleasure."
More footsteps approached. This pair did not even excuse themselves as they darted around the startled wardens and admitted themselves to the throne room, closing the doors behind them.
Teclis leaned close to Yrtle and whispered a question. "Was that a skink and kroxigor of Lustria?"
The High Mage shook his head vigorously. "They cannot be. The larger one appeared to be female, and Lustrians have no gender."
After another minute, the elves’ intolerable wait for an audience with the Emperor was disturbed by the approach of what sounded like a lynch mob. What approached was a collection of mostly old men waving their fingers and angrily accusing each other of heresy, religious atrocities, apostasy, proselytization and poor upbringing. The three elves were forced to leap aside or be trampled by the procession of religious animosity. The wardens also knew when they were beaten and wisely uncrossed their weapons to admit access to the throne room.
As the last of the queue jumpers reached the doorway, he turned and made eye contact with the elves. "Screw you and your whole bleeping race." he said before slamming the door in their faces.
