Only the Saint himself, Mark Broughton, could console them. The Saint bore a mysterious banner tied up and held in reverence. Rumors were floating on the winds of whispered words that the work Mark held was none other than a holy work. A holy work that was commissioned by the Saint to commemorate a great victory of Douglas', a victory that to took place on that very soil where they all stood now.
An unrequested silence took hold of the crowd as Mark stepped up to address us. Not a single cough, nor mutter heard as he spoke, and speak he did. Lord Broughton had a way of speaking that reached the back of a room easily, yet caressed the front row with intimacy. The greatest of remembrancer dare not cannibalize such graceful oratory with apathetic verbatim(and so I will not). At the end, Mark untied the giant banner and held it aloft. Tears streamed and children beamed with intensity as grown men sobbed or screamed in ectasy. The glory the banner depicted and the sheer artisan with which the banner was created was overwhelming. A man, who seemed both worthy and humble, stepped forward to fasten the banner onto the wall. That was when the crowd's emotion climaxed and spontaneous singing erupted, along with blood lusting and the orgies. Sacrifices were later made(of all types) to appease the Pantheon and / or the Emperor and beseech divine approval.