“Careful, Willaim,” spoke the man-at-arms waiting by the door to my father’s chambers, “that is from Rome, and expensive at that.” The guard resumed his rigid stance, hand on hilt, hand on spear, by the portal. My hand carefully swept across the beautiful glass dining table, something of a masterpiece in itself. Any sort of glass was hard to obtain, even for the church, and yet here it was, under my father’s care and ownership. The glass dining table had four curved legs, the pads like those of lions with the tips of claws peeking from the toes. The image of our Lord and Savior etched on the surface, in fine detail, and words at the bottom. My eyes expected Latin, but what I read was strange and not of any language I had seen before. It burned my eyes, my mind, just to gaze upon the characters so carefully etched.
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