A uniformed soldier (of modest rank) in battle-hardened armor leans against the Malkier gate column and mutters to his companion, "Sometime soon - by my calculations - some trollocs may fling themselves at our gates. We will extinguish their torches and lop off their heads, as we always do. If you find a pile of well dressings, dibs - I could use some new pajamans."
A far-off bellman bellowed.