They came in droves again, yesterday. Sunburnt, heathens. They twist and mangle their bodies whenever they bow to their gods, their idols, the Ancients. Too many mouths to feed. They only want alms. I'd send them back to the Kindlewastes. They won't fool me. I buried my treasure in the fenced lot underneath the small shelter, not far from here. They won't find it when it's hidden beneath the mud. Tonight, I'll sleep deeply.