Matt Dovey

"For Christ's... no, not knitted booties. Chain-sandwiched-between-thick-leather booties. What in good hell's use would knitted booties be?"

A hard man was Ralph Strang, seventh Earl of Beden, seventy years of age on his last birthday, but still upright as a dart, with hair white as snow, but with the devilry of youth still sparkling in his keen dark eyes. He was, indeed, able to follow the hounds with the best of us, and there were few men, even among the youngest and most hot-headed of our riders, who cared to follow him over all the jumps he put his horse at.

The Thin White Duke grips the Motorhead's shoulders, grinning askance, a twinkle in his mismatched eyes. “They will learn. Their fear and anger is the worst of them; let us take the very best of them, their art and their passion and their creativity! We can show them how to live as their true selves, and how to accept others for their true selves. We will make them ready!”