Kalam let his eyes drift toward the color show on the horizon, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. On a plate too close to his chin, the after math of a war with mustard-based barbecue lay in stray crumbs and spilled sauce. "How can we get Kesh to stop talking?"
"It's easy. You just close his mouth," replied one of his wise wives.
"Right," the old sneak replied as he washed down the scent of pork with a barley-heavy beer. "If only. And how do we make the more eloquent Kesh be quiet?"
"The same way, but it looks like someone already did it. Also, I think the second Kesh calls himself 'DAH-ROO-VEE-UHN'."
"You're right as always, my dear. Come, let's finish this wondrous meal the way it needs to be finished. With a buttermilk pie! We need to share this recipe with our friends, who this second Kesh insists are our vassals. We don't have vassals, do we?"
"No, but if you get fat, someone's going to be sleeping on the couch."
"If I get fat, and all our soldiers get fat, we will crush our enemies and..." Kalam licked his lips. "...maybe we can even eat them after we're done sacking their castles."