Holy Sir Nicolas sat on the steps of Reinmar Keep, helm at his feet, his faced slick with sweat, armor oil, and tears. His warhammer, Verum, lay against the brick. Deep breaths in. Deep breaths out. At times, he looked up to the heavens. At other times, his head hung limply, staring into the dirt. GOD was always listening, always there to hear the prayers of men.   "None of today made sense. None of it. Not the anger of the crowd, none of it. To believe that His Holiness is a Pretender