Your small lap dog yaps at the soldiers in their camps. You keep the creature in your arms, nestled against your Aramis Doublet, lest it be trampled by inconsiderate feet.
You search amongst the camps, your entourage at your heels. You must find the general and speak your mind. As the lord of this land you have been the one who has paid for the soldier’s food and given them this space for their tents. Your flower garden, however, is now in shambles. Surely something can be done about that.
|Maintenance:||Delicates wash only. Do not tumble dry.|