“Some poor sod who blew up a portion of the docklands at Blackport. I say poor sod because I am… not sure about him.” Handy thought back at the poor wretch, whose screaming form tore the sky asunder, ripped streets from the earth, threw ponies around like matchsticks, incapacitating bodies and crippling the souls of all and sundry except for him. “I don’t think he was a warlock.”