Elder Cruyff paced with hands behind his back, curiously gazing at a massive oil painting hanging on the north wall of the city hall's main hall.
The painting depicted a sea of begonia flowers, red as blazing fire, with buds plump and about to drip, showcasing a beauty asleep amongst the flowers; the brushwork was commendable, and the use of colors was peerlessly elegant.
Flanking the oil painting were two hanging giant silk scroll screens, inscribed with two lines of solemn, bold, and vigorous ancient script:
Does the tender chill lock away the orcs' dreams, because spring is too cold?
Does the intoxicating scent of flowers assault the sturdy dwarves, perhaps wishing to transform into the aroma of malt wine?
