How incredibly convenient thought Wisenwald to himself. He had correctly calculated the highest density of the Eastern Vassal forces in the area, and forthwith made a direct path towards them. Truly, he thought, life would be much harder if he wasn't so incredibly intelligent. He makes a mental note to donate to the local orphanage/school/fishery that he's heard so much about. Yes, a midsized donation could decrease the average difficulty of life for each of the children by roughly 8% over the course of six decades if put towards the library/descaling station. Yes, that's what he'll do. Invest in the future of the children so they need not be burdened with such weights as stupidity. You know, I think that one pub, the one down by the pits, but not the smelly pits, the good pits, probably gets its fish fry fish from that orphanage. It's always so crispy, he thought, yet somehow their chips are soggy. They both go in the same cauldron, so there must be an explanation for the stark contrast in crispification outside the fact that their oil is 2.7 degrees too hot, he mused quietly to himself. Perhaps it's a density issue, or a lack of permeability on the part of those imported spuds from the South, always an inferior product those spuds, low soil acidity surely. Perhaps if he wrote a letter outlining proper lye distribution techniques through the irrigation lines...
Wisenwald will mindlessly walk by the ambush, mumbling incoherently about orphanages, proper oil temperature, and other such topics to himself like a madman.