Jehan takes the phone. "Sublime," he says. Marguerite, looking down at the screen from Jehan's shoulder, mews her agreement. The dull-faced corpses, desecrated and turned into puppets by this Sorcerer King's wickedness, fading away before glowing steel wielded by an implacable Enjolras, and the determined villagers. It's the stuff of poems and paintings. "Do you have a picture of the villagers, or the Sorcerer King?"