It is easy to believe the Bane's words.

It is easy, for he speaks of what all have been thinking — of the humiliation, of the starvation, of the plague and the pups lying dead and broken. How many of you lost pups? And how many of you still call yourselves parents? And the hatred that has simmered grows. It grows and it sparks, threatening to burst aflame. Many dragged their thin hides, still marred by plague scars, across many miles on tired feet to listen to his speech. They are so weary. They had so little hope.

But he brings promises. He brings promises of retribution. Promises of justice for the death, the shrunken bellies, the screaming pups (from hunger, from pain, from hopelessness) and the pups that no longer can scream. And more than that, he brings an enemy. And if there is an enemy, then this will be made right after all.

The nibblers found the plague. He says it so matter-of-factly that it is hardly possible to argue with him. His tongue runs smooth and his words flow with no hindrance. It is only sensible to agree with him, for he brings an answer where there had been none. He brings a reason for their suffering. And those that agree not, those that find themselves wide-eyed with disgust or disbelief, are swallowed by the shouts of those who assent. Yes, so many had come here broken and beaten, with weary eyes and lingering coughs, pupless and worthless. But they have risen. He has risen them from the depths. He has given them a reason to live, a reason to fight, a reason. Be he right about the nibblers? And does it matter?