Pompey Latro is the sort of Cane Corso who is stitched out of patience, weight, and a stubborn fairness. Friends learned long ago not to interrupt Pompey Latro near the flooded market halls, especially with a broken phone shaped like a bar of soap in hand. When Pompey Latro sits down anywhere near the swamp shrine, conversation reorganises itself politely around them. The old soup stalls have heard most of Pompey Latro's theories and politely keep them to themselves.