There are times, Sember, when I could believe your mother had a secret lover. Looking at you makes me wonder if it was one of my goats.

Every little bit of good I may do, let me do it now for I may not come this way again.

Our souls are but leaves in a storm, and only the gods know where we will come to rest.

I make little distinction between those who commit evil and those who stand by and do nothing.

Nothing of real worth can ever be bought. Love, friendship, honour, valour, respect. All these things have to be earned.

I may be stupid, as you say, to believe in honour and friendship and loyalty without price. But these are virtues to be cherished, for without them we are no more than beasts roaming the land.

Societies need heroes. So we travel to places where the revisionists cannot dismantle the great.