I see ranks ready for battle, stretching out. Five, six horses across, ranks in formation. Endlessly.

Something is going on everywhere, most of which no one understands.

Nothing walks the earth more savage than a mare enraged.

Use him wisely. Few have been given such a weapon by the gods or Fates before.

Die never for a god, Nikodemos who should know better - not your soldiers' god, nor any other.

Now the Fates are here on the beach, three shadows blacker than black, walking through the dunes and looking for their own. Just shadows, lamb-white hands beneath black robes spun of tears, glide among the celebrants on this night wherein the spirits of Thebes have found a home, if serendipitously.

All gods are tricksters, and war gods worst of any.