These warriors of the Sacred Band were inscrutable; they loved their war and death and picking through the bones of time to sort out right from wrong, good from bad, holy from profane, honor from dishonor.

Nature has a surer plan than mortals can devise.

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

What would the world be without him, and those like him?

Survival's the thing, isn't it?

Haste breeds error; error breeds woe.

When you give death, you give of your own life - every time.