Wisdom, Niko thought as he leaned his cheek against his long-handled rake, cannot be had without price. And that price is blood. The sound of it in your veins. The pound of it in your head. The volume of it in a human body; the sickness when you've spilled it.

Death is a doorway, Niko, that leads to an adventure greater than any you have ever known.

You count up your dead, every one. Always. Recall them, each and all - every face, every heart.

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.

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

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

‎For Tempus...was a dozen storm gods' avatar; no army he sanctified could know defeat; no war he fought could not be won. Combat was life to him; he fought like the gods themselves.