This fight coming is not a battle of weapons, but a battle of wills.
Order is its own reward.
Reasons never matter, once Death comes cold and bold and takes the living by the hand. You count up your dead, every one.
Wanting neither too much to live, nor too much to die.
Such hubris could only come from a man's mouth.
I see ranks ready for battle, stretching out. Five, six horses across, ranks in formation. Endlessly.