Every man heals himself.

Every man's in his own hands, with a little help from his brothers.

Gather the shards of your courage. Patch together what resolve you can. We'll find this thing - and kill it.

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

Your honor blinds you, Tempus, to what's right and wrong these days.

Only from chaos does order come. The angry Fates bring death where they will, when war is king, says Enlil, storm god of the armies, and the tip of his crown rends the clouds above their heads. "Wheresoever I rule, death comes shambling after. So it has always been, is, and will be."

Strife brings all things into being on her battlefield. This I know. I have been there many times," says Vashanka, lord of sack and pillage. "I have died before.