Gods have bloody hands.

I can start the rain. Bring thunder. Bring lightning. Want to see?

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.

I think we're all in Cime's army now. But never mind, the Storm God hasn't forgotten us. Heaven is no farther away than it ever was.

Tempus would be protected, better shielded from whatever the Stepson thought threatening, if love could heal and save.

Gods are nothing without their worshipers; they act on the affairs and the passions of men.

Survival has its own etiquette.