Never, Dear Gods. Never Mess With Mortals.

Not Even The Lichen Of The Tundra Is At Peace. All Is Struggle, All Is War For Dominance. Those Who Lose, Vanish. -and We’re No Different You’re Saying- We Are, Soldier. We Possess The Privilege Of Choice. The Gift Of Foresight. Though Often We Come Too Late In Acknowledging Responsibilities….

It Is An Extraordinary Act Of Courage,' Said Tulas Shorn, 'to Come To Know A Stranger's Pain.

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

If All We Seek Is An Escape, What Does That Say About The World We Live In? That Village, That City, That Life? We Are Desperate With Our Dreams. What - Oh, What - Does That Say?

None Could Guess My Confusion, My Host Of Deluded Illusions And Elusive Delusions! A Mantle Of Marble Hiding A Crumbling Core Of Sandstone. See How They Stare At Me, Wondering, All Wondering, At My Secret Wellspring Of Wisdom...' Let's Kill Him,' Crokus Muttered, 'if Only To Put Him Out Of Our Misery.