The Monument
The Monuments
Have you the strength to spear a spine, and will you ladle blood pudding into the Battle Queen’s bosom, under contract that ye shall taste sudden death, and then feast with the gods, not terribly mamed, nor returned to pander for P’sy in the proximity of pathetic peasants?
It was their use of technology which over ran you. They merely hid behind their gods.
Weapons of war become ancient, but recidivism of rogues replenishes rage.
Your kid comes home with a year book, bearing a William Bedford page.
If Bedford were alive, he’d be chopping your kid’s heads off, not signing their yearbooks.
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