Shed your mortal skin and let me take you beneath the waves.
There are stranger things here than Thebans know about.
Order is its own reward.
Proof of war, when it comes, always comes too late.
Keep your enemies at a distance, your partners close at hand.
And what do the Theban hoplites see in this extended rending of the sky, this white-bright glory of Enlil's lightning? The future, but not theirs: paired cavalry fighters; formed ranks of armored death; grim men on their tall horses with lightning limning weapons tailored to the task; men spoiling for a fight if the gods allowed - the Sacred Band of Stepsons, out from shadows and the dark.
You count up your dead, every one. Always. Recall them, each and all - every face, every heart.
What wastrel mankind destroyed takes time for nature to put to rights.
Survival has its own etiquette.
All gods are tricksters, and war gods worst of any.
War is all and king of all
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."
Painful things are quickly forgotten.
Ask yourselves if the gods are angry, you who have seen Harmony come among us, walk among us, touch us, look kindly upon us. We are the Sacred Band of Thebes. We fight in the forefront, therefore we bleed first. We live, therefore we die.
Gods have bloody hands.
Use him wisely. Few have been given such a weapon by the gods or Fates before.
If, as Niko asks, you show them mercy, then the gods will be well pleased.
Gods are nothing without their worshipers; they act on the affairs and the passions of men.
The two stallions, the silver and the black, represent the equine god (whomsoever horses pray to) in this ritual so ancient that no one knows what god to thank.
Arrows are cheap; you're expensive.
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.
Live to fight on other days.
In this new world, this day and forever, then, we are not only Thebans - we are all Stepsons. We are all one Sacred Band. If you will have us. And mine will fight by yours, henceforth, as brothers.
If you want to write something completely unique, you will probably fail or at best write something without redeeming value. The mind works in certain patterns: the mind organizes facts in story form; it is your commonality with that body of human thought that makes a good book, not its estrangement from the common values that humans share.
Wars don't bring lasting peace, only lasting death.
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