It sates itself on the life-blood of fated men, paints red the powers’ homes with crimson gore. Black become the sun’s beams in the summers that follow, weathers all treacherous. Do you still seek to know? And what?


Brothers will fight and kill each other, sisters’ children will defile kinship. It is harsh in the world, whoredom rife — an axe age, a sword age — shields are riven — a wind age, a wolf age — before the world goes headlong. No man will have mercy on another.

Song of the North

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