Twelve years and thousands of lives later, the war drums of the empire beat no more softly than they did when shifting face of the oligarchy was turned upon its own wounds. It is the heartbeat of the emperor: vain, ceaseless, changeless, and unwilling to go gently into the night and allow men to be free.
The noble, gods unto themselves, play games with the lives of lesser men, with pride their only prize. Honor and glory call the freemen to bind themselves and give their sword to those who would be kings. The thrall tend the fields, fighting for the whetstone, and so to be better slaves to their mighty lords.
The sun rises. The sun sets. Nothing changes.
The heartbeat calls ever for the minds, flesh, and souls of men. Is it any wonder we worship death above all else? For, being but men upon a cursed earth, where shall we find peace but in the house of God? We are uncertain, of course, for none of us know how to cut the runes and make the hanged man come down and talk to us of the hereafter.
I know not where we go, but for the men of peace, the men of self-will and determination, the men of love and passion, the men of artistry and creation, the freemen, I know this: our home is not here.