A storm is coming.
And with it death upon frozen wind.
Storm certain, yes.
Yet not its hour...
You would move to fuck, with Rome's might breathing upon our necks?
If I for afterlife,
I take memory of your cock inside me.
Let us turn thought from ourselves, and see them towards deeper needs.
Your words sound as Spartacus.
They are my own.
Heed them as you will.
You traitorous fuck!
Donar, Nemetes and hundreds of our brothers lay dead in the city.
Yet you take fucking meal!
Gratitude.
Your stew was turning stomach.
Fucking Cilician shit!
Brictius!
Fall from fucking sight.
If you were not Agron's boy, you would stand as bloodied for shielding this little cunt.
Place Agron from thought, if you believe your cock of a size.
For such a little man you speak as if a Titan.
Do not move me to regret coming to aid.
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