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Member Since: 05/07/12
Membership status: Member
A lone pale rider
A young man dead in his heart
Never heeded their words
We are all sinners in the hands of an angry God.
War, an old friend, one to which I am familiar, one to which our adversaries the Roman "civils" have dedicated a god to. My father, once told me, on a battlefield in Spain, gods favor he who favors himself. I commend he brothers, mothers, I ask ye do you wish to live under Roman heel and crop? Nay take up thine swords and spear, I with my elephants, twenty and seventeen, shall march to Rome, will ye join me?
Yes, Rome is far, unless we use ships, but Carthage has few, and ye have none, so we shall march across the Alps if needs be, but yea I shall raise Rome even to the foundation, and set the land ablaze.
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