From Barris Quisling’s speech to the troops at the Second Battle of Celladoor.
“Sometimes, there are no words. It’s crass and it’s crude to say so out loud, but it’s true. When the shit hits the fan in a screaming, steaming shower of evil intent, there are no words. When the gates of hell open, and the Devil exercises his craft to bring the legions of the damned to bear upon your heels, there are no words. When you face the grinning skull of Death, armed with no more than the clothes you were born in, there are no words.
“I will not lie to you. We are facing certain death. Our God is dead, and the cursed scions of his brother stand to boil out of the ground at any moment, to take our homes, our families, our very lives. The mad god, Tod, will show no mercy to us today, no matter how well spoke we are when his army gets to us. Words will not help us against him. But words are not the only way to speak. Lest we become hidebound, let me remind you all that we speak in a million ways that do not need words.
“We smile and nod in the street. We point to what we want on the market stall when the chatter blinds our ears. We look solemn and serious for the women we would marry, and we wink at the women we would bed. We grin and make faces to our children and our grandchildren. We shrug or shake our head to make our discontent known.
“And so, without words, we speak. Without words we smile back at the Reaper’s rictus, and whistle a merry tune. Without words, we stand fact, planted in the soil at the Gates of Hell, and roar our defiance at the oncoming infernal horde. Without words, we slog forward, reclaiming the foundations of our lives from the swamps of scattered effluent.
“Our words are our history and our culture. Our words are the gifts we give our children, but we are not our words. We are the Sons of Dione, and even without his golden words, we will stand fast, tethered by the spirit of those words. Look to your maces, men. Look to the letters carved into the haft. Letters worn smooth under your hands, and the hands of countless men before you. “My voice is strength, and my word is law.” The words of Dione, on the creation of the House itself.
“Those words come from the foundation of the universe. Those words are what we fight for here today. And if we win, they will hail us as heroes, for we have done the impossible, and defeated a god. And if we lose, those poor, pallid bastards we’re fighting against will pass on the story of the fiercest band of mother-fuckers they ever fought, to their children and their grandchildren, and we will live forever. Whatever happens, here, now, we will live forever. Our voice is strength; our words are law. Remember Brakespeare. He was killed at the hands of the Vineleut, but he would have said this to you: “Go out there, and show them the colour of their blood. And try to avoid seeing the colour of your own.”