“But I’ve not got a hunger for E N D L E S S  B A T T L E.” And he was quite sure of that. One battle was more than enough for him. “I didn’t come to Sahar to kill any kings, and if any gods got maimed, [i]I[/i] never laid a finger on them.” You couldn’t tell, looking at these designs. Nothing so blasphemous as trophies from the gods - another basic rule of cinematography - but here a patch of wool bore the stains of the void, there another breathed Ares’ dizzying war-haze. These were rams who’d butted heads with the divine, and lived to tell the story of how it changed them.

Not a one of them would own a nice, wooly jumper either. Might not have ever even tried one, the poor souls.

“Is this how I looked, on the battlefield? Is any of this,” he gestures to the collection of hard-hitting sheep who didn’t play by the rules. “Did you really see that, in me?” An honest question, asked without thought of rank or decorum.