• Bleeding, fainting, cleaving, tearing
    --Clashes in that savage country, where flowers bleed and where moonlight stains sweaty faces.

    Screaming, gasping, collapsing, and convulsing
    --The troop of San Marque has left behind our city, which, like a sleeping child dreams, and makes nightmares into fantasies, to search for glory among falling leaves--the dying groves of Locrea, while we gorge ourselves with plump fruit and
    Men die with heavy blows.

    Have we forgotten our oaths--what I have engraved in my skin: All must dare to fly towards the dangers we fear the most:

    I'd rather die with a sword in my chest, than live with cowardice.

    Farewell, San Marque.