It's no different from warring villages out in the wilds, strike the Shepard and thy sheep will scatter. Raspberry colored terraces and grass verges, their ghosts and bones will live in wells and among the forest mist forever. Our faces painted white, theirs are black with soot and death, do not rush.
It's the cruelty of the wolf, ordained by the Machiavellian Queen, spare not thy flock, you spy the young or elderly, the pawns and the rook, redden the blade, drink their blood, fangs gnashing, eyes glow afire.
I have never lost.