Such a strange stillness, this respite. A weary breath after a month of campaigning. Is it peace I hear? No, it is but a rest, a chance to let trembling arms calm, to let the hoarse voice heal, and to apply ointments and salves. It is a time to study the map and devise new strategies and visit your woman and kin, but still do not let your guard down, they are still there.
In this time, be most concerned of men who claim they are of peace and brotherhood who break the bell on their bell on their first strike. Is that not a sign that their words and deeds ring false? Is it not true, that their cabinets are bare, their fingers lack rings, and they are envious of our lot? Have we not offered them a chance to sup with us and cheer with us and share in our glory only to watch them Dirty our Waters, or trade ill with us.
No, I do not trust this peace to last, not at all and I fear that we must stay Hail. Will you let your spears grow dull as the enemy creeps upon you? Will you let them into your house to beat your children and your dogs? Do you meekly accept their boasting of being the chosen men of Dreams when in all their history they have fled the moment when it was upon them?
Perhaps, I am too harsh, for I remember a season must dire where they invaded our fields and routed our men, leaving them bloodied and dying. Where they defiled our flag and barely anyone did dare stand against them. And, as unloved as they are for even they do not love themselves and must build cages to hold their own in their own homes. Yes, a court and a gaol in their own house because their lot is so without rule, order, and sanity or love... and yes, they have hired the meanest of mercenaries... so, I can understand why you would chose to cower, to flee, to stay silent and hope you are not counted.
Still, I ask will you be hail? To hail or not to hail? That is the question, even in this day of rest.
I do still hear the echoes of men flung into the ground and Rams being sacrificed as burnt offerings. The pounding of the drum
Aye, worthy burgold. As we speak the armies of the false ones are sore-pressed in a battle with the warriors from the North, themselves once meek and cowardly and now having found strength-of-arms and new courage and filled with the blood-lust of successful ambush having thrice conquered once feared armies with surprise and guile. The false-ones of non-brotherhood may suffer yet another ignominious defeat. Will they slink back into their halls dispirited and without hope or seek vengeance upon an army they swept away with ease a twelvemonth hence?
Let us take heed of our own new found strength and skill and not quaver in fear but with stout heart and unwavering mettle cast aside their armies, unseat Sir Michael from his steed and with unflinching boldness drive them into headlong flight in disarray.
__________________ Saying that you're a nice guy is like a restaurant whose only selling point is that the food doesn't make you sick. Be useful.
Indeed and hail to the noble buffalo and even the hawks of the sea as they gnaw on the carcasses of giants and the brotherhood. But, my friends we must be on our most serious guard for the bloodied and wounded beast is the most dangerous of all.
What's he that wishes so?
My Skins-brethren Servumtuum? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to lose, we are enow
To do our City loss; and if to win,
The fewer fans, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one fan more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet victory,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from Washington DC.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Servumtuum, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not lose in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to lose with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Igglesmuerte.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Igglesmuerte.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Igglesmuerte.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Igglesmuerte day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Mike the King, Grossman and Kerrigan,
Orakpo and Moss, Hightower and Cooley -
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Iggles Iggles shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of Redskin brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his BGO blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in DC now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Igglesmuerte day.