kings in war

a god kneels before a roman knight, figure partly clenched and clawing to resemble the talon of a starved hawk. it talks to me through a plea that odes both salvation and abaddon, as it smears trails of promised blood down my promised trophies. to sit all knowledge, the future wars and past schemes, beneath chainmail was tempting. it could crush me into fractures if it wanted to, make me swallow my own swords, rituals a devotee would do of its own accord. but it is very unlikely, even a rolling die would hold no power. i found it bitter, but behind the helm, i am its only believer.