Battle Prose: The finale, for-now-le
Thilmann had always sneered at apocalyptic portents. Comfort blankets, he thought. The warming wool of fire and brimstone and an end to all that is and will ever be, pulled up over arrogant fools, shivering from just having come to terms with their own mortality, afeared they’d miss out on the important parts. It is the ultimate comfort, he always said, to believe that you’ll tie with creation at the finish line, celestial mechanisms sputtering out in time with your own squishy innards. And yet, he could not help himself sensing finality on the wind. Louder even, it seemed, than the goading arena crowd about them.
