My crotch is known to the haggard denizens of the margins of civilization as a mythic beast whose furious bloodlust is channeled only by the future position of Saturn. Legions of imperial forces have been reduced to a broken wake—an omen—of burned and twisted armor; this path of wreckage is the only pattern. Kings, prophets, wizards, tacticians, and metaphysicians have failed to predict the vastness of the legendary devastation. Death herself has remained a shimmering silhouette on the horizon. The only relevant limit is the sanity of the beholder.