For Trog's sake, gentlemen, the chaos spawn hurl themselves against our walls, and all we can do is tailor the thread on our tattered banner? The Temple is all that stands between every @ on this planet and an unstoppable wave of %, and we wield platitudes as though they were +2 broadswords! We choose who has fought well and who weakly, awarding medals and threatening court-marshals, but who shall wear the medals when all heroes are dead? Who shall suffer the court-marshals when the courts of chaos ply our souls? Who shall tailor the golden edges of our banner when it lies beneath a sea of brown jellies?