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For the instrument of government is not the ballot, but the bayonet. The sempiternal dominion of Empire presides over one quarter of the orb of the world; her colonies span beneath the path of the sun. The bastion of order and civilisation to one; indurated tyranny and ruin to another. A solis ortu usque ad occasum.
She goes not abroad, in search of monsters to destroy... a laughing child sings, chasing a trundle wheel toy.
After the Old Armistice, they say there are no monsters to be found in this land. No one remembers them anymore.
This is the age of great motion within the soul of mankind, where reasoning appears only afterward, in that cavern of darkness the mind. The sheer utterance of Life, of which men are mere happenstance; how Empire imitates her eternal gestures, as they live once more, fulfilled in memory. Perhaps this history is an interruption of nature. To which does the soul belong?
In this Empire, all Engelond is made vassal.