Rereading the summary of one of Moenghus' quotes (along with FB's recent post) makes me wonder if the Gods are unable to inhabit the Cishaurim as they can non-Cishaurim...

Esmenet dreamed that she was a prince, an angel fallen from the dark, that her heart had beaten, her loins had ached, for tens of thousands of years.  She dreamed that Kellhus stood before her, an outrage to be blotted, an enigma to be dissected, and above all a burning question...
Who are the Dunyain?

Ever since reading The Sagas, a foreboding had grown within her, an accumulation that had filled her heart and limbs with a sense of rolling heaviness.  The night in the Nansur villa - the night of her possession - had stained this listless dread with a bewildering urgency. Every time she blinked, she saw things penetrated and penetrating. She could still feel the creature's hands upon her flesh, and the memory of her obedient lust seemed ever present. The hunger she had suffered that night!  A thirst that only terror could touch, and that no horror could slake.  At once bestial and remote, it had been a wantonness that eclipsed obscenity.. and become something pure.
The Inchoroi had taken her, but the want, the insatiable desire... those had been hers.
Of course, Kellhus had tried to console her, even as he plied her with endless questions.  He said much the same thing that Achamian had said when explaining Xinemus' torment: that the self never stood apart when one was compelled, because it was the very thing possessed. "You can't distinguish yourself from him", Kellhus explained, "because for a time he was you.  That's why he tried to provoke me into killing you, because he feared the memories you might have of his memories".
"But the things!" she could only reply. "The things I ached for!"  Grimacing faces.  Grinning orifices and gaping wounds.  The rush of hot fluids.
"Those desires weren't yours, Esmi.  They only seemed to be yours because you couldn't see where they came from...  You simply suffered them".
"But then, how does any desire belong to me?"

..Though she had always detested the brutality that her new station had forced upon her, the thought of his screams thrilled her for some reason.  Scenarios roiled through her thoughts, and though she knew they were both petty and absurd, she exulted in them nonetheless.
What was it? Her shame?  His smirk?  Or the mere fact that she could do these things?
I am she breathlessly thought, his vessel.

No matter where they turned, men found themselves encircled by greater things.  Usually they ignored them.  And sometimes, moved by pride and base hunger, they warred against them.  But either way, those things remained just as great, and men, no matter how lunatic their conceit, remained just as small.  Only be kneeling, by offering themselves as one might offer the haft of a weapon, could men recognise their place in this world.  Only by submitting could they recognise themselves.
There was rapture in submission. The vulnerability of another towering overhead - precarious, like letting a stranger touch one's face.  The sense of profound communing, as though only those who acknowledged their insignificance could themselves be acknowledged.  The relief of surrender, the disburdening that accompanied the yielding of responsibility.
The paradoxical sense of licence.
The nattering voices fell silent.  The exhaustion of endless posturing melted away.  She found it narcotic, even arousing... the domination of another.

"Fear for the future, Esmi, not me".  Fingers combed through her hair, drew tingling lines across her scalp.  "This flesh is but my shadow".

"I know you can hear me", he said to the world, dark and sacred.  "I know that you listen"...

..."What was I to do? Tell them the truth?"...

...He ran.  Not once did he stumble, nor did he slow to determine his bearings.  The ground was his... Conditioned.
Everywhere, all about him, one world.  The crossings were infinite, but they were not equal.
They were not equal.

Through endless dark they had climbed, higher and higher, knowing that sooner or later the emptiness had to yield to horrors.  It began with raining waste: urine, excrement, trailing from seams, spilling in skirts they had to leap through.  They passed wells that had once been corridors, where streams of slurry toppled down into endless dark.  They circled great pits of rotting flesh, where corpses - some fetal and malformed, others full-grown - had been thrown from unknown heights.  And once, they had even crossed a lake filled with brackish water - what must have been the accumulation of thousands of years of rain.
They had wept for relief while bathing.  It was no mean thing to be cleansing in such a place.

A city.  Thy found themselves staring across a city. The steaming hart of Golgotterath.
He should be awake!
A cavernous void opened before them.  It reminded Seswatha of a ship's ribbed hold, though pitched on its end, and far too vast to truly resemble any work of Men.  Sheer golden faces reared into obscurity, hazed by the smoke of countless fires.  Structures of mortise and hacked stone climbed their foundation, crusting their sides like stacked hornets' nests, not dwellings but open cells, squalid and innumerable.  It all would have looked like something revealed by low tide were it not for the fires and the figures teeming like mites across it.  Lumbering files of Bashrag.  Gibbering masses of Sranc.  And among them, human captives, untold numbers of them, some shackled to sledges in great groaning trains, others scattered across the open-air harems of their captors, gagging beneath convulsing shadows, their mouths working, their eyes rolled up to the dark, pink and naked and bloodied, countless men, women and children.  The bodies of the Broken choked the alleys below.
He should be awake...

... Circles of blood had been painted across the flattened grasses...

The bizarre terror of awakening to a mortal threat: a pang wrapped round with a sluggish incredulity, as though something deep believed he slept.  Like a knife probing wool.
"Scylvendi!"...

"The truth of him"

"You know nothing!" the barbarian snarled.  "Nothing!  Only what he has let you know."  He spat in the corner next to Achamian's uncovered feet, wiped his lips with the hand holding his Chorae.  "The same as all his slaves".
"I'm no sla-"
"But you are!  In his presence all men are slaves, sorceror".  With the Chorae clutched tight in his fist, the fist Scylvendi leaned back to sit cross-legged.  "He is Dunyain".
Never had Achamian heard such shaking hate in a word, and the world was filled with such epithets: Scylvendi, Consult, Fanim, Cishaurim, Mog-Pharau... It sometimes seemed there were as many hatreds as there were names.
"That word", Achamian said carefully, "'Dunyain'... it simply means 'truth' in a dead tongue".
"The tongue is not dead", Cnaiur snapped, "and the word no longer means 'truth'."
Achamian recalled that first meeting outside Momemn, the Scylvendi standing proud and savage before Proyas, while Kellhus had held Serwe amid Xinemus' knights.  he hadn't believed Cnaiur then, but the revelation of Kellhus and his name, Anasurimbor, had overturned all his suspicions.  What was it Kellhus had said?  That the Scylvendi had accepted his wager?  Yes, and that he had dreamed of the Holy War from afar...
"What you told us," Achamian said, glimpsing the sheen of teeth, "that first day with Proyas... you lied".

"You think Kellhus was sent," the Scylvendi said in a hollow voice, "when he was summoned.  You think he is unique, when he is but one of a number.  You think he is a saviour, when is nothing more than a slaver".

"Shame!  Wutrim kut mi'puru kamuir!  I could not stop thinking!  I could not stop thinking!  I laid eyes upon my degradation, I understood, and I stamped my heart with that understanding!"
Without realising, Achamian wrung finger against finger, joint.  There was the Scylvendi's shadow and the pit that was his Chorae.  Nothing else existed.
"He was intellect.. He was war!  That is what they are!  Do you not see?  With every heartbeat they war against circumstance, with every breath they conquer!  They walk among us as we walk among dogs, and we yowl when they throw out scraps, we whine and whimper when they raise their hands...
"They make us love!  They make us love!

He knew the Scylvendi meant to kill him, his final, greatest student.  He knew what the two shadows behind the barbarian had been.  As they exited his tent, he had seen her face in a shaft of moonlight, as perfect as that night it had swayed and moaned above him.  Serwe...
You gave him up.  The Warrior-Prophet... You told the barbarian where he goes!
Because he lies!  He steals what is ours!  What is mine!
But the world!  The world!
Fie on the world!  Let it burn!

Her name he connected last of all, for he knew she needed Shimeh more than any other - save perhaps himself.  Once the black thread was drawn tight, he returned the tip of his quill and drew it out once more.  And again. And again.  And again.  Quicker and quicker.  Until he slashed the vellum sheet in a frenzy.  Cut after cut after cut-
For he was sure that his quill had become a knife...
And that flesh lay beneath the tattooed skin.

Faith, they say, is simply hope confused for knowledge. Why believe when hope alone is enough.
- CRATIANAS, NILNAMESHI LORE

Ajencis, in the end, argued that ignorance was the only absolute.  According to Parcis, he would tell his students that he knew only that he knew more than when he was an infant.  This comparative assertion was the only nail, he would say, to which one could tie the carpenter-string of knowledge.  This has come down to us as the famed 'Ajencian Nail', and it is the only thing that prevented the Great Kyranean from falling into the tail-chasing scepticism of Nirsolfa, or the embarrassing dogmatism of well-nigh every philosopher and theologian who ever dared scratch ink across parchment.
But even this metaphor, 'nail', is faulty, a result of what happens when we confuse our notation with hat is noted.  Like the numeral 'zero' used by the Nilnameshi mathematicians to work such wonders, ignorance is the occluded frame of all discourse, the unseen circumference of our every contention.  Men are forever looking for the one point, the singular fulcrum they can use to dislodge all competing claims.  Ignorance does not give us this. What it provides, rather, is the possibility of comparison, the assurance that not all claims are equal. And this, Ajencis would argue, is all that we need.
For so long as we admit our ignorance, we can hope to improve our claims, and so long as we can improve our claims, we an aspire to the Truth, even if only in rank approximation.
And this is why I mourn my love of the Great Kyranean.  For despite the pull of his wisdom, there are many things of which I am absolutely certain, things that feed the hate which drives this very quill.
- DRUSAS ACHAMIAN, TEH COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR

If war does not kill the woman in us, it kills the man.
- TRIAMIS I, JOURNALS AND DIALOGUES

Like so many who undertake arduous journeys, I left a country of wise men and came back to a nation of fools.  Ignorance, like time, brooks no return
- SOKWE, TEN SEASONS IN ZEUM

What frightens me when I travel is not that so many men possess customs and creeds so different from my own. Nay, what frightens me is that they think them as natural and as obvious as I think my own
- SERATANTAS III, SUMNI MEDITATIONS

A return to a place never seen.  Always is it thus, when we understand what we cannot speak
- PROTATHIS, ONE HUNDRED HEAVENS

It was a many-chambered mountain, wrought in a gold-gleaming metal that could not be scored, let alone broken.  A city rolled into the warped planes of some misbegotten fish.  A ruin that the world could not stomach, that the ages could not digest.
And, as Seswatha and Nau-Cauyuti discovered, a great gilded crypt.

Never had Seswatha suffered such a horror, diffuse enough to ignore moment by moment, but possessing a tidal profundity, as though all that he cherished lay exposed, not just to harm, but to some horrifically contrary truth.  Intellectually he understood the why and the wherefore even as his viscera quailed.  They walked the pits of Min-Uroikas, a place where the Inchoroi, in their wickedness, had gnawed at boundaries between the world and the Outside for thousands of years.  And now the howl of their damnation lay near... very near.
This was a topos, a place where hard lines of reality had become shading.  They could hear it in the cavernous echoes.  Gibbering screams in the scrape of their steps.  Groaning multitudes in the rattle of their coughs. Inhuman roaring in the ring of their voices.  And they could see it, as though images had been stitched to their periphery.  many-jawed faces, snapping out of the black.  Weeping children... Achamian lost count of the times he saw Nau-Cayuti abruptly whirl, trying to catch apparitions in the certainty of direct sight.

He could feel them, piling labyrinthine into the distances above and below him, the consuming hollows.  It seemed hell itself roared inaudible about them.
This place.

"There are some," Achamian whispered, "who argue that the entire Ark is a thing of bone, that vein and skin once pulsed across these walls".
"You mean that the Ark once lived?"
Achamian nodded, even as he swallowed for dread. "The Inchoroi called themselves Children of the Ark.  The most ancient Nonmen lays refer to them as the Orphans".
"So this thing.. this place... mothered them?"
Seswatha smiled.  "Or fathered... The fact is, we haven't the words for such things.  Even we could pierce the shroud of millennia, I fear this place would remain beyond our understanding."
"But I understand full well," the young Prince said.  "You're saying that Golgotterath is a dead womb".

Nau-Cayuti peered through the surrounding gloom.  "Obscenity," he muttered.  "Obscenity.  Why, Seswatha?  Why would they bring way against us?"
"To close the world," seemed all he could muster.
To seal it shut.

"Come", the High King's son said, standing tall in the dark.  "I fear the dreams sleep might bring".  Expressionless, he resumed picking his way through the black.
After a breath that seemed more ice than air, Seswatha stumbled after him, Nau-Cauyuti, heir to Tryse, the greatest light of the dynasty that called itself Anasurimbor.
The greatest light of Men.

"We are Men," he replied.  "Like other Men"

...He could even see the swelling of her breasts, the heat of her womb.  But her thoughts... It was as though the strings between her face and soul had been severed and refastened to something both sleek and alien.
Something not human

... "You cannot kill me," he said.  "I'm beyond you".
She smirked.  "How could you say this?  You know nothing of me or my kind".
Though the roots of her tone and expression escaped him, the incipient sneer was unmistakable.  It despised condescension.
It was proud.
She laughed.  "Did you think Achamian's stories could prepare you?  What the Mandate dream is but a sliver of what I've lived - of what I've seen.  I've walked in the No-God's shadow.  I've looked across the void and blotted your world by holding a fingertip before it... No, you know nothing of me or my kind."
Pupils dilated.  Nipples erect.  An imperceptible flush about her neck and chest.  Fingers curling the downy hair of her sex.  Kellhus thought of the Sranc and their rutting frenzy for blood, of Sarcellus hardening to the promise of violence that night about the Galeoth fire...
So similar
They were the template of their creations, he realised.  They had implanted their own carnal longings, made their own appetite the instrument of their domination.
"So what are you then?"  Kellhus asked.  "hat are the Inchoroi?"
"We", she cooed," are a race of lovers"
The expected answer.  Recollections cycled through his soul, not explicit and singular, but implicit and innumerable.  Everything Achamian had said regarding these abomination... He slackened his face in the simulacrum of profound sorrow. "And for this you are damned".
Flaring nostrils.  A faint quickening of the pulse.
"We were born for damnation's sake," she said with deceptive calm.  "Our very nature is our transgression.  Look at this exquisite body.  The heights of her bosom.  The temple of her sex.  I climb and I enter because I must".  She  fingered her pubis as she spoke, clutched tight her left breast.  "And for this?" she gasped.  "Fr this I am to heave and scream in lakes of fire?  Because of boundaries of skin?"
Kellhus knew not the length of beam of its inhuman intelligence, but he knew it counted grievances.  All souls, almost out of necessity, armed themselves with arguments and accusations of misunderstanding.  A circle, after all, could only have one centre.
"Denial is the way," Kellhus said. "Boundaries are written into the order of things".

She matched his gaze in a way Esmenet never could, stared as though he were something pathetic and execrable.  It sees what I'm trying to do.
"But you," she said with breathless sarcasm, "you could rewrite the scripture of my doom, hmm, Prophet?"  She barked with laughter.
"There is no absolution for your kind".
She had raised her hips to the liquid flutter of her fingers.  "Oh, but there isssss..."
"So you would destroy the world?"
She shuddered, her body afire with arousal. She lowered her buttocks, crossed her legs about her fingers.  "To save my soul, hmmm?  So long as there are Men, there are crimes.  So long as there are crimes, I am damned.  Tell me, Dunyain, what track woudl you follow?  What woudl you do to save your soul?"
Track, it had said... The Scylvendi
I should have killed him.

"Love is the Way... And yet these little demons you call Gods decree otherwise?  Dole out their rewards in proportion to our suffering?  No".  She paused before him, her slight form magnificent in the play of gloom and light.  "I would save my soul".
She reached out to trace his lips with a shining fingertip.  Esmenet burning for congress.  For all his breeding, all his conditioning, Kellhus could feel the ancient instinct rise... What kind of game.
He caught her wrist.
"She doesn't love you", she said, tugging her wrist free.  "Not truly".
The words jarred - but why?  What was this darkness?
Pain?
"She worships," Kellhus found himself replying, "and has yet to understand the difference".
How many secrets could it see?  How much did it know?
"Such a marvel", she said, "what you've accomplished... So much stolen".
It spoke as though knowing much warranted knowing all.  It tries to lure me, draw me into open discourse.
"My father has been here thirty years".
"Long enough to require a Holy War to overcome him?"
"Long enough".
She smiled, drew two fingers across her sweaty breastbone.  Though her body remained young, her eyes possessed an age not her own.  "Again", she simpered, "I don't believe you... You are your father's heir, not his assassin".
And the air reeked of sorcery.
Her hands found him through his robe, began fondling... Kellhus stood bewildered.  He wanted to seize her, thrust deep into her burning centre.  He would show her!  Show her!
His robe had been hiked - and by his own hand!...

"To make manifest", he heard himself gasp, "the Thousandfold Thought....

For a heartbeat the world stopped.  He saw it, old hoary and rotted, staring out from his wife's eyes.  The Inchoroi...

"Across the world in Golgotterath", Kellhus gasped, still stamping out the coals of his manic lust, "the Mangaecca squat about your true flesh, rocking to the mutter of endless Cants.  The Synthese is but a node.  You are no more than the reflection of a shadow, an image cats upon the water of Esmenet.  You possess subtlety, yes, but you haven't the depth to confront me".
Achamian had told him of this creature, that its capacities would be largely restricted to glamours, compulsions, and possessions.  The great shout that was its true form, the Schoolman had said, could be heard only as whispers and insinuations at such a distance.  I must own this encounter!

"Come," she said, springing to her feet, stalking him as he retreated across the verandah, "kill me, then.  Strike me down!"
A mask of counterfeit horror.  Once again Kellhus unlaced the bindings of selfhood, rolled open the inner surfaces of his soul.  Once again he reached...
The past possessed weight.  Where the young were like flotsam, forever drawn spinning into the current of passing events, the old were like stone.  The proverbs and parables spoke of sobriety, restraint, but more than anything it was boredom that rendered the aged immune to the press of events.  Repetition, not enlightenment, was the secret of their detachment.  How did one move a soul that had witnessed all the world's permutations?
"But you can't", she cackled, "can you?  Look upon this pretty shell... these lips, these eyes, this cunny.  I am what you love..."
What was more, the Scylvendi had school it.  The non sequiturs.  The sudden questions.  The thing made whim the principle of its action - just as Cnaiur had...
Kellhus reached.
"After all," she said, "what man would strike down his wife?"
He drew his sword, Enshoiya, pressed its point against the white tile floor between them.  "A Dunyain," he replied.
She stopped above the blade, close enough to pinch the tip between the toes of her right foot.  She glared with ancient fury.  "I am Aurang.  Tyranny!  A son of the void you call Heaven... I am Inchoroi, a raper of thousands!  I am he who would rear this world down.  Strike, Anasurimbor!

Kellhus reached...
... and saw himself through the obscenity's eyes, the enigma who would draw out his father, Moenghus.  Kellhus reached, though with fingers lacking tips, palms without heat.  He reached and grasped...
A soul that had snaked across all the world's ages, taking lover after lover, exulting in degradation, spilling seed across innumerable dead.  The Nonmen of Ishorial. The Norsirai of Tryse and Sauglish.  Warring... endlessly warring, to forestall damnation...
A race with a hundred names for the vagaries of ejaculation, who had silenced all compassion, all pity, to better savour the reckless chorus of their lusts.  Stalking, endlessly stalking, the world they would make their shrieking harem...
A life so old that only he, Anasurimbor Kellhus, was unprecedented.  Only the Dunyain were new.
Who were these Men - these Anasurimbor - who hailed from Golgotterath's very shaodw? who could see through masks of skin? who could subvert ancient faiths? who could enslave Holy Wars with nothing more than words and glances?
Who bore the name of their ancient foe...
An Kellhus realised there was only one question here:  Who were the Dunyain?
They fear us, Father.

"The No-God," he said, advancing, "He speaks to me in my dreams".
"I", Esmenet replied, spitting blood as she pressed herself from the floor, "don't believe you".
Kellhus seized the black maul of her hair, heaved her to her feet.  He hissed into her ear.  "He says that you failed him on the plains of Mengedda".
"Lies!  Lies!"
"He comes, Warlord.  For this world.. for you!"
Strike me again," she whispered.  "Please..."
He threw her back to the floor.  She writhed at his feet, thrusting her sex like an accusatory finger.  "Fuck me," she whispered.  "Fuck me".
But the lustful glamour fell from him, deflected by the Dara Ward.
"Your secrets have been uncovered," he said in high oratorical tones.  "Your agents are scattered, you designs overthrown... You've been defeated, Warlord".
And for the first time she replied according to his anticipations.
"Ahhhh... but there are as many battlefields as there are moments, Dunyain".
Pause.  The cycling of possibilities.
"You're a distraction..." Kellhus said.

"Achamian", Kellhus whispered.
"Is already dead," the thing sneered.  It rolled her head like  doll, then slumped across the cold stone.

... she not only remembered, she remembered as though she herself had spoken what was spoken, said what was said...

She clutched cheeks, scratched welts across them.  "Always the whore!  Why must I always be the whore?"
He looked through her, past her bewildered hurt, down to the beatings and the abuse, to the betrayals, and beyond, out to a world of rank lust, shaped by the hammers of custom, girded with scripture, scaled by ancient legacies of sentiment and belief.  Her womb had cursed her, even as it made her what she was.  Immortality and bliss - this was the living promise all women bore between their things.  Strong sons and gasping climax.  If what men called truth were ever the hostage of their desires, how could they fail to make slaves of their women?  To hide them lie hoarded gold.  To feast on them like melons.  To discard them like rinds.
Was this not why he used her?  The promise of sons in her hips?
Dunyain sons.
Her eyes were like silver spoons in the gloom, shimmering with scarcely held waters.  He looked through them and saw so much he could never undo...
"Hold me", she whispered.  "Hold me please".
Like so many others, she bore his toll.  And it was only the beginning.

Only afterward, as they trundled up the coast in the Schoolman's cart, would he cry, overwhelmed by loss and delinquent regret.
far, far too late

"Remember how it was?" Xinemus asked.  "The way you would wait in the dark while I took council with the Great?"
Yes... I remember".
"Now it's I who wait".

"Because you try too hard," Xinemus said. "And when the plate doesn't yield - " he coughed, convulsed about pustulate lungs.

Then he went slack.  For several heartbeats all Achamian could do was stare.  Without his eyes Xinemus seemed so...sealed in.

It seemed that his heart slowed, hesitated, like a boy unsure of the sincerity of his father's permission.  his lips tightened, and a great void slowly opened in his chest, at first tugging and then lunging - demanding that he breathe.
With a shameful reluctance, he watched him in the darkness, Krijates Xinemus, this man would be his older brother, this corpse with the face of an only friend.  The first of the lice found him - Achamian could feel them.  like the tickle of insight.
He breathed, drew the rank air deep.  And though his cry reached out across the plains, it fell far short of Shimeh.

"no!" he cried, leaping to his feet.  "Why didn't you heal him?"
For the briefest instant Kellhus seemed taken aback - but then all was as it should be.  Comfort glittered in his eyes.  Understanding shouted from the lie of his smile, sad and faint.
Achamian's ears roared with such violence that he heard nothing of Kellhus' reply, save that it was false.  He literally stumbled, such was the force of the revelation.  Strong hands drew him upright.  Kellhus - grasping him by the shoulders, staring intently into his face.  But the intimacy, that eroticism of awe that had braced all their exchanges, had vanished.  A vacancy, cold and heartless, shouted from the beloved face.
How?
And somehow, unaccountably, Achamian knew that he was truly awake - perhaps for the very first time.  No longer was he that hapless child in this man's gaze.
Achamian pulled away - not horrified, just... blank.
"What are you?"
Kellhus's gaze did not falter.  "You flinch from me, Akka.. Why?"
"You are not a prophet!  What are you?"
The transformation of his expression was subtle enough that someone standing three or more paces away would have missed it, but for Achamian it was enough to send him stumbling back in horror.  As one, Kellhus' every facial nuance went dead - utterly dead.
Then , in  voice as cold as winter slate:
"I am the truth"
"Truth?" Achamian struggled to regain his composure, but the horror spilled through him, unlooping like entrails.  he fought for his breath, to see past the glaring sky, to hear through the buzzing world.  "Tru-"
An iron grip around his throat.  his head yanked back, his face thrust to the sun, like a doll hoisted to the sky.  he hadn't even seen Kellhus move!
"Look," the dead voice said.  No strain.  Nothing of this physical cruelty in his voice.  Nothing.
The sun speared Achamian's eyes, seemed blinding even with them clenched shut.
"Look," without added emphasis, except for the finger which caressed his trachea in such a way that bile began to burn the back of his throat.
"Can't... see..."
Abruptly he dropped face forward against the ground.  Before he'd regained his knees, he'd begun his arcane muttering.  He knew his capabilities.  He knew he could destroy him still.
But the voice would not relent.
"Does this mean the sun is empty?"
Achamian paused, turned his face from the grass and scree, squinted at the figure looming above.
"Do you think", a voice crackled across every possibility of hearing, "the God would be anything other than remote".
Achamian lowered his forehead to the biting weeds.  Everything spinning, slumping..
"Or do I lie, in that since I am all souls, I choose the one that will turn the most hearts?"
And tears answered.  Don't hit me... Please, papa, please.  Don't-
"Or should it speak of treachery that my purposes move beyond yours?  Encompass yours?"
He raised shaking hands to his ears.  I'll be good! I swear!  He fell to his side, sobbed against hard, bristling earth.  The road so long.  So painful.  The hunger... Inrau... Xinemus dead.
Dead.
Because of me!  Oh dear God...
The Warrior-Prophet sat next to him as he wept, gently holding one of his hands, his face impassive, eyes closed and turned to the sun.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we march on Shimeh".

Death, in the strict sense, cannot be defined, for whatever predicate we, the living, attribute to it necessarily belongs to Life.  This means that Death, as a category, behaves in a manner indistinguishable from the Infinite, and from God.
- AJENCIS, THE THIRD ANALYTIC OF MEN

One cannot assume the truth of what one declares without presuming the falsity of all incongruous declarations.  Since all men assume the truth of their declarations, this presumption becomes at best ironic and at worst outrageous.  Given the infinity of possible claims, who could be so vain as to think their dismal claims true?  The tragedy, of course, is that we cannot but make declarations.  So it seems we must speak as Gods to converse as Men.
- HATATIAN, EXHORTATIONS

I think you messed up the formatting. Too many quote tags, you've quoted yourself and now its all one bit quote...