And you, Tacitus, observe how I make my grove on an old crannog piled by the fearful dead: a desolate peace. Our mother ground in sour with the blood of her faithful, they lie gargling in her sacred heart as the legions stare from the ramparts. Come back to this 'island of the ocean' where nothing will suffice. Read the inhumed faces of casualty and victim; report us fairly, how we slaughter for the common good and shave the heads of the notorious, how the goddess swallows our love and terror. - Kinship