They are moving north. The mountains that once we crossed in search of land slither toward us, an awakening snake, hungry for prey, ready to crush whatever strays into its path. Already, the southern tribes are gone, swallowed and digested in the maw of Rome. Now, they are moving north. Gaios gags at the freedom of a people, and repays hospitality with iron. Divitiacos had a pact, they say. But Divitiacos is gone. Dumnorix spoke against him: Dumnorix is chief in his place. How have we come to this, who sought only land, and honour? None have we killed needlessly, but only in battle, and then, only when their Commanders shied from the hero's part. Our rage is reserved for oathbreakers, and traitors to trust. The Teutons fret to the north, a cold breath blowing from the edge of the world. To the south, there are Romans. We fought them, and won. Our brennin stood in amazement at their stone civility, a place of bright light, too cold for warriors, too orderly for a free people. Such land, we have never sought. We fought, and returned home. Now, they are moving north. Their promise is a snake that engulfs whatever strays into its path. Their dreams are not those of a free people. They come with the dreams of stone men, brows bathed in sun, bearing a vision of roads, straight as swords, roads slithering with dawn's speed across the land, jaws working, stone scales slicked silent with the blood of a free people. Thus, are they marching north. Let us choose, freely, to go and meet them.