Sacrifice

Something that I wish the barbarians would understand is that blood sacrifice only works when it's something important to you. If you throw away other people's children, other people's land and wealth and hopes and dreams and pasts and futures, nobody will listen, mortal. A Levantine storm god beseeched a thrall to sacrifice his son, and it was that it was his son, not the killing, which the god valued. Not the faithful's neighbor's son, not his enemy's son, but his own beloved. Vicious people often imagine they can invoke the old ways by sacrificing others by the thousands, by the millions, and still fail to obtain what might be more surely secured by granting even one thing dear to oneself, blooded or not.

I would respect Trump more if he would drive a kris through Barron's chest -- but even moreso, through his own. A wise leader serves; their life belongs to others, who have clasped them in regal irons because those real sources of power trust the appointed with the burden of guiding their collective strength. Barbarians treat those shackles like privilege, gild them in luxury, and that is why they are doomed. Their magic fails. Their might proves insufficient, stunted by foolishness. Even the plagues of their filth return to their homes, taking their children, their elders. It was only by cruel chance that their profound spiritual illness ever garnered the illusion of supremacy. Bless that they are doomed.

Let the worms take them. Let that be the only sacrifice of substance they have ever made.