I love this time of year. The dickheads start popping up.

Findal: "Oh, thank you, thank you. I thought I was going to die down here."
Player: "Don't thank me yet. I'm here to finish what they started."

Go on. Give the worgs some Booze! They'll love it.

Not what will happen - what will you do. Your past is not yet lost. Your future is not yet fixed.

Like moons make swell and wane the nescient seas, so too the sky-strewn gods ordain the tidal fates of mortal days. And yet - a notion born in lonely hours - come ebb, come flow, come all that is beyond the breadth of our dominion: be a moon unto yourself. Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will.