"What kind of witchcraft did you use!" he roared, his voice hoarse like burnt cloth, "Poison? A curse? Or... what evil spirit got into our heads, tearing us apart one by one?"
He staggered forward a step, as if to pounce, but suddenly halted at the moment of approach, as if hitting some invisible deadly boundary.
"Your men... your handful of men! How could it be?! Five times the troops, triple-layered walls, ancestral banners held high, how could we lose?!
Your men aren't warriors; they're the scum that betrayed the chieftain! How could they tear us apart?!"
His eyes twitched, and the hand pointing at Titus trembled slightly, like a final struggle before madness.
"You're not human," he murmured, as if cursing or talking to himself, "You're not human... you're some breed of... catastrophe."
Finally, he staggered back a step, almost like a madman: "This shouldn't happen... this can't happen... this isn't a strength this world should have."
