The storm priest stood on the mountaintop and extended his arms as the lightning gathered in the clouds above him, and he felt no fear because fear would have been insult to the god of destruction. This was the moment he lived for. The intersection of human will and inhuman force. Below, the village huddled behind stone and prayer. They had offered sacrifices, had brought the priest the finest animals, had pleaded for mercy. None of it would matter. Talos did not negotiate. Talos did not accept tribute. But he could be witnessed. The priest's last act before the lightning found him was to watch it come, to see it in all its terrible clarity, to acknowledge that this was god manifest. Pure force, indifferent to meaning, careless of consequence. In that final moment, the priest understood something the villagers could not. Resistance was dignity. The lightning struck him and threw him down the mountainside, and his last thought before consciousness fled was one of perfect satisfaction. He had not been conquered. He had simply been acknowledged. Below in the village, they found his body in the morning, burned beyond recognition. They buried him as martyred, as blessed. But the priest would have known better. He had not been blessed. He had simply been noticed by Talos, and for those mad and terrible enough to seek such attention, that was glory...