The haze of power was thick; it lay over the terra stretched before him for miles; dense as fog and equally blinding. His empyrean eyes cast over the landscape, piercing the cryptodynamic mist as other men fumbled for their senses. Some men were made for war - born warriors, born with a warcry in their lungs; but men hadn't been made that way for a long time.
Anicetus was certain he was the last.
Societies had softened the rest of the warriors.