The voice, which is the aerian sign of thought, whence of the soul, which instructs, preaches, exhorts, prays, praises, loves, through which the entire being is manifested in life, nearly palpable by the blind, impossible to describe because it is too undulating and diverse, in fact too alive and incarnate in too many sonorous forms, the voice that Théophile Gautier gave up trying to put into words because it is neither soft, nor dry, nor hot, nor cold, nor colorless, nor colorful, but has something of all that in another domain, that voice that one cannot touch, that one cannot see, that most immaterial of terrestrial things, that which most resembles a spirit, is stolen on the fly by science with a stylet and buried in small holes on a turning cylinder.
Winterfell does a lot of work in a short amount of time, but unlike some previous episodes that engaged in significant table setting, it never feels too rushed or like characters are being given short shrift in the effort to hurry to the next beat.
The rest—Rannach and Tekah, Yazte and Kahteney, Arcole—waited on him, on his response. He was, no matter his protestations, the Prophet, and they hesitated to foreguess him.
None of their numerous quarrels with Rome from 437 (?) B.C. onwards (Liv. 4. 17) led to any decisive result until their rebellion in the year 341 B.C., when the city, despite its strong position on a hill with steep sides, was taken (e.g. Polyb. 1. 65) and mulcted of half its territory.
