The man known as Pestilence turned to his 'brother' Death.

"Methos?"

"Yes, Kronos?"

"We have ridden long and hard over this little kingdom, and its people."

Methos nodded.

"Aye, Brother. That we surely have."

"We've cleaved heads from necks. Decimated their young. We've cut out their hearts for Caspian's supper. Silas has turned their great monuments into mere powder. Because of me, not a crop grows. Because of you, a generation will never fight or husband again."

"Kronos--what's your point?"

Pestilence threw up his arms.

"My point? All that effort-----and not one of them bothered to thank us!"