Dragoncrest Cliffs "With it or on it."

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Eurycrates has never been afraid to die. There was the time where he had no knowledge of the concept, and when that knowledge was gained, the fear did not accompany it. He always has leaped into battle without a thought of his mortality; he is a berserker, intent on conquest. Perhaps it is the lack of true attachments, save Anaxander. . .and he knows that his brother has much the same sentiments about life and death. Whenever they go, however they go, there is more beyond this existence. On the other side of great violence is paradise.
He's chased that paradise all his life, flinging himself headlong into violence. And now it seems that it has finally come, for the titan's story was written long before Mallaidh Fearghal buried her teeth in his throat.
He is awash, suddenly, in a gilded glow of glory, the figures turning to shadow around him. It is like a great sunset, more beautiful than any he has seen. He registers only faintly the pain, the fountain of blood that spurts from his neck, the nips from the others. But all feeling is fading and fading fast; soon, he cannot even sense his own paws upon the ground. Images from his past flicker before his eyes, dancing between the redwoods.
Caiaphas and Heda both may think him daft, but he has never felt so much purpose in his life. Just as the traitor thinks himself an honorable man, surely fools attend to their errands with the idea of heroism? Just as heroes can be painted as fools, so too can fools become heroes, if the story is told in their favor.
Maybe Raleska will paint his legacy in a positive light.
He sees not her, nor any of the Drageda wolves. There is nothing but an all-encompassing light, growing brighter and brighter, like staring into the heart of the sun. He dies smiling, infinitely pleased with himself, and the fervor of righteous battle does not dim from his gaze until the ancient spirits pluck his soul from his husk of a body, guiding it toward eternal life.

Ἠλύσιον πεδίον.

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