"Fine....one day." People might have called Goldberg a meat head or a moron behind his back, and sure he wasn't going to lecture mathematics in Harvard anytime soon, but that didn't mean he wasn't intelligent. His mind was capable of sophisticated tactical processing, in his own way he was like a world-class chess player. Except he didn't play chess. He might never write a novel that would have the world praising him, but put him in the middle of a battlefield and he'd be able to monitor and react to everything. Harold on the other hand, who probably considered himself an intellect, and more then likely considered himself far smarter then a "brute" such as Goldberg....well he had walked in front of the Ares Cabin table, insulted one of them, and<em>now</em>continued to throw his mouth. He could call the War Leader a baby or any other name under the sun, but when they dueled tomorrow, it was Goldberg's game they'd be playing. Goldberg never lost at his own game.<br/><br/>Goldberg was finished now, he turned on the spot and left. There was nothing more for him in the pavilion. The War Leader's feet carried him towards the warmth of the camp fire. There was something about fire that he enjoyed. When he looked into it, he saw something of himself in it. There was hunger and rage. Although he was no longer angry, he was getting something to feed that hunger tomorrow.