The Thracians (/ˈθreɪʃənz/; Ancient Greek: Θρᾷκες Thrāikes, Latin: Thraci) were a group of Indo-European tribes inhabiting a large area in Southeastern Europe. They spoke the Thracian language – a scarcely attested branch of the Indo-European language family. The study of Thracians and Thracian culture is known as Thracology.
The first historical record about the Thracians is found in the Iliad, where they are described as allies of the Trojans in the Trojan War against the Greeks. The ethnonym Thracian comes from Ancient Greek Θρᾷξ (plural Θρᾷκες; Thrāix, Thrāikes) or Θρᾴκιος/Ionic: Θρηίκιος (Thrāikios/Thrēikios), and the toponym Thrace comes from Θρᾴκη/Ion.: Θρῄκη (Thrāikē/Thrēikē). These forms are all exonyms as applied by the Greeks.
In Greek mythology, Thrax (by his name simply the quintessential Thracian) was regarded as one of the reputed sons of the god Ares. In the Alcestis, Euripides mentions that one of the names of Ares himself was "Thrax" since he was regarded as the patron of Thrace (his golden or gilded shield was kept in his temple at Bistonia in Thrace).
Thracian may refer to:
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The Thraex (pl. thraeces), or Thracian, was a type of Roman gladiator, armed in the Thracian style with small rectangular, square or circular shield called a parmula (about 60 x 65 cm) and a very short sword with a slightly curved blade called a sica (like a small version of the Dacian falx), intended to maim an opponent's unarmoured back. His other armour included armoured greaves (necessitated by the smallness of the shield), a protector for his sword arm and shoulder, a protective belt above a loin cloth, and a helmet with a side plume, visor and high crest.
He and the hoplomachus, with his Greek equipment, were usually pitted against the murmillo, armed like a legionary, mimicking the opposition between Roman soldiers and their various enemies.
Courage
Through the rain with love as our anchor
There's just enough here to show us the courage that courses through the veins
Knock it down like a bridge
Set it up like a prechorus
These are the tales that our grandfathers tell to their young
Now we're lost
This ship is no such place for heathens and harbingers
It's a shame son
This is the line that you crossed
It's the fine line that separated caskets from carpenters
I wish we'd wash our hands of this and watch you drift away
We need the last word
Don't let him go
He seems to be getting away
Ready? Aim
Fire
Go for the throat
Don't be surprised if he already knows
How numbered his days are and how fast
We'll pull the plug on this three-ring circus
I swear Son this is business
If you betray us all traitors are fit with cement shoes
Tonight when you sleep with the fishes
You can measure the tides as your heathen embraces you
Once we've washed out hands of this we'll watch you float away
This is what happens when your friends turn their backs
Now we turn the table
This is your well deserved revenge
Get used to this
Find a stonger ship
You're the one that's sinking
The current's too slow by steady
Pushing you away disturbing its flow and burning
You'll becoming one with the waves
This is so pure
This is banishment forever
Have you lost your way?
The red sun is over the horizon as we drink to the future
Here's to everything after the sun sets tonight
I'll see you far from sober
We'll watch you as you sink
We've drank the last of the rye
As sure as the sun sets tonight I'll see you south of the Cape of True Love
On the floor of the Ocean of Friendships
I'll see you in hell if that's what you want me to do
It's ironic sometimes how we meet our demise
As the fishes feast out of the backs of your eyes
Let this tale be a lesson in life
You only get back what you give son
Fuck you