We simple folk of Kwynn don't have much, what little winter stores we don't manage to tuck away behind hidden walls and floorboards is quickly and violently seized by whatever ravaging lordlings men happen to pass by.
Sometimes they take our daughters as camp followers and we cry and hold them in our arms one last time, sometimes they press our sons into fighting for them in some faraway land, but they never return to us.
We never fight, what use is fighting? After this band there will just be another, and another. To fight is to die, to submit is to starve, but live.
This time is different, we have word from a deserter that the dreaded Invicti are coming, commanded by a man known only as "The Reaper" we have it on good authority that this will be no simple raid for food and girls, no, this time the fires will burn for weeks, and the only residents of our home will be a pile of skulls being pecked at by ravens.
We will not go meekly, our women are sharpening stakes, our men digging out rusted and notched weapons from cellars, if this is to be our end, let them remember Kwynn as a name of fear.
Help us, and your name will live forever.
