The colours and banners of a hundred clans, scattered like the wildflowers of spring across the meadows of Glargarryn. Thousands of men and women, starving, poor, armed with rusted hatchets and hunting bows, looking across that field, with the courage of desperation, at the imperial legion arrayed against them. Soldiers gleaming in bronze and steel. Trained and hardened men. Their polished shields forming a wall of discipline and determination against the advances of my motley rabble. “I sing, I rant, I rave,” I said to them, “but today, clansmen, my sword is my voice!” We crashed against that legion like waves upon a cliff. Time and time again they repelled us. The green meadows became brown and red with the mud of toil and the blood of war. Yet what is a slave to do? Suffer the lingering death of mine and mill, or offer the gift of your life to your people in one bright and glorious moment? For the men and women who followed me into battle, the choice was a simple one. Three Ezomytes fell for every Eternal and still the courage of my people tore down that polished wall, severed the strong arm of the Empire with a rusted, woodman’s hatchet. Gaius Sentari ran for his wretched life. I called to the Greatwolf to aid me, to give me the scent of that fleeing fox. Though the hunt was swift, I took the time to ensure that Gaius felt some small measure of the suffering he had inflicted before I answered his plea for mercy. - Rigwald, the Wolven King