by Istvan
The High King lay dead in High Seat. Old blood stirs once more. Armies march. Laws done away with. Men arm with cannon and pike. The Five Realms quake, they know what is coming. The wind sings sorrowfully. Women pray but their husbands know its no use. Gods move their pawns across their board silently. Men with power will soon supplant them. War is coming. It smells like powder and blood. Gods save us all.
