As he was conversing with the mercenaries, a huge bolt shattered through Hlorgian's stained glass windows. His eldest son and most powerful warrior, Hrothgar, fell in an instant. His guards rushed in, and the only thing they had seen was a horsed bowman quickly appear over the ridge, fire, then disappear. His speed made him impossible to pursue. As Hlorgian mournfully prepared his son for burial, he noticed a crude parchment letter tied to the bolt. Written in crusty brown blood, and in crude handwriting, the message read thus:Hlorgian, you are a thief of that which belongs to me. I am Shushuhua Kreigsvan, leader of the brave souls whom you would call "barbarians". I am the rightful king of this land. For centuries before you arrived here, this land was settled by the tribes of the Uikhelev, the tribes of my people. We were a peaceful culture, excelling in building, metalworking, and horsemanship. Then, seven centuries ago, your knights and soldiers destroyed our cities, pillaged our towns, took our gold, and cast us out, all in the name of your god. This piece of history is hidden from you, but the Uikhelev will never forget it. A few of us were able to escape the wrath of your conquerors. We fled out, starving, into the snowy steppe. And there we lived for centuries, preserving what was left of our broken culture. We lived off wolves to survive, our lives were harsh and short. However, a great priest rose up among us. Nilathak was his name. He found his way to your city, became one of your people, and tried to convince you fools to leave, peacefully, or that there would be great bloodshed later on. When he returned to our people, on a pretense of scouting, he was beaten and tortured for trying to make a peaceful solution; you gained this land by blood, and we will have it back by nothing but blood. He was poisoned, and tried to escape back to your people before he died. If you do not believe my story, look. You will see that your castle is built upon the ruins of my ancestors' palace. Your methods of farming were taken for us. The emblem of the Raven, which your royal house bears, was taken from our culture; every shield and breastplate of ours also holds an inscription of the Raven. When your servants bring you food from their farms, they are bringing you plants that grew from the bodies of my ancestors. When your cities tribute gold, they are tributing melted Uikhelev currency. Every time you wash yourself in the central pool of your city (which was part of my city once), you are bathing in the blood and sweat of my ancestors. For all this, I will have your blood.
Tell your people this, so that they may know that they are worthy of death. Pray to our 'heathen' gods for protection. Wash yourselves with ashes and prepare for death. The royal family of yours is not worthy to join mine in the cemetery.
-Shushuhua Kreigsvan
Hlorgian was very frightened because of this letter, but did not know what he could do about it, or whether or not Shushuhua spoke the truth. It was so long ago anyway. Why should Kreigsvan have the right over the land? The past doesn't mean much, he thought to himself. Then he glanced at the skull, mused thoughtfully upon the Raven banners flapping outside his windows, looked upon the ruins of the ancient city… If it was the truth, what was he supposed to do? In any case, the land had belonged to his father, and all he ever knew was his ancestors possessing the land. "I will not believe the lies of a barbarian" he said stubbornly, as he put on his armor.
[This thread has been improved by Sir Wiedreich (improved 05-13-2654 @ 05:34 AM).]