GLORY BE TO THE SOLIFUGAE. EDUCATION. LIBERATION. 》》DOMINATION.《《 PERFECTION. High from the black heavens, beyond the grey clouds and deep within the inky sky, a hum of wicked potential rolls through the land. At first, its source is unknown, but it is soon answered by booming mortars roaring through the midnight air. Thankfully, no sight of flame nor crater occurs, but trickles of white flutter down to the roads of Regalia like ash. Just as it seemed like Sanctuary Demetrius would encroach on countryside territory, the beating of wings and the roar of a hurricane causes the flying fortress to sound off a deep horn and tactically retreat back into the city. But what was it that Demetrius had fired at the survivors? Leaflets- and lots of them. Some were scorched from the powder, some were waterlogged from puddles, but those still legible had propaganda to spew. To those who dared, they read a piece that practically spat on every signed document of hope published in the days before. Reimar of Calemberg Gwendolyn Black Ewan Howlester Dietrich von Drachenburg Humaira di Civita Behold, whelps of Regalia. These are your monsters. See here how deplorable their names are- how they have spent their entire lives skulking in the dark, refusing to care for their fellow man with no oath to care for nor faith to lay worship to. Every waking breath they breathed was a new sin, and every colour that their eyes met was turned black with wickedness. Or at least, that is what princelings and ladies would try to tell you from their cushioned desks, far from the front lines and with glasses of rosé that has not yet lost its coldness when removed from its icebox, placed just behind their chocolates, and right above their leftover cakes. They seek a status quo- one where they are above you, and the biggest mess they have to clean is the perspiration of their glass while your blood screams across the soil. Where are your gloriously competent leaders, Regalians? Hidden behind a bubble instead of smiting me in a beam in light? Escaping on a boat back to an island a day's sail away from our shores? Locked up in royal rooms, squabbling for votes in a system that has failed in this time where bread is less plentiful than bodies? You, who hide in the countryside, you are not fighting against a monster without a name and against dogs that only whimper when they are exposed to steel. I am Xilthruum, Lich Lord proclaimed as have been said by my bounty, and by the word of Augustin Reinard calling me by title. I own my land, one you have been moved from, and one I have claimed through the art of war the way your noblemen do against their colleagues in the court. But what your masters try to tell you is that you can simply carve your way through meat, and you will reclaim your city. You may do that if you please. After all, they are nothing but godless demons who can't think for themselves, correct? Dietrich von Drachenburg, one of the wisest strategists of war and voice of the knights. Humaira di Civita, esteemed knight, woman of her word. Reimar of Calemberg, a general so worthy, the city surrendered provinces for his safe return. Gwendolyn Black, pearl and cannon of the sea. Ewan Howlester, nigh sacred his name, and righteous his deeds. Are these the mindless monsters you plan on putting to the gallows? After all, your hopes of divine intervention shrink further and further by the day. Your gods spared a handful of civilians out of an entire kingdom in exchange for blind worship, and you lack a way to cure the city. This is, as it simply is, a new normal. Once your people become Sanguine, they will never return. Are you to truly abandon all of your friends and family because you are afraid of what goes bump in the night? I assure you, they will scream just as loudly as they did once before, and they will weep the same tears, and bleed the same blood. And you will be the one who has to do it, all in vain. According to your war dogs in Daenlock, their corpses are precisely what you beg for. And in time, that will be answered. Their success comes from their lack of mercy, for they no longer recognize their brothers and sisters, and they only see a return to the status quo no matter how many loved ones they have to flay within the streets, barking and howling like hyenas. They write papers of their victories, each word scrawled in the blood of your fathers, the blood of your sons, and if you are bitten, the blood of yourself. Use them as something to be influenced by, and maybe, just maybe, you will get your barren, breathless city back at the cost of those names above. If not that, then at the cost of any other loved ones that have found themselves better purpose in my employment than in your servitude. If I must turn the Imperial Navy into scrap metal, so be it. If I must rend the old world to dust, so be it. If I must suffer another century of lashings and a world without the light, so be it. Your city knew nothing of mercy from its start, and it never will, for I was given none, and I shall spare none. But this war is not against me. It is a war against your brothers and sisters. And I will make it cost everything you are not willing to pay. GLORY BE TO THE SOLIFUGAE.