"All the guests were thoroughly checked before they entered the manse, my Prince. There was no sword on him...yet, he pulled the blade from his belt! But how..."
"It's a bit rusted... but I think with time, you'll find that this ol' thing is a worthy travelling companion. And for you, miss... just 90 sovereigns."
"Contingent of Imperial Knights spotted at Osthill, my prince. Lord Marshall Oswald's tank contingent is dug in there, and the fortifications are solid. All you need to do is give me the order, and I'll tell his lordship to make it rain."
-Miles Secundi, Man-at-Arms of Prince Kastame
"Sure, it’s chilly to wear in the winter, boiling in the summer, and yeah, it chafes a little after a day or two of marching. But when you do what we do, you learn to eat, sleep and s**t in it - pardon my language your highness.”
-Miles Secundi, Man at Arms of Prince Kastame
"Such a curious candle... it burns...with no wick?"
"Commander... every chime in a five mile radius is making a racket. Something big is coming... something mean."
"There are few things that iconize the Knights of Greatland better than a suit of massive metal plates, and an equally gargantuan weapon."
-Jax the Chronicler
"The Sigurdian style Bowgun is the most popular recent take on the common Arbalest. While it has been commonplace in the Sigurdian kingdoms and in Caern for over half a century, it has only recently found use on the continent - but it looks like it's here to stay."
-Daaren Hurst, Imperial Master at Arms
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.