Imagine you have a home, a family, maybe even a small plot to your name. It`s a tough life but it`s yours. You pay your taxes, high as they may be, but if you don`t, the lord who owns the land will kick you off it. One night you`re in the tavern swapping songs and you hear a murmur of war approaching. Civil war, no less. Talk turns sour. As the weeks go on, the talk gets nervous. War finally breaks out. The country divides itself in two. You live in Gabber county. Truehard country, by all accounts. So now you know where you fall, no matter which direction tongues might have wagged in before. There ain`t no argument, despite how you feel. It`s an allegiance based on the scratches on a map.
Weeks pass with no sniff of war, until one day you see banners breaching the hilltops. Screams start, you begin to run, and the further you go the higher the smoke behind you rises. You know that`s your home, your crops, all you had beside what you`re carrying and the hands you`re holding. Twice more, that happens, until you`re in country you ain`t ever seen, living as beggars between camps. One day a man comes around with the king`s banner, looking for bravery and a strong sword arm, or a good eye for musket-fire. You`ve seen a few fights in your time, maybe fought against the Destrix when they ventured west. Then you remember the pillars of smoke, the smell of burnt wheat on the breeze, and the ache in your legs from running. You decide that`s not right and something must be done. Three years later and here you are, shoveling the bodies of the people you hope lit the fires. There`s nothing noble in our struggle besides wanting back what we once had. We`ve got not gold or glittering halls to protect. No higher calling or duty or honour. No politics rushing through our veins. Just a warm hearth and the chance to be. Survive or die. That`s the peasant war, my stone friend. That`s the cause we`re fighting for.
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