Mort à Logan!
Smoke and embers filled the air, floating quickly above the rooftops.
The crackling of the great bonfire was only interrupted by the occasional poke of our Hero's walking stick.
He casually leaned over the fire and watched with admiration as a poster of King Logan was slowly engulfed in flames. The edges cracked and curled, Logan's face slowly darkening until the entire image was destroyed.
The people of Bowerstone surrounded the Hero as he threw the last bundle of posters on the fire. As soon as they were aflame, our young revolutionary ripped up some dry grass, stuffed it in a crack at the head of his staff, and lit it.
"Citoyens, nous avons gardé le silence depuis trop longtemps. Le tyran se renforce de jour en jour..."
The peasants hushed and gave the Hero their full attention.
"Mais nous aussi. Il va payer, ne vous méprenez pas, camarades. Aux armes! Mort à Logan! Mort à la tyrannie!"
All throughout the countryside, a tune not unlike La Marseillaise spread like wildfire.
The people of Albion made torches of their own; the blacksmith worked with feverish determination, for business was now better than ever before.
Anyone who could afford a sword bought one; the farmers grabbed their pitchforks, the woodcutters their axes.
Side by side, that great mass of men marched onward. Nothing deterred them from the task at hand; if soldiers stood in their way, they did not stand long.
As the great melody of the revolution filled the air with incense, King Logan cowered in his great castle. He could do nothing more than watch helplessly as the united front marched closer and closer, their footsteps growing louder and louder, Logan's eyes bulging as he looked on.
Night came, and, from the battlements, orbs of flickering light seemed to encompass the whole of the ground, gradually forming a circle around the great fortress of the tyrant.
The lights faded.
Shrieks of agony were heard, then nothing more.
Blood flowed richly down the walls of the castle, spread across the floors, and dried.
Smoke and embers filled the air, floating quickly above the rooftops.
The crackling of the great bonfire was only interrupted by the occasional poke of our Hero's walking stick.
He casually leaned over the fire and watched with admiration as a poster of King Logan was slowly engulfed in flames. The edges cracked and curled, Logan's face slowly darkening until the entire image was destroyed.
The people of Bowerstone surrounded the Hero as he threw the last bundle of posters on the fire. As soon as they were aflame, our young revolutionary ripped up some dry grass, stuffed it in a crack at the head of his staff, and lit it.
"Citoyens, nous avons gardé le silence depuis trop longtemps. Le tyran se renforce de jour en jour..."
"Citizens, we have been silent for far too long. Day by day, the tyrant has grown stronger..."
The peasants hushed and gave the Hero their full attention.
"Mais nous aussi. Il va payer, ne vous méprenez pas, camarades. Aux armes! Mort à Logan! Mort à la tyrannie!"
"But so have we. Make no mistake, comrades, he will pay. To arms! Death to Logan! Death to tyranny!"
All throughout the countryside, a tune not unlike La Marseillaise spread like wildfire.
The people of Albion made torches of their own; the blacksmith worked with feverish determination, for business was now better than ever before.
Anyone who could afford a sword bought one; the farmers grabbed their pitchforks, the woodcutters their axes.
Side by side, that great mass of men marched onward. Nothing deterred them from the task at hand; if soldiers stood in their way, they did not stand long.
As the great melody of the revolution filled the air with incense, King Logan cowered in his great castle. He could do nothing more than watch helplessly as the united front marched closer and closer, their footsteps growing louder and louder, Logan's eyes bulging as he looked on.
Night came, and, from the battlements, orbs of flickering light seemed to encompass the whole of the ground, gradually forming a circle around the great fortress of the tyrant.
The lights faded.
Shrieks of agony were heard, then nothing more.
Blood flowed richly down the walls of the castle, spread across the floors, and dried.
