Don't ask me when the war will end.
On this blood-soaked frontier, "peace" is not on our agenda.
From the orcs tearing through the first line of defense to the elves' poisoned arrows piercing the watchtower's flag,
do you really think those tusked, pointy-eared monsters want to coexist with us?
Look at the soldiers rotting in the infirmary. Listen to them howl as venom eats through their insides.
Reconciliation? Never!
We once believed in treaties, in negotiations, in the gold-trimmed promises made by headquarters.
That was before our supplies ran out, our reinforcements vanished, and fifty thousand allied troops from the other races surged toward our last position like a flood.
Now it's our turn!
As the blood of eight hundred wounded soldiers boils in iron cauldrons, and the plague doctor's beaked mask emerges through the steam,
I know something is stirring in our bones.
Not mercy. Not compassion.
When you're driven to the edge of a cliff, when your comrades behind you are about to be torn apart, when the enemy laughs and says they'll savor your despair...
Will you choose to become a beast, or a plague?
Tonight, three hundred clay jars filled with pus and rot will fly into the orc camp.
Tonight, dying captives will crawl back into enemy ranks and deliver corruption to their own people like a gift.
Tonight, we'll drive those wolf-bastards who pride themselves on their keen sense of smell mad, making them bite and tear at one another in their own people's vomit until they perish.
If this is a crime, then I'll bear every curse.
If this is the work of demons, then I am the source of your nightmares.
My people, lift your eyes and look upon this battlefield.
There are no heroic legends here, no romantic epics.
Either we water our land with the enemy's blood, or our blood becomes the wine at their victory feast.
