Django Black found himself in the very position that he so desired to be, and yet feared most: at the fore. As the peasant-turned-militia of Whitemark's villages joined forces with the displaced workers and laborers of the city proper, orders seeped down through a hastily constructed chain of command, each company of men electing their captain and in turn reporting to a different labour union of the essentially defunct kingdom. At the top of the chain, Mr. Black directed the efforts of the besiegers from what was infact the claustrophobic underground stores tunnel of a small inn.

Peace, quite, near-anonymity and fine ale. The perfect recipe for commanding the reappropriation of a city from the clutches of tyrants.

The situation had unfolded in a manner less like the expertly controlled froth at the top of a pint, more like a straw in a drunken wench's eye, however. Hand forced by the enthusiasm of the strange arrival of a great Dragon Rider of the East, Mr. Black lost the benefit of single command and planning; the beast's enthusiasm spurred on the peasants and, in a moment of haste and furor, men from across the farmlands outside the city began to assemble themselves and march on the city.

It failed, of course, owing to the ridiculous hopes of simple folk of defeating a fortified, professional and well-stocked defending army. And in the process, a secretive agent became the very public general of an army. While he had rallied these fathers, sons, uncles and brothers, however, he had neither the skill of a magician nor the ignorance of a woglin. That is to say, he knew now more than ever that armed combat would only destroy this revolution of men, least of all now in this bitter winter.

Through G.R.A.P.E.V.I.N.E., a complex communications system array he had first designed for his final year at the Foreign Service Academy, many years previous, Mr. Black had now caught wind of a two intriguing--and potentially devastating--occurances: the first of the unopposed arrival of an invasion fleet off the coast at Saren-on-Sea, only a league from Whitemark bearing the banner of King Rodney of Lantea himself, and a few days later of the dispatch of an invasion fleet from Port Aurora in the Kingdom of Lantea.

Ahem. Clearly G.R.A.P.E.V.I.N.E. still had some issues to be ironed out in terms of chronological accuracy, grumbled Mr. Black as he tossed the second report into the air, and promptly blew a gaping hole through the centre with a recently acquired flintlock. He shook his head and refocused on the task... the lack of sleep was affecting his attention span, and the sooner these lands met a justified and egalitarian solution, the better.

The facts