The sun sets over the mountains where porkpie holds in self-exile. Farmers are grateful to return to the simple task of cultivating their fields. Market squares bustle again with merchants selling spices from the west, trinkets from the east, and llama-woolen clothes from the north.

Barrel-faced Harry, a favorite trader from a distant land, held court in the plaza with his tall tales. But through laughter, gasps and more laughter of the crowds, an elder in attendance listened with a raised eyebrow. Guardian Knights, Vikings, and members of the Legion roam the countryside far from their origins, hunting for prey. They hunt for Serial Farmers and Leeches—renegades who persecute budding realms, young kings and queens, and in one case, livestock.

Also, the emperor to the east is beguiled by his would-be queen, his regent, so he has left much of the governing of this Imperium to his lieutenants. But now dusk settles. Our people rest for the new day. A shepherd drives his flock in from the fields. He stops short and cocks his ear to the east. A whisper on a breeze hangs in the air. The shepherd denies what he hears, for the memories of the Unjust War are still too sharp. But he knows the name he heard. Dogwar.

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