And so it was the end of the Fortieth Year of the Second Age, the Third of the Great War of the Isles. Much had changed in those three short years, the Empire riven with indecision and weakness had fallen quickly to the Northern Hordes. The High Elves were the next to fall, their own weakness and abhorrence of blood shed led them to capitulate to their Dark Brethren. And so it was the turn of the Beasts, their armies were crushed by magic and glistening armour of Bretonnia. The end of the Third Year will be known for the clash of mighty navies fighting to the bitter end. Hatred is now sown so deep that they would prefer to die rather then leave the field of battle to an enemy. What were the options left, fight till all was destroyed? Not if the Norse had a say, not if there was even a glimmer of resolving the Fractured Isles. Of course that might mean the subjugation of some of the native peoples, but sacrifices must be made for the greater good.
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