The rebellion has been going on for as long as anyone can remember. One man arose from the ashes of the town and proclaimed the truth! We have nothing to lose but our chains my brothers and sisters!

We embolden the colour red with a Phoenix rising under a broken sun to show the end of the Empire. Long live the revolution

We are the chosen by fire, the suckers of souls, and the wearers of sunblock. We are the Alpha Ginger Priesthood. Our glorious leader, archbishop of the fiery divine, distributor of Kool-Aid, and holiest of holies, the Alpha Ginger (for there can only be one) prophesised a day when heaven and earth shall unite in a blazing glow of orange. And on this day, there will be a great blasting of trumpets, precipitated by intermittent ums, and rapturous ahehes.

Though this day shall only come once the Alpha Ginger has enough souls. So give them freely brethren, and give the souls of your brothers, and sisters, so that all shall blink in his glorious paleness.

The Imperials are the most grand and glorious faction of the Dahogrian culture. They are the oldest and self proclaimed noblest house of rulers who have tried for many year to prove their lineage to various gods and heroes of old.

They are the symbol of a gryphon under the sun. This represents their claim to nobility, power, wisdom and self-belief is their in their right to rule over others.

South of the Empire lies a land without kings and tyrants. A land where bands of outcasts, anarchists, wanderers, and ancient nomads roam. Traders by day and raiders by night, the Empire and its embattled neighbours think little of this confederate. But, amidst its rolling hills, something stirs the dust.

Many years ago, the Emperor Frodo began a doomed campaign against the inhabitants of the Westherod. Ignoring the advice of his wisest warriors and nobles, the foolhardy Emperor threw his armies into a wilderness from which they never returned.

Now we, the Western Horde, have seen their weakness and plan to in turn claim their lands with fire and blood.