?Pride in small things, loyalty to great ones?
For centuries, the Marcher Households have followed the beat of the Empire's drums. Aided by the Landskeepers' magic and inspired by the faithful of the monasteries, the Marcher armies have been built from the strength of the yeomen's arms, the courage of their hearts, and the knowledge that they fight for the green fields of home. Stubborn as stone, they give ground grudgingly, and even if they are forced to retreat they are not defeated: they will return.
The Marches are the guts of the Empire. They may not be pretty, but they are vital. They fought a war of independence long ago and they will die, one and all, before they give up their freedoms. None stands above another but that their neighbours put them there. Everything they have they have taken with blood and sweat, every season, their prosperity dragged from the soft earth with every harvest. Nature is their servant, bound and shackled with looming menhirs and iron ploughshares, a hound tamed and set to lie before their doors.
They understand sacrifice - not the easy sacrifice of blood for the harvest, but the hard sacrifice of lives spent day after day working for the future.
The Marches is the sleeping giant of Empire. Enemy boots churn up the rich soil, as the dog days of summer give way to the cold dawn of autumn ? and to war.
Hearth and home, loyalty and land. Rivalry, pride and a nation of traditions. Sentinel hills, silent marshes, and standing stones that mark their dominance over the fields. Generation to generation tilling the good, dark earth as their forebears did, and reaping the harvests that feed all the Empire.Hered the Wakened, Memories of Home