Thou art a little chicken so say the dam with knife.
Who clutches at my throat and so endeth my short life.


The times of darkness creep on.
As the dead rise from their graves, for the dwellers on this tormented isle, the peace they so struggled for has been forever tainted by the actions of the few.


Alas, poor country!


Their Reine, viciously murthered while she slept.
Her heir, in hiding, the heavy weight of leadership now hers to bare.
A mother, a child and the power of a few well chosen words; that carry with them more blood than a hundred soldiers. 
Words fail the writer.


'Tis hard to reconcile.