White Concentration Camps have my Poor Villagers

Once upon a time there was a tiny village, founded by a wise old drunkard. All was good and peaceful, the innocent villagers tilled the fields, sowed crops, and harvested them with wooden pitchforks. It was as if every day was summer in this pastoral idyll. For some simple folk, it were the perfect place to raise a family and grow old, wise, fat, happy and drunk.

The democratically elected council, headed by the wise old drunkard, rarely had any reason to interact with neighbouring towns and cities. They would sometimes trade their loaves for wine and hops, and once a year they would go looking for wenches to court with for pre-arranged payment in the nearby town of Amsterdam, but this was all.

Then one fateful day a dark cloud appeared in the sky, the innocent villagers stood in the village square, and wondered at its size. Then the dark cloud descended to the ground and materialised into a thousand arrows. Dozens of unwitting peons fell where they stood, for they had never even seen a bow and arrow before and knew no better.

After this a horde of rampaging soldiers stormed the village, and the massacre began. The innocent children were slaughtered like dodos, simply intrigued by the murderous visitors, trying only to make friends. The young men and women were dragged away to work in the concentration camps of these terrible assailants. The wise old draunkard only escaped this onslaught because he was plastered and fell down the village well a few minutes before the attack. A passing band of travelling salesmen pulled him out after the massacre was finished.

It soon became apparent that these forces belonged to the cities of dozens of evil [ White] minions.

In a moment of sobriety the Old Drunkard wrote this letter to those who had destroyed his village and murdered his companions:

"When will you stop your unprovoked, unwarranted and undeclared hostilities towards my peaceful village?

My peons wish only to grow crops and drink wine. I only wish to sit in my tiny stone castle and play scrabble with my friends and the chamber maids.

I deplore you, leave us simple folk be, to live out our long and boring lives!"

As he put down his quill and sealed the letter, the old man finished his furkin and fell into another drunken stupor. A hazy thought drifted through his clouded mind, as he dreamt about the horrific things which had come to pass.

'A simple life in a land controlled by honorless thugs, attacking innocents while waving a White flag.'