The God Wars are bleeding us dry. The king has ordered Conscription. All legal adults (over the age of eighteen) were taken to war. There was no ifs or buts. If you were able, you fought. Our village (named Graiguenamanagh) is struggling to make it by. The smithing, farming, mining, woodcutting, cooking, medicinal work, all has to be done by the women and older children. Right now, you either starve or watch your neighbors starve. Compassion is all but gone, friendships offering the only warmth in the cold. The old men who used to tend to the village's furnace have all died in the war, meaning that winter, rather then creeping in, is choking us with it's icy grip. And that's the least of our worries