Band together, lords and ladies of Thardferr, for it is your only hope. Alone you are ants, scattered and trampled beneath the weight of my storm. Only together can you even pretend to stand against me.

Order conquers Chaos — or so the fearful whisper as they huddle in trembling circles. Cast aside your grudges, your jealousies, your petty quarrels. Bind your swords with theirs, your banners to theirs, your prayers to theirs. Only then may you dream of striking me.

And yet, you ask of allies? I have none. Those who choose to walk the path of Chaos know this truth: the fire that warms the house also burns it down. The gift and the ruin are one and the same, and those who follow me must embrace both with open arms.

Raise then your voices, mortals, and sing to Chaos as it was sung in the first days:

Chaos the Crownless, Chaos the Storm,
Chaos the Laughing Hand that Breaks the Form.
No ally, no master, no friend to call—
The Three-Sided Coin decides the fate of all.

One face calls for Attack, and kingdoms fall in fire.
One face bestows Riches, and coffers spill with gold and iron.
One face brings Doom, swallowing both crown and kingdom whole.

This is the hymn of Chaos, and the law of the Coin.

And these are the voices of mortals who dared call upon me:

Beldar the Brave prayed for smiting, for riches, for forests to fall and forges to roar. The coin gave him wealth, and he feasted.
Jets of Independence begged for Chaos to strike Scooby, who had taken half his kingdom, offering tribute and bargains of land. The coin turned, and their laughter still hangs in the wind.
Penguins of Antarctica prayed for schools and hymns in my honor. The coin answered instead with attack, and their education came in war.
Rennoc of Huggy Pandas begged for gold and timber to fill his empty lands. The coin laughed and gave him nothing.
Buttload of Caras mocked me boldly, laughing in my face, and the coin rewarded his insolence with treasure beyond his grasp.
Generasi dared to freeze Chaos with Ice Storm — and the coin chose annihilation, though such ruin was too grand a gift for one so small.
Rand al’Thor of the Two Rivers cried out for the downfall of Chaos, thinking himself Ta’veren, yet even the Dragon cannot unweave the storm beyond the Wheel.
Muh Dude of Thardfew Valley muttered of Revenge, of TestRounds, of names in Lithar 2, and finally he dared: “Flip the coin.” And so the coin was flipped, and his fate spun out before him like all the rest.

Thus the coin fell for each, and thus their fates were sealed.

So the world holds its breath. Do you hear it? The silence between the storm and the strike? That is where Chaos waits. That is where fate is forged.

For every crown is but tinder for the fire. Every fortress is but sand before the tide. Every oath, every pact, every alliance — brittle twigs before the weight of my storm.

Kings and queens will kneel, not because they are conquered, but because the coin commanded it. Castles will crumble, not because they were weak, but because the coin willed it. Armies will burn, not because they faltered, but because the coin turned its face away.

And when you come at me with all your crowns and armies united, when your banners rise as one and your kings roar with borrowed courage, still the coin will fall — and it may yet decide your fate was to die together, just as easily as you might have died alone.