It has been 181 years since the Exarchs came to our world. We thought ourselves well-practiced at the art of war, honing ourselves on our swords and axes, but we were nothing to the scaled might of them. Nothing to their cracked-mast wingbeats, nothing to their shining claws the size of men, nothing to their words of power and promises of glory.
The dragons call themselves The Argent Court, and beneath them their mortal followers have carved an empire of smoking ruin from the green of our world. They brought the knowledge of far flung stars to Karral, and our world chokes in the smoke and gears of the new machine.
They have offered riches to their willing worshippers, and death to all else. Their church grows, their armies swell, and the flag of the silver empire flys above all.
But we will not give up our world, not for our blood nor their newly minted coins. We will not see the earth beneath us churned to black tar and the rivers thick with death for their great works. We will die, hand in armour, clutching the swords of our old wars, to let the world live on.