The misery of the Third Estate knew no bounds. Endless days of hunger. Nights so cold that lips turned blue. Unending rain through leaking roofs. Hands rubbed raw from the soil in the fermes and the rocks in the exploits. Tiny shards of goodness sucked from their veins to buy a measly loaf of bread. For some, this misery was a wrong to be put right by the forces of good.

Others saw it as violence to be met with violence.

An injustice to be washed away in a rain of blood.

From The Chronicles of the Vangarde, Volume 8, Chapter 14