In the dark beneath the world, you have lain dreaming. For centuries you have slept beneath the cold earth. You were buried in the hard majesty of your age - bronze blades, a chariot and four white stallions, and dozens of your companions. You went to your grave with a feast in fine bowls, pots and silvered plate. Mead and Karosi wine were poured upon the gravedirt, and you were sent to the underworld with a bonfire behind you, to mark the ascendance of your sons.

You fell into the dark, then - beyond the shade of night, into the depths of death-sleep. You know not what time passed you by - what happened to your sons, your heirs. After a time no priests came to pour mead upon your barrow-mound. Eventually the woods encroached on the grave-field. Tomb-robbers broke into many of the other barrows - you felt, in your sleeping mind, that some monstrous thing had been done to your hallowed forebears.

Now, you awaken to the sound of shifting dirt, and to the sudden shock of half-light. For the first time in centuries the sun touches your tomb and your eyes blink open. The feast has long rotted away, your men are but collapsed skeletons, your weapons are blunted. Your own noble flesh, wrapped in fine linens and embalmed, has rotted and desiccated in the earth. Two living men look through a small aperture in the tomb, and, heedless of you, begin to shuffle and sneak into the chamber, looking covetously upon your treasures.

You are disrespected. Disinterred. Enraged.

>Slaughter the interlopers. Rip out their life.
>You are a king. These creatures are, since ancient days, your subjects, as all the world should be. Demand their obedience.