Tyrantriae is in chaos, and the Red Queen demands more beasts to be forged. I'm a butcher so it's my job to dig out the consciousness of these poor saps from the collective mass and shape them into hardened forces. I can hear it, the lingering screams of men as they are subsumed within the mass with the others—a futile attempt to keep their last throes of individuality as they're consumed by the hivemind. From the great mound of collective, we forge Ogres, Trolls, Dragons, and other mythological forces for our queen. It is through her grace that they are given new form and now more than ever, I wish to earn her favor through any means necessary.