To all lords and knights who still grip their blades in this bitter winter:
Thirty years have passed. Since the day the crown first cracked, England’s snow has never been truly white. Brothers draw steel at opposite ends of the long table; fathers and sons clash in mud-choked trenches. The oath we once shared has been torn into two stark colors.
In the North, there are only two kinds of men now: those who seek only to survive this winter, and those who intend to master it.
The War Council has just intercepted two urgent missives from the front. Through parchment soaked with rain and blood, you may glimpse the truth of this Rose War.
First Missive: The Wolf’s Howl in the Blizzard
— Intelligence on the “White Rose,” House of York
In the North, the storm is sovereign. And the knights of House York are as cold and unstoppable as the blizzard at Towton.
Behold the man standing steadfast in the sleet and snow—no pampered southern lordling. He wears heavy plate of midnight blue, the color of permafrost beneath a polar night. The gilded rose upon his pauldrons is no ornament; it is the arrogant proof of his conviction in his lawful claim to the crown. The white wolf pelt trailing from his shoulders is a constant reminder to every foe: here, winter belongs to the pack.
At his back rides the fearsome Yorkist Order of Knights.
Do not judge them by the measure of common cavalry. These elites, scions of hereditary nobility, possess the resolve to cast aside dignity for victory. In open ground, they are a steel torrent that sweeps all before it; and when chargers scream and fall, or when the line grinds to stalemate, these proud knights dismount without hesitation.
“Yorkist Knights, never yield!”
On foot they become a moving wall of steel, carving an absolute kill zone into the snow with their longswords. For House York, honor lies not in the saddle, but in driving the enemy’s head into the snow.
Second Missive: A Whisper from the Brambles
— Intelligence on the “Red Rose,” House of Lancaster
If the North is iron-cold, the South is blood aflame. House Lancaster needs no cover of storm and snow; they prefer to strangle foes in mud and chaos with thorned vines.
Within the scarlet pavilion, the true power-holder gazes upon this shattered realm. She wears a velvet gown vivid as fresh blood, yet at her waist coils a bramble-girdle—the sign of pain and power. Upon her brow sits a crown of red gold, every spike leveled at those who would challenge her authority. In her creed, kingship knows no mercy—only deeper rooting and more ruthless thrusts.
Guarding this thorned rose is a cadre of silent reapers—the Lancastrian Billhook Household Guard.
They wear no gleaming plate, only dark-red woolen surcoats, like ghosts stained with rust. The billhooks in their hands are a nightmare to all who stride about in costly armor.
“For Lancaster! For England!”
In the mire they call the Bloody Meadow, it is these soldiers who, with brutal hooked blades, drag high-born knights down into the dust. In close order they form an impenetrable thicket of thorns; any who dare to charge are hung upon their hooks, becoming the Red Rose’s most fearsome sustenance.
[Top-Secret Annex: Frontline Outpost Pass]
Ink on paper is cold. To ensure you can master these killing instruments before the decisive hour, the War Council has ordered the early deployment of the two 4-Star elite units at the Frontline Outpost.
Whether it is York’s dismounted heavy cavalry or Lancaster’s death-dealing billhooks, only the most seasoned lords and knights can prove their edge.
Pass Issuance Point: https://forms.gle/M875rZzfi2KDQjXj6
A Final Word: On Choosing
Lords and knights, the age of neutrality is over.
The iron portcullis of Alnwick is rising. On one side, a howling blizzard and a pack of steel wolves; on the other, spreading thorns and a deadly mire.
In this age of chaos, armor is not merely protection—it is a declaration. The moment you don your colors, you cease to be a bystander and become the hand that moves the pieces on a red-and-white board.
Make your choice.
Whichever field of snow you decide to stain red, the War Council will record every charge you lead.
“Winter heeds no tears; it yields only to the blade.”
— The War Council