War Marshall Grog steps up to the podium. His basic chainmail armour is soaked with the blood of a thousand vanquished foes, and torn with the cut of a thousand blades. His ageing but powerful frame is ruined with many war wounds and scars of battle.

As he approaches the poduim, a ragged cheer arises from his ramshackle armies of peasants, pilgrims, drafted Militia and bloodied mercs. A nod of acknowledgment silences the loyal troops of the Holy Roman Empire.

He turns to the crowded hall, surveys the assembled host with a steely glint in his eye. A hush falls over the room.

Raising one mailed fist high in the air, he bellows "TURTLE POWER" before collapsing stone dead...