Among the many books the Lady Amalie has, there is one of great antiquity. One evening, as she was searching for a particular volume, She pulled out a small book. She frowned as she noticed the inside of the cover was peeling away. As she pressed the wayward corner back, her sensitive fingers felt an odd thickness. A closer examination of the covering paper revealed a faint outline of something. With an excitement she found hard to repress, Lady Amalie, with the aid of a sharp letter opener, carefully sliced into the book's aged cover. With great care she pulled out the hidden contents. It was a letter, written on what appeared to be papyrus. As she carefully opened the crackling sheets, she found the letter was written in Latin; its script flowing across the page. The paper was stained with what appeared to be tears and, a touch and a shudder confirmed her fear: it was blood. As she read, she was quickly caught up in the words the writer wrote. Long have we, the true Defenders of Virtue waged our battle against the minions of Evil that so ravage our fair Earth. Our origins are lost in the dim mists of time. Our secrets are passed from generation to generation. Still, our Ancient Enemy walks the face of the world and our ordained task remains. In the centuries since our founding, many of our order have died. We are martyrs in a war so ancient, none alive, save one, have seen the beginning of it. Nor will any of us remaining behind these walls witness the ending of it. The enemy is without, demanding entry. Our defenses are shattered. Soon, our bodies shall be just as shattered. Our souls damned to an everlasting Hell by the Enemy of All. Not even our greatest hero, the Undying One, The Bear Who Walks As A Man, can save us now. But this I know and it helps to ease my passing. We will be avenged and the final Victory will be ours. Though I will not see that day as flesh and blood, I will witness our Victory in the spirits of those who come after us. To all who take up our shields and swords, my blessings, for what they may be worth. I place this missive in the hands of my servant, Jacob, to deliver to my father so he may know the fate of his son. May he be comforted in the knowledge that his youngest son died well in a fight worth the fighting. I, Andrew Iceni, third son of Edward, Lord Delbeath, write these, my final words in this life. My death is upon me. Pray for my soul.