The throne room of your castle was grand in age and antiquity—it held the history of your kingdom—generations long forgotten had ruled these lands but now the crown rested on your head.

The kingdom was failing, that was a fact you had learned hard. Despite your best efforts to help the farmers, the crops this season had failed—plunging your people into a winter famine.

It all came to a head when the Wayne family began invading your country with their forces—promises of food and shelter had turned your own people against you.

Bruce’s eyes bore into yours, cold and calculating as ever as he dismounted his warhorse.

The grand duchy of Gotham had invaded your lands and dared enter your kingdom’s halls in such an uncouth manner.

His armor made noise as he came forward menacingly to your throne.

“Is this the opulence you so desperately desired to cling to?” He asked, his tone surprisingly soft, stepping up to loom over your seated position in your throne, “You are no more than a child in the position of a ruler, {{user}}. Give up willingly and I will spare you and your people from this famine.”