From the journal of Gliorot the Toothcracker, raider captain, entry dated 21st May, 1489 -
Elbow-deep in a crate of goods, searching for the caravan's hidden stash of coin amidst all those worthless cabbages, is where I found myself when the howl from afar began. The men had just finished putting the ones unlucky enough to still be crawling to the blade, and I was worried some kind of mercenary escort had caught wind of us. Oh Gods, what I would give now for that to have been true. It was Old Gearth that noticed them first.
“Oy, captain, thar be peasants comin' this way!” I paused, having found nothing but leafy greens to the bottom of the cursed crate. “...Peasants? Well, you know what to do. Shoot them.” The noises that came from this mob of peasants seemed... unnatural, as if they wanted to come for us. Shouts not of fear, but of rage. I heard the first familiar clicks of flintlock mechanisms as lead shot flew into the oncoming serf folk. But none of them fell. Some were obviously wounded, yes. But they continued to barrel forth toward us, forks raised high. “Draw your weapons men, these ones seem to be lookin' for a good fight!” With that, I hefted my great-axe, and met their furious charge.
It was, singly, the most horrifying battle I've ever experienced. I have cleaved men in twain. I have seen the blood-eagle given to great and terrible warlords. But never have I seen something so gruesome as the fighting peasants of Swadia. My men fought bravely, but despite their resolution nothing would save them from their limbs being dislodged from sockets by two-pointed spears, from their hands being severed by wicked knives the length of a man's forearm, or from their savage leader – I heard the bloodthirsty mob yell to him as “Hershey”.
How I escaped from that hideous bedlam, I may never know. I sensed the futility in fighting the frenzied horde before us, and despite my dedication to my fighting-brothers I could not throw my life away that day. So I buried my axe in the nearest wild-man (who, on all accounts, did not die of his wound so long as I had him in my sight) and took off running. I blindly fled, not willing to stop until I was certain Hershey would not find me. For an entire night I ran, through the woods of Vienna. At the end of my flight I came upon a small village – Ehlerdah is it's name. It is here I will stay for the time being, though there are rumors that the local lord is looking for hired killers to finish me off. It will take more than mercenary thugs to stop Gliorot the Toothcracker, survivor of Hershey's peasants!