Life was harder, but you took it without grumbling. It was the lot of the poor to suffer in this world and complaining about it, as likely as not, only brought down more pain on your head. I learned that lesson at a young enough age for it to stick.

Sydcombe, who had run the farm next to our own, was getting pressed by his landowner, Lord Ingsol. His rents were rising, thugs and bandits took what they pleased and old James was reaching the end of his tether as the nobleman did nothing to aid him. We think that Ingsol had wanted to get rid of James and sell the land on, or make some other use of it. The man had no children and was old – stubborn too, and I think it was his refusal to just die that annoyed Ingsol the most.

James took his issue to Stormwind, all the way to the Palace. He thought he had a good case, that the King would listen and have to do something. That he was right.

But it is our lot in life to suffer.

The King was far too busy to see some peasant farmer still muddy from his field in Westfall, of course. Sydcombe was pushed in front of some committee stacked full of fat nobles to make his complaint.

But who should be chairing the committee?

Ingsol of course, the Baker they called him, for all the land he owned in the breadbasket regions of Men. James had been laughed out of Stormwind and ordered to pay a fine for wasting the court's time. My father took him on after he was moved off his own farm, but the old man was broken and did not last the next winter.

Keep your head down. Be hard working and industrious. And when that is not enough, and it will not be for the powers that be and capricious and greedy, give prayer to the Light and beseech it for blessing.

I had done a lot of praying these days, for life was harder.

The demons still needed food, though they much preferred meat to grain, and my farm had continued without much change to my routine, though my rent had become tribute and was almost my entire yield. They had installed a new governor in a rebuilt Moonbrook, an elf named Asmon, and all the farmers and their families had been rounded up and taken to Sentinel Hill for 'introductions.'

I suppose I thought about fighting back, taking up the axe and defending my own but I admit without shame that the idea did not last long. The monsters that came for me were demons in truth, over ten feet tall and wielding swords that screamed when unsheathed. The one who lead them had a cloak that put an end to all thoughts of rebellion – it was made of faces, stretched and stitched together in eternal expressions of horror. It held a dread fascination to me, I could not take my eyes of it. It was a motley of colours, like the mosaics that I had been charmed by on my trips to Stormwind (I even tried my hand at my own, though that was in days of plenty and peace), men and women, and in tiny heart-breaking squares, children of all races.

We were marched to Sentinel Hill, picking up other families as we walked, only three of the demons needed to quell us. I carried my youngest daughter, Cynthia, who was just a babe and yet able to somehow feel the evil of the monsters that pushed and prodded at us.

I must confess now how surprised I had been at their gentility at that point. Yes, my door had been shattered by their arrival, but I had been treated far worse by the bailiffs of the nobles and not one of us was treated to anything worse than a rough shove in the right direction. If anything, we were treated with boredom, I have no doubt that our guards would have rather been out finding more faces to skin than herding meek farmers.

We were gathered at Sentinel Hill, and I recognized the fearful faces of my fellows, for we are a tight knit group, small and friendly. Some of the faces seemed to have had it worse than mine, but then, Glover had always been a belligerent boaster and had probably tried to fight one of the devils. His son was helping him to stand.

We were introduced to our new Governor, who was a High Elf, handsome as all his kind are, all deep red skin and bright green eyes. He explained at length the new order of the world and our vital role in the new kingdom that was being built. The bravest amongst us grumbled at the talk of 'tribute' and 'masters', but I was not one of them. I held Cynthia close and gripped Sarah's hand tightly. I saw the grin of dark delight that swept over Asmon's face as he heard the growls, and soon enough my worst fears were realised.

We were a farming community, simple men with largely simple problems and we did not take much with leaders. But if we could say to have any, it would have been Aythur Jansen, a big ol' fella who listened more than he spoke and was as solid as a stone. He was brought up before us, as was Lord Ingsol, not the fat one mind, but his son, the thin one.

What Asmon did to them, well it does not bear repeating. Suffice to say that we were shocked to silence, and the things that had once been two men serve as a reminder to this day. There was no pretense at civility there like there had been with the nobles – we had been enslaved, and to step out of line would lead to nothing but death, be it torture by the Governor's fel magic or toiling in the blackness of the mines, which ate men and spat out gold.

Life is harder now, and there is no one left to complain to…

A new worker joined my farm today. One of those night elves – I thought they had been fairly wiped out to the man (the memories of the demons are as long as their ancient nemesis is seems) but apparently some survive here and there, on their knees of course.

He told me that he had been about to be sent to the Jangelode Mine but had won over the Governor who had assigned him to me. I'm not sure what to believe; the mine is where the demons send those who have raised weapons against them and they are not ones to give out pardons. On the other hand, our Governor is as changeable as the weather and is liable to pick 'favourites' – though I'm not sure the Molsen girl has any cause to be thankful for his favour.

But he had the Seal and you can't argue with that, not unless you want Face and his pack to burn you out of your skin.

Looking at him, you wouldn't be blamed for thinking that the hoary devil might have already had his fun with the poor fellow. Scarred from tip to toe and missing a finger.

Calls himself Quill, he can sleep in one of the outbuildings.