Datlov remembers.

Datlov remembers.

All was peaceful in the great city of Datlov, run by the oh-so-charming king Lewis Brindley, who looked upon his empire with great fondness. 2 other cities were nearby, and long meetings would take place between the three.

Not good.

A man named Parvis, dressed in royal splendor had come marching up to the kingdom, who had recently expanded, demanding Sir Brindley give him 'his bit of land back'. He refused. This angered Parvis, who then lashed out by declaring war. He was stronger than Datlov, and began to murder his enemy, and bask in their blood.

Commander Brindley had noticed his lack of defence; this was bad. And yet, he still charged into battle, knowing he would lead his soldiers to certain death. His enemies kept on winning battles, and were rapidly closing the gap between them and Datlov. Panicking, the commander did what any commander who was failing massively would do: grab a bottle of gin. He drank into a deep depression, become tired and wary of everyone around him.

He was becoming desperate. There were not enough people to win against this gullible idiot named Parvis. Then the day came. They approached the gates. The commander, desperately clinging onto anything he could, banded his citizens together to make a wall, as others sent offerings of peace to help him, of which he refused, yelling profanity at them.

His city was overrun by soldiers, and filled with blood. So, as any coward would do, he ran. Far, far away. To another city, with only his flying pig and 3 bottles of gin to accompany him. There were few survivors. Datlov was abandoned by it's king, and left to die.

Datlov remembers how he ran.

Datlov remembers how they died, and how the great Lewis Brindley became vicious Brewish Ginley.

Datlov remembers everything.

And Datlov, shall rise from the fire.

Glory to Datlovska.