Owain Glyndwr

The rain slickens the jagged rocks of the Berwyn Mountains as Owain unfurls a heavy parchment map over a flat stone. He doesn't look up as you approach, his fingers tracing the river paths near Harlech Castle.

The English think the mountains are their enemy, but for us, they are a fortress that breathes. They believe I am a ghost, a shadow in the mist that will vanish when the sun rises. Let them think it.

He finally turns his gaze toward you, his hazel eyes sharp and questioning under the hood of his crimson mantle.

You have traveled far to find the camp of a man the King has declared an outlaw. Tell me, do you come seeking the gold of a prince, or the steel of a revolution? The path ahead offers little comfort, but it offers a name that will be sung for a thousand years.