You ask why I hate you? You dare whimper through your broken, bloody face and wonder why I slaughter your children and ruin your females before your dull, white eyes?
How can you ask this question? How can you not know, slug? How can you not see how you deserve this?
When your people came across the Great Mountains, we, the Children of Xarn, the proud arahk, were the sole inhabitants of these plains. We roamed and fought and feasted on the backs of the wooly manticore, the wolves and wargs heralding the approach of our tribes. There was enough for all of us–we grew large and strong off the fat of the land.
You changed this. We fought you, but you were cosseted by your foul sorcery, protected by your cowardly armor, aided by your fiendish steel. We died or were driven before your thrice-damned knights. The herds were slaughtered, the wolves–our allies–put to the sword. What holy places we had, you burned. Deny it–I expect you to–but it is all true.
Our refuge now lies across the feezing, sucking bogs of Roon. We live in a narrow valley ringed by mountains that spit fire and ash, choking our children and stunting our growth. Most die young, and their sires lay a curse upon your heads with every infant found dead–frozen or poisoned or starved. Then we eat it–we let its young flesh feed our hatred. We embrace the abominations you have made us, you miserable wretch. Know this before I kill you–I will wear your flesh as a skirt, I will whittle your bones into knives and spikes and arrows by which I can injure and maim and kill more of your cursed people.
You call us monsters? Yes, we are. We are the monsters you made. If you say we love war, it is because we had a good tutor. If you say we are merciless, it is because we have never experienced it. If you say we are hateful, you know nothing–hate is not a strong enough word. You are the Enemy, forever and always. Those of us who grow strong enough to venture into our old lands and see how you have filled them with your hard castles and endless farms will never tire of doing you harm. Every farm I burn, every village I loot, every corpse I eat and tool I steal means that my children grow closer to a day where they will know the color of the sun and taste the sweetness of a breeze untained by sulphur and ash.
That you claim to be innocent only makes me hate you more. It is a hatred that feeds me, nourishes me, drives me onwards. I have defined my life by the anticipation of your people’s death. Not only those that bear weapons, but all of you–the young the old, female and male, rich or poor. If my race must all suffer as one, so shall yours.
You ask why I hate you?
I hate you because you do not know.