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Kingdom of Bretonnia

The Old World's kingdom of grail-sworn chivalry, where knights blessed by the Lady of the Lake ride to glory on the backs of a peasantry whose toil pays for every banner and every legend.

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Kingdom of Bretonnia — faction art

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West of the Grey Mountains, between deep forest and grey ocean, lies Bretonnia — a kingdom built in the shape of a lance. It was forged more than a thousand years ago, when Gilles le Breton and his Grail Companions broke the greenskin tides in twelve great battles and bound the feuding dukedoms into one realm beneath one crown. From that age of legend Bretonnia has changed astonishingly little. It remains a land of pennanted castles, tourney fields, and sworn oaths, where disputes are settled by the lance, virtue is measured against the Chivalric Code, and every noble son dreams of dying famously rather than living quietly.

Above king and code alike stands the Lady of the Lake, the veiled goddess who rose from the waters to bless Gilles and has held the kingdom's soul ever since. Her Grail is Bretonnia's holiest mystery: knights who forsake everything to quest for it either perish on the road or return transfigured, and none who drink will speak of what they saw. Her damsels are the mystery's price — fay-touched daughters taken from their families as children and returned years later as ageless, uncanny prophetesses. What the Lady truly is, where her otherworld lies, what becomes of the children she claims: Bretonnia does not ask. In Bretonnia, faith is a form of courtesy.

The splendor rests on mud. Nine of every ten Bretonnians are peasants, bound to the land and to lords they may never look in the eye, owing their masters labor, harvest, and sons. Peasant hands raise the castles, fletch the arrows, drive the baggage trains, and dig the graves after every glorious charge. The knighthood holds this to be the natural order — protection traded for toil, as the Lady ordained — and from the castle battlements the bargain does look fair. It looks rather different from the bottom of a plow furrow.

Yet it would be a mistake to see Bretonnia as mere pageantry over rot, for chivalry is a real power in the world. It sends lone riders against dragons and holds shieldless peasant lines steady beside them; it has broken invasions that swallowed stronger realms whole. Honor is Bretonnia's shield, and honor is its blindfold. The same code that makes a Bretonnian knight the finest heavy cavalryman in the Old World forbids him to question the tithe of daughters, the hunger in the villages, or the true cost of a legend. Bretonnia rides out anyway, banners bright against the dark, refusing to look down.

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