The Wolf Kween's Speech to the Horda Callaecianorum

Sisters and Comrades, united under the skies of the Land of Serpents, proud children of Callaecia; the ground beneath your feet has been fed by the blood of centuries of war. In your eyes burns the fire of the brave women of our land, forged in snow and scorching sun; in your blood runs the hardship of the seasons and the reaping of the iron, the granite sculpted faces of the loyal fellow men.

From the west the enemy will sail to us; through the mountains the enemy will find their way through the trodden paths our ancestors have died to leave for us to claim the sovereignty of these lands. From the west an army of destroyers of faith and usurpers of knowledge, thirsty for the might and purity of the spirit of our land; from the east, an army of loud and boisterous footsoldiers, with too much pomp and no integrity, the same people who have never won a war in their whole history. Our blood has been shed for sacrifice under the sacred oaks and over the ancient rocks, our blood has fed this earth so graciously that anything sown in it will bloom; and they come to destroy and plunder the joy and might of nature that has been given by God to this land, enslave our people, and burn our altars.

Head to toe we are ready for combat; are we not the brave women who have slain all our besiegers? Are you not the strong men who have fought the Roman and the Arab our of our lands? Are we not the mighty race who has never been Romanized and who has torched the night from the Cape Finisterra to the high mountains of Montesinho? Have we not the blood of the Celts whose ferocity has ruled over the plains of Miranda? Are we not the children of those whose hands have reaped the iron in the harvest of the black ages? From the echos of the Domus of Brigantia to the silence of the heights of Barroso, from the protection of our Good Mother of Murça the generous sow, to the Eternal Might of the Magna Mater of Panóias?

It is a sacred duty to defend our fortress Callaecia, from the frontiers of the waves of the sea of Vigo to the abysses of the Dovro; from the mountains of Axturies to the golden valleys of Moncorvo. The heavy forged iron of the blades shall weigh in your hands ready to sing into the throats of the enemy; let your spears grow wings and always find a threatening chest to sink upon; spare none of them, for their men are not men but babbling weaklings, all presumption and no valor; abandoned, our cold winter alone would bury them in the pure snow, for the enemy is better frozen and dead than warm and alive.

May no woman enemy be left alive; let their entrails be torn so that their race shall not flourish, let them be burned for their false prophecies and mundane seduction. For they feel not the might and joy and purity of Nature that is the dwelling of the Sacred; rather, they will exploit it to their profit and sow the seeds of corruption in our children. Let none of them survive! Let none of your hearts be heavy in the wake of battle; as for each one who hesitates before the death blow, a hundred of ours will be enslaved. See not men and women in them, but foul rats from the most ignoble filth. If your hearts stop, if pain trespasses your soul, if tears come to your eyes in the face of the bloodshed, do never give yourselves as weak; for we will not fight against ghosts, but flesh and blood just as ours. Do not let your hearts stop when the enemy looks like the face of your husband or wife or next of kin, a man or woman just like them; for giving in to their smile you shall be enslaved.

Women of Callaecia, those men want your blood and your pure hearts to soak in their poison; brave men of our land, those women will suck the soul and the bonemarrow out of you, and breed against thy will, and lure you into perdition. The swords, the spears, the axes you hold, brave Horde of Callaecia, have only one home: the skulls, the chests and the bodies of the enemy. May none of them know any mercy. Who are these usurpers who have never won a war and need debauchery to manifest their existence? Who are these defilers of everything that is pure and true and burn saints at the stake? Raise your swords and spears and run to the fields of blood; each one of you, each footsoldier, each warrior in cape of honour, is no less than me; each one of us is a Majesty, with the might and the heart to crown the sacred and feast upon the weak. We shall torch the night of our land with the dead bodies of the invaders, and sing victory under the serpent engraved stones and the centennial oaks, in the granite thrones of our mighty Callaecian land.