Wealth beyond measure, tracts of land, hero-worthy fame
Such visions fanciful drove me to select New Game
Were I warned of Horse Nomads, of Trollkin, of Malia and her plagues,
Perhaps then I’m known as Heort and not the rebirth of Urgrain
But with thinning heards, a mood grim and magic on the wane, I know
That this world’s Shitkicker, and Glorantha’s Stickpicker, must be one and the same