The bonds of folk and kin are strong, with blood and sweat shared in equal measure. It is a bond forged by the invisible hand of fate’s smith, rolled and folded, blended and shaped with fire.
With repeated blows of a skilled hammer strike, it crafts a union unspoken yet felt by every individual, and remembered with every saga of joy and hardship.
Those who would deny that bond are no friend of the folk between which they walk. Those who seek to destroy it, do so in order to destroy that same folk.
Of all the things upon the world of power and legend, that bond rises above them all as the greatest force which creates and makes stable that which is chaos by its own hand.
Without it, a folk are but a compass sitting above a magnet. Spinning and moving at all times, yet without direction and staying in place.
Blessed are they who remember their folk before thinking of another’s kin. For they remember all that was made and done, sacrificed and forged to bring them to where they are.
Cursed are those who put other folk first, for they are already lost and serve their master’s unseen hand or cracking whip.
Without a foundation to build upon, all things will fall to rubble. And some would see themselves as kings of that rubble, relishing the chance to wear a hollow crown.