The Developers

The following people are the implementers and staff members of Shadow Siege and their contact email address:
'Give me a hymn to a good Welsh tune to bring out the pride of race and love of country. The key is minor and the very breath of Wales. I thought of the mountains and valleys; of the great names of the north filled with magic; of Plynlymon, Snowdon and Cader Idris, the mountain chair of the clouds, and the great flat tracts where the Roman legions formed; of ancient Brecon that still echoes the clash of alien swords; of Senny, and the Little England beyond Wales. I saw a vision of ancients long dead whose bones have kindled the fire of greatness; of Howell Harris and William Williams, great with the Word. I thought of my river, the Afon-Lwydd, that my father had fished in youth, with rod and line for the leaping salmon under the drooping alders. The alders, he said, that fringed the banks ten deep, planted by the wind of the mountains. But no salmon leap in the river now, for it is black with furnace washings and slag, and the great silver fish have been beaten back to the sea or gasped out their lives on sands of coal. No alders stand now for they have been chopped as fuel for the cold blast. Even the mountains are shells, groaning in their hollows of emptiness, trembling to the arrows of the pitprops in their sides, bellowing down the old workings that collapse in unseen dust five hundred feet below.

Plundered is my country, violated, raped.

On goes the hymn. The wind was playing tricks with hair and bonnet streamers, sniffing at the dewdrop on Willie Gwallter's nose, picking up the hem of Polly Morgan's skirt, bringing Owen's eyes down. From the window I saw it all, and could have wept.

I knew then that I loved my town, my people, my country.'
Rape of the fair country -- Alexander Cordell


And following are past staff members, some of whom still visit or contribute to the game--time willing.


'Like a woman bereaved of her only-born I wept for my heart that was born of knowledge and sickened of custom and law and died each day of hunger and thirst. Then one black day I looked to beyond the darkness and saw a soft light shining from the eyes of a youth who walked the highways of life alone and who dwelt alone among the books and papers in this poor house. I closed my eyes that I might not see those rays, and said within myself: "Thy lot, O spirit, is the blackness of the tomb; covet not, therefore, the light!"
Kahlil Gibran, from Sprits Rebellious