Don't Stop Bereavin'

For a moment, I thought my hatred had stilled. My wife laid to rest, a final offering of the blood of her murderers to quell her tortured spirit. I thought perhaps peace would appeal to me. I was wrong. I will not rest now until every single filthy, squealing, murderous quilboar lays dead and broken! I cannot kill them fast enough with my own two hands. Go and slay more for me, ‹race›.