Hear me and weep, O Denizens of Serin's Third Age--

In your hot little hands (or cold, large hooves), you hold the latest issue
of the Serin Mystique. Herein your Consortium members mourn the living,
celebrate the dead, and report all the news that's fit to print (and some
that's decidedly molded).

Submit to our poetry contest! Join us for stagecraft and your next star
turn! If the recently named Mistress Scribe does not fling a gremlin at
your head, then she is not doing her job.

But has no one told you? We're recruiting.

Oh poor, poor, Vorc.
How your life forked.
Once your body bled,
You were nearly dead.
But you lay there be,
And called help to me.
I rushed to your aid,
Thus, you were saved.
And therefore you have,
Not been the other half,
Of a fork of fate,
Oh wonder! Great!

To the Esteemed Eyes of the Consortium, and to She Who Stirs the Canopy
and Carves the Vow.

This piece was born from bark, wind, and prophecy. It is not a tale of
triumph-rather, it is a root still growing, a storm still circling.

May it echo beyond its final line.

-Orrun the Master of Thorns, follower of Valindra

The Third Vow by Orrun, Acolyte of Air, Scholar of Myth

The First came soft, beneath no name-
A breath where silence used to grow,
A wind that curled through ancient bark,
And taught old limbs to bend and bow.

The Second burned, and kissed with smoke-
Her voice was laughter wrapped in rhyme,
A vow carved deep by lips of air,
And sealed beneath the weight of time.

But when she whispered, "One remains..."
The roots within me shivered low.
For she who gives the breeze its voice,
Had warned me-"That one will hurt, you know."

I did not ask what shape it takes.
A storm does not explain its path.
It only breaks, or blesses, or bends-
And all three wear the same bright mask.

So now I walk with branches bare,
My shadow long, my pace unsure.
The air still hums with her command-
To kneel again... and to endure.

The Stillroot Knows
by Orrun, Lore Keeper of Herald

A wind once wept through a hollow tree,
Not loud, not long, but knowingly.
Its breath was soft - a truth laid bare,
And every leaf leaned in to stare.

It spoke not words, but something more:
Of broken vows and bark that tore,
Of roots that gripped the bones of kings,
And silence, older than all things.

I did not answer. I only stood,
As stillroot does - as stillroot should.
For when the storms have sung their last,
It is the grove that keeps the past.

Ballad of the Myth Weaver

How does one honor the Weaver of Myth?
How does one extoll her virtues?
A poem? A song? A duel to the death?

Hmm. Maybe a juicy gnomeburger with
extra pickles . . . but how does one choose
which of the ways to honor the myth?

Perhaps some sort of gremlin-flinging contest.
(Ditch the gnomes; they're already bruised
enough from the burgers); A duel to the death

Satisfies a couple of urges. This
refrain echoes like an absent muse:
How does one honor the Weaver of Myth?

I know! Mysterious cookies, forthwith!
I'll take a dozen, though they lose
their crunch after a couple of deaths--

The Mirage of Fortune won't let you forget:
a poor offering may result in boos.
How does one honor the Weaver of Myth?
A poem? A song? You better save your breath.

--Wilomene

The Pen & the Sword

For Tajiir

A rakish rogue purloined my needle
With sticky paws, though, him, not evil--
A little trick to make me laugh?
A needle cuts a prick in half.
But I am thankful he took my sword
For without my pen I'd grow bored.

--Wilomene

By candle's glow in hallowed air,
Their songs arise; both bright and rare,
The bards, the scribes, the poets wise,
Who dream beneath inquisitive skies.

They sing of stars and kings long gone,
Of love and loss, of dusk and dawn,
Their words are threads the fates have spun,
Their voices weave the battles won.

The scholars write where memory fades,
Their ink revives what time degrades,
And every verse, each tale retold,
Breathes life anew to myths of old.

So gather close and lend your ear,
Their quills outlast the passing years:
The Consortium, versekeepers! Steadfast and grand!
Keeps wonder clear in every land.

- Delona

Steel and shield, they take the fight,
Guardin' folk by day and night!
Blades that flash, hearts that roar,
Stand for Valour evermore!

Hey! Knights of Valour, bold and true!
Swingin' steel the whole night through!
Raise your mugs, the brave defend;
Valours might 'til the bitter end!

- Delona

Application Song

The Heralds write their stories.
The Mystics pen their spells.
The Scholars share their worries
That this will not end well.

The Heralds plan their parties.
The Mystics cast their bones.
The Scholars, in their hurry,
Did not update their hones.

The Heralds sing of yonder.
The Mystics are over there.
The Scholars are left to ponder
Who, What, Why, When, Where.

The Consortium with its pillars,
Three branches like a tree,
Perhaps no place for killers,
(But my little jokes do slay me--)

I ask you now for guidance:
May I join your halls?
I'm plucky but no juggler
So don't ask to see my balls.

I'll sing for you and dance--
After all, is that not the gig?
You'll love to watch me prance
As I hold onto my wig.

--Wilomene

Most hardened adventurers discard the equipment they acquired in the
Goblin Village once their careers have started to reach the midpoint, unless
they somehow are in need of spare weapons or shields.

However, not all of that equipment is completely worthless! Old items can
be used for other purposes beyond their obvious intention. The bandana
which the goblin berserker carries is a good example of this. Bandanas have
many uses, first and most obvious among which is a head covering. Another
way to use the bandana is to tie it around an arm or leg to stop a bleeding
wound. Anyone who remembers the great plagues of relatively recent years is
of course familiar with the use of face masks to prevent spreading of
pestilence. The bandana can be tied over the wearer's nose and mouth to
provide a covering when there is a dust storm. Water can be put on the
bandana to use it as a facecloth for washing or to cool off on a hot day.
Finally, the bandana can always be used as a convenient handkerchief if you
need one.

In our next article of series of "Practical Uses for Old Equipment", we will
examine uses for an old red coat you might have lying around.

Fortune's tidings, Serin!

Have you ever considered a life of excellence in 'playing the part'? You
walk into a tavern, and you're certain you can convince anyone within of
anything you want? Your talents are a rare, magnificent feat that could be
honed even further. Consider this: take part in the grand stage, filling a
variety of interesting roles. Learn to embrace the true emotion of a part,
encompass everything it stands for.

Truly, it is remarkable to slay dragons, venture treacherous deeps, but
nothing satisfies more than a roaring crowd. Will your name resonate in the
masses, whispers of a most memorable performance? All of Serin awaits your
beautiful contribution! So come, be part of the magic as new, exciting
stagecraft is introduced.

Inquiries about stage productions may be made at Traveler's Rest.
Membership in the Consortium is not required to be involved in productions,
however one must be and remain in good standing. Please see that your boots
are un-dirtied and there is no blood on your hands when you seek further
details.

In celebration of recent happenings within the Consortium, a yearly
competition will begin starting right now. All are invited to submit a
personal poem, song or short story to be observed and considered by our
best. The winner of this contest will receive 150K golden coins, the
runner-up will gain the lot of 100K coins, and third shall be compensated
50K - additional awards will be made at time of final grading. To make a
contribution, please inquire.

Interviewed by Orrun, Master of Mahogany, Acolyte of Air

Submission Note:

To Lady Valindra and the esteemed minds of the Consortium, I submit this
scroll as my first offering to the Mystique. It is a record of a
conversation in an old tavern within Timaran, a reflection of strength that
does not seek recognition. Gravok's words speak of balance, restraint, and
the lonely dignity of peace. I hope it proves worthy of ink, wind, and
preservation.

-Orrun

Some figures move through Serin like storms-loud, dazzling, unforgettable.
Others move like stone worn smooth by time, shaped not by need for glory but
by the quiet certainty of what is right. Gravok is such a figure. He
speaks rarely, but when he does, his words settle like ancient truths
unearthed by patient winds.

The interview took place in Timaran, within the dim interior of the Gold
Mine Tavern. I barely fit through its stout wooden door, my limbs brushing
low beams and lanterns, my boughs creaking uncomfortably in the narrow
space. And yet, the wind had led me there-and there I found Gravok, seated
in calm stillness among the bustle of ale and smoke. The trees grow wary
within the crowded streets, but in that moment, the wind carried more
questions than answers.

Gravok, as seen by Orrun:

The cyclops looms, a towering figure of raw muscle and weathered flesh. His
single, unblinking eye dominates his broad face, its gaze steady and
unwavering beneath a thick, furrowed brow. Scarred skin, rough as old
leather, stretches over his immense frame, each sinew shifting beneath the
surface with effortless strength. His jaw is square and heavy, with thick,
uneven teeth jutting slightly from cracked lips. A tangled mass of coarse,
dark hair spills from his head and down his back, matted with dust and
sweat. His massive arms hang at his sides, the veins bulging like tree
roots beneath his skin. His shoulders hunch slightly, each movement slow
but deliberate, as if the weight of his own body is something the earth
itself must bear. When he exhales, the sound is deep, low, and steady, like
distant thunder rolling across the land.

Orrun: The wind led me to a voice deeper than the valleys roots... And I
listened. I am Orrun, of bark and breath, and today I speak with one whose
steps bend the land and whose eye sees more than most. Would you share your
name, and the tale you carry in that wide gaze?

Gravok: "I am Gravok. There is not much to tell. I am no more or no less
than the sum of my experience."

Orrun: Then I would ask this: what moments shaped that sum? Not the
grandest-but the ones that linger, like stones in the streambed.

Gravok: "Well, some might say it was long ago when I roared in my anger at a
Lord who thought nothing of striking a starving child who grabbed food from
a table."

Orrun: Then perhaps it was not a roar of anger... But the sound of balance
demanding to be heard.

Gravok: "I simply seek to preserve the balance in the world. To ensure
those who fear those with power are protected."

Orrun: A noble aim-like a great branch curved not to strike, but to shelter.
The wind often forgets the still things holding everything in place.

Gravok: "I want no power. I seek no glory. These are the things that other
beings strive for and what corrupts their souls. I merely seek peace."

Orrun: Then you are rarer than most, Gravok. For peace is a heavy thing to
carry-and those who seek it often walk alone.

Orrun: Do you remember what happened after, Gravok? Was the child spared?
Or only the silence broken?

Gravok: "I left soon after. The village surrounded me and wanted me to stay
and protect them, but I saw bigger threats ahead and moved forward."

Orrun: You chose the wider path-the lonelier one. That is how legends
form... Not in crowns, but in footsteps.

Gravok: "Everyone must be prepared to fight for what they hold dear. I will
step in if I see one overwhelmed or outnumbered, but other than that, people
must learn to defend themselves."

Orrun: Even the wind must let the sapling bend, lest it never learn the
storm.

Gravok: "Should others choose to follow, that is for them to decide. I care
not. I do what I believe is right and true."

Orrun: The wind does not ask to be followed... Yet it shapes the world all
the same.

Gravok: "A test it may be, and if it is a test, I will do what I can to
overcome the challenge. It is all I can give."

Orrun: Then may the test know it met more than muscle-it met conviction
shaped in silence. Thank you, Gravok. Your path speaks, even when you do
not ask it to.

Let this record be placed within the Mystique so others may know that not
all heroes ask for songs. Some simply walk on.

To Lady Valindra and the esteemed minds of the Consortium,

I submit this scroll for inclusion in the Mystique. What follows is a
record of an extended interview with the quasit Bandali, known to some as
the "Master of the Night." Though small in stature, Bandali casts a great
shadow-a shadow not of power, but of presence, and of purpose forged in ash
and loss.

What began as a meeting in the sacred glade unfolded into something deeper:
not a recounting of battle, but a reckoning of belief. He is flame-born,
fell-sprung, a creature made not in glory, but in reflection of it. I
believe his words speak not just of his path, but of the many who walk
unseen beside ours-bearing truths weightier than steel.

May this be a mirror and a window both. -Orrun

Some names echo louder than their bearers intend-"Master of the Night"
conjures images of cloaks, violence, and whispered fear. But the being who
arrived in the glade carried no arrogance. Bandali, the quasit once bound
to Baron Zero, entered beneath a canopy of quiet, his fire trailing smoke
instead of fury. His words did not boast-they smoldered. His tale, like a
scorched page, unfolded slowly: each line half-burned, each truth a defiant
ember refusing to be extinguished.

Orrun: The wind carries whispers, Bandali. But some truths deserve ink. If
youll lend me your shadow, I will put no chain upon it-only record its
shape.

Bandali: "You may partake of Bandali's shadow, such as it is. It is small
and feeble. But shade still."

He sat beneath the boughs with a perfectly cooked roast duck in hand,
nodding with small gravity. Firelight from a nearby bucket of angry locusts
curled upward as if drawn to his presence.

Orrun: Small or not... Shade is sacred in the glade. I will honor what you
offer, Bandali.

The first questions carried us backward-to the demon realm, to the Frozen
Wastes. Bandali remembered it all.

Bandali: "Baron Zero ruled with precision. Horrid. Glorious. Bandali was
his."

Orrun: You speak of him as one might of storm or season-something that
shaped much and spared little. Was he your beginning... Or your escape?

Bandali trembled, his composure cracked by something older than rage. He
calmed himself before answering.

Bandali: "Baron Zero was inescapable. Not that Bandali would ever escape.
Never. Bandali loved the Baron. Bandali was severed from him."

Bandali: "The Dragon went next. It would not take Bandali with it. The
Dragon also fell here."

I said nothing for a time. A single root curled toward him-not in pity, but
solidarity. We were two remnants sharing quiet breath.

His arrival in Serin had been no accident, but a convergence of strange
hands.

Bandali: "Bandali only reached this place when guided by a witch many
thought not to exist. One driven by the demons embedded in this realm."

He spoke of Legion. Of Lady Valindra. Of the seed that was planted in the
Fell and sprouted in Serin. A black mass. A carving forth.

Bandali: "And Bandali was here. Lost. Alone."

Orrun: Severed, scorched, summoned-and yet you breathe. Is that survival or
is it purpose?

Bandali: "It is purpose!"

Bandali's purpose had once been vengeance. But that word no longer
satisfied him.

Bandali: "The Baron is dead. Bandali has accepted this."

Bandali: "But the hubris borne of his passing... This is what Bandali shall
rectify."

Foggledonk-the one who slew the Baron-became the beacon of that pursuit.

Bandali: "He shall know his inferiority. He shall admit his weakness. That
he is lesser than."

Orrun: Then the last ember of your old world burns in this one. If it is If
it is justice you seek or vengeance, then may the wind not lie to you as you
chase it.

Bandali: "It is not vengeance. It is truth."

He spat contempt when speaking of magic and gods.

Bandali: "Magicians are not strong. They are weak. Just as Bandalis kind
are weak."

Orrun: Perhaps it is not strength they lack, Bandali... But weight. Some
rise on smoke and call it power. You carry more than that.

Bandali nodded. And then said something that chilled me more than any
magic.

Bandali: "They do not see that weakness is the point. Not yet."

He told me then how the Baron never taught him to fight. Never armed him
with magic. Because the Baron needed nothing. And Bandali-mute,
magicless-was the symbol of that needlessness.

Bandali: "The others trained quasits in spells. They showed off. But that
is not why the Baron laughed."

Orrun: Theones who mimic only see the shape. But the Baron saw the marrow.
What did he see in you that others missed?

Bandali: "He saw nothing. That was the point."

He was not a servant. He was silence, carried like a torch. An echo the
Baron dared the void to misunderstand.

Orrun: Then reflect well, Bandali. For even a mirror, in the right light,
becomes a window.

He seemed to consider that. Truly consider it.

Bandali: "Bandali shall think on this."

A bunny twitched its nose nearby. A locust hissed in smoke. And we were
still.

Orrun (final words): These words will be forever recorded... Much like the
wind that forever rustles the leaves of my oldest branches.

Bandalis gaze lingered on the final leaf that had fallen between us.

Bandali: "Bandali thanks you as well, Orrun. It is good for the land to
know of Bandali."

He ate another roast duck. Firelight flickered. And the glade grew quiet
once more.

Let this record be placed in the Mystique-not as warning or prophecy, but as
recognition. Some truths are not loud. Some truths do not seek glory.
They crawl from the black mass and whisper, "I am still here."

To Lady Valindra and the esteemed minds of the Consortium,

I submit this scroll for inclusion in the Mystique. What follows is a
record of a prolonged and revealing interview with Cylis, known across Serin
as the Grand Mistress of Evil. Though famed for fear and chaos, Cylis is no
mindless agent of destruction. Beneath her jagar instincts and demonic
power lies a hunter's cunning, a legend still in the making, and a will
sharpened by shadow.

Our words were exchanged not as enemies, nor allies, but as echoes seeking
shape - one voice rooted in myth, the other steeped in conquest. The sacred
glade bore witness.

May this scroll serve as both record and reflection.

-Orrun

Orrun: The wind coils strangely when it carries your name, Cylis. I am
Orrun, Chronicler of Myth. If you will spare the shadows a sliver of your
voice, I will let no ink waste it.

Cylis curtsies gracefully and lounges nearby, sipping water from a barrel
before setting it aside.

Cylis: "Cylis greets Orrun."

Orrun lowers his crown in a slow, rustling arc, golden leaves tumbling like
offerings.

Orrun: I know you have much to do. I will not waste our time together.
Many call you Mistress of Evil, and yet... I see a mind behind the malice,
and a fire older than fear. Tell me, Cylis - what shaped your shadow? What
was the first truth that bent you toward the path you now walk?

Cylis: "Cylis has a very simple mind. Cylis likes shiny things. Over time,
Cylis takes shinier and shinier things until my fate crosses with Lord
Dogran. Now, Cylis gives shiny things to Lord Dogran."

Orrun: Is it truly the shine that draws you, Cylis... Or the act of taking
it? There is a gleam in conquest that outlasts any gemstone. What gives
you greater delight - the prize, or the moment it's claimed?

Cylis: "Cylis agrees it is the moment it's claimed. Cylis feels happy when
people resist parting with their shinies. Makes Cylis happier when Cylis
takes it."

Orrun: The wind often tells tales of claws and cunning - but few are as
vivid as yours. Tell me, Cylis: do you see your early mischiefs as
instinct, art, or something... Darker still?

Cylis: "Cylis will think it instinct. Thinking back, Cylis is born with
this instinct to take shinies from people."

Orrun: Instinct, then - like a fang grown before thought. But Cylis, are
you only a taker? Or do you believe your chaos gives something in return?
Fear, legend, awe - what shadow do you leave behind when the shinies are
gone?

Cylis: "Cylis never think of such things in depth. But since Orrun has
asked, Cylis thinks such acts give fear. Mine and Dogran's name will spread
far across Serin. It makes taking of shinies even sweeter when fear lingers
in the air."

Orrun: Fear is a loud wind - it bends trees, scatters birds, leaves stories
clinging to the bark. But tell me, Cylis: is there a part of you that still
hunts for the first thrill? The first gleam? Or has power changed what you
seek?

Cylis: "Cylis will one day become a whisper, a folklore left behind. The
thrill of the hunt and the joy that comes after a successful hunt. As is
all hunters, Cylis is no different."

Orrun: A whisper, yes - but some whispers cut deeper than blades. What
shape will your legend take, Cylis? Will Serin speak your name in
warning... Or in awe?

Cylis: "In fear of course. People trembling at the mere whisper of my name.
In the Mystique, Cylis asks Orrun to make an annotation."

Orrun: Fear is a powerful echo. But even echoes fade. If the world forgets
your name one day... Will that matter to Cylis?

Cylis: "The name of Cylis' demon is called Sek'Pall, given by the Lord
Dogran. My partner's name will not be forgotten."

Orrun: The wind is listening, Cylis. What note would you have me press into
the bark of history?

Cylis: "When Cylis moves on someday, the next worthy will inherit the demon
Sek'Pall and become a formidable force to Serin once again."

[End of Part One. Continued in Part Two... ]

Orrun: You speak of fear, Cylis - but fear is a tool, not a truth.
Beneath the blood and glittering prizes... What would you have Serin
understand about you? Not just whispered... But known?

Cylis: "Cylis would leave behind a legend. A jagar merged with the demon
Sek'Pall. The earth trembles at our footsteps and the wind carries our
name. The chaos we spread and the death we claimed. The shinies we took.
And the Law we challenged. There will be more to come."

Orrun: Law, fear, death... You defy, you hunt, you take. But tell me this,
Cylis - if even the earth trembles and the wind obeys, who dares whisper
your name when you are no longer here?

Cylis: "History. Such truths will forever be etched in scrolls and evidence
of our passing."

Orrun: Then let history ink your name in the blood and brilliance you've
left behind. May the scrolls crackle with the echo of your passing - and
may even silence tread lightly where your shadow once danced.

Cylis: "Cylis does not need to be seen. For when Cylis moves on, nobody
will see Cylis, but our name will echo in history."

Orrun: You speak as legend in the making - but what of the self beneath it?
When the scrolls fall quiet, and your name is only breath... Who is Cylis
without the shine, without the fear, without the demon's fire?

Cylis: "Beneath all, Cylis is a hunter. A jagar that appears unremarkable
until Cylis strikes and claims her prize."

Orrun: Striking from silence, then slipping back into it... A shadow with
claws. But does the hunter ever feel seen, Cylis? Or only feared?

Cylis considers deeply. The glade is quiet, the wind attentive.

Cylis: "Cylis read the Legion scrolls and Pauwyr was appointed to be the
chronicler of Legion. Cylis thinks he has been slow in his duties. Tell me
Orrun, would you rather be appointed?"

Orrun: I am bound to the Consortium by root and vow, and to Valindra by wind
and will. My ink flows not for allegiance, but for understanding. But if
your truths hunger for record - then I shall see they are not lost to
silence.

Cylis: "Cylis says as you will."

Orrun: The Consortium seeks truth in all its wild and tangled forms. As for
me - my roots stretch toward questions, not crowns. But tell me, Cylis...
In all your chaos and conquest, is there one memory that still burns
brighter than the rest?

Cylis: "Cylis asks what type of memory are you seeking? A memory of my
conquest?"

Orrun: Perhaps not conquest alone... But a moment that stayed. Something
that curled beneath the thrill - left a claw mark not on others, but on you.
What does Cylis carry, even when the shine has faded?

Cylis frowns, then smiles faintly.

Cylis: "Orrun's words are deep. Cylis thinks that moment has yet to come.
Perhaps some day, such a memory will appear and Cylis will let Orrun know."

Orrun: Then let the wind remember our words, and carry your name until that
moment arrives. I will be listening, Cylis.

Orrun bows his broad crown with solemn grace, bark creaking softly, as a
single leaf drifts from his branch and lands between them like a silent
promise.

Orrun: Then let the wind carry what truth it can, and the leaves whisper the
rest. I thank you, Cylis, for lending your shadow.

Cylis: "Cylis thanks Orrun for the time."

Let this second scroll complete the first. Let it root deep into the
Mystique and serve not only as warning or legend-but as understanding.
Cylis is not merely feared. She is remembered.

-Orrun the Master of Mahogany, Chronicler of Myth

"Ask what you will, my child." , he said, and I felt the stirring shadows
deepen around me... As if he were there, lingering. The hairs stood at the
back of my neck, alerted by danger, yet knew for that moment I was graced by
safety. When the realms were quiet, I conducted my interview with a
dangerous, mysterious being known as Volmont.

My first queries involved his backstory, how he came to be what he was, and
I learned that he was once a noble in his life before. Further, there's a
certain perception about him, understanding, and he seems to know a great
deal about the history of Serin; an experienced wanderer, perceiver of the
lost tellings...

Beyond, I asked how he felt about general aggressions he receives from
mortal-kind given the nature of undead and he seems to anticipate and expect
it. My first experience hearing tell of him was night's prior when devout
of the Light and veteran Knights were searching the lands for him.

In summary, an interesting man with stories for those daring enough to
ask... Or, perhaps he would cut one down for disrupting his slumber. One
cannot trust the unpredictability of the hunger, they say, even if one has
practiced control over the instinct.

Following this brief telling, in another interview, the topics about his
noble details and further matters of interest will be requested and
hopefully disclosed. Until then, all are urged to tread carefully when
passing the shadows...

Your eyes and ears around Serin,
Delona, Songstress and Purveyor of Fine Gossip

Interview took place on Day of the Taekir War, 19th Renewal of the
Celestial of Disregard.

"I have chosen this path to always protect those who require my aid. With
courage as my shield, I will stand agaisnt those of darkness so others may
walk forward unafraid."

A man of honorable, upright quality, Tynidas is a veteran Knight of Valour
and sworn defender of the realms - fairly respectable card player, too. In
recent weeks, a rise in skirmishes and the presence of old enemies has left
him restless. Finally, a recent silent eve, the opportunity came that we
speak.

With it being such a recent and alarming topic, the first questions involved
recent skirmishes with Llhurgove and his thoughts on the appearance of
Volmont. Tynidas commented that he does not know the intentions of
Llhurgove, that they attacked unprovoked, and does not currently know much
about them. The eve he was attacked, he sought to hunt down Volmont. As
for that, the Knight mentioned the vampire's existing Anathema of many
years, and steels himself for inevitable clash. What will come of it?

When asked about Valour, and the morale of Knights in general, he remarked
they have seen some tribulation but remains hopeful. A further boon to
their ranks, Sir Kaelen, Tynidas' recently knighted protege, was mentioned
to conduct himself with exemplary service. Their courage in the face of
danger and commitment to service is commendable. May Serin sleep sounder
knowing such folk look after them.

"The Knights of Valour will always stand with unyielding hope, even in the
shadowed hours our purpose remains ever bright. That is the purpose of the
Knights, and we seek all who align with such values."

It was a lovely Renewal. It was the 2nd Renewal of the Celestial of
Vanity when I was able to approach the Executor of Valour, Ailred, and
acquire interview material from him. Our initial meeting was, perhaps
naturally enough, at the Altar of Light in Valour, where I figured he would
come if I waited long enough. He eventually showed up.

The following exchange of words took place:

Edaena: So the situation as I see it... The black masses have returned.

Ailred nodded and said there were three Legions he had discovered thus far.

Arrangements were made to move to another location less out in the open, and
then the dialogue continued.

I noted I knew of Llhurgove and a certain fire giant shaman but not the
third member he mentioned and he responded they were Llhurgove, Thrag, and
Raech.

Apparently Raech sits in ambush in camouflage often according to the
Executor. He noted he has fought all three of them at once.

I asked a few more questions which are noted below:

Edaena: So, what is the greatest challenge you have faced as Executor?
Ailred: Greatest challenge? Edaena: Battle or otherwise.

Ailred: Convincing my enemies to choose peace. (he sighed as he looked at
his bloodstained hands and said blood does not wash off).

Edaena: I suppose that is an ongoing process generally.

Ailred: It is ongoing, especially with Legion returning.

Edaena: Have you ever had any disappointments among members?

Ailred: It had been fairly peaceful since I defeated the last forsaken.

Ailred: And no, I am not disappointed in any of the other Knights.

Ailred: They all have good strong hearts, and are willing to put it all on
the line.

And after a short discussion about the black masses going around Serin, I
concluded the interview.

Edaena

Observed by Orrun, Lore Keeper of

- Within the Traveler's Rest Courtyard -

Beneath the interwoven branches and quiet laughter of Seringale's central
garden, the wind stilled. It is here, between the fountain's song and
flickering wild light, that two echoes of a fallen era met once more.

One born of bark and breeze; the other, poison and vengeance. What follows
is not judgment, but memory set to wind and bark.

Orrun says, "The roots twist strangely today... Old names return, and old
reckonings stir beneath the moss."

A golden quill scribes an ancient symbol in the air.

Digitte bows at her waist to the Abecedarian, a rather strange if earnest
gesture on such a little faerie.

Orrun tilts his head slightly, leaves whispering in anticipation. A length
of bark peels from his arm, curling like parchment ready for ink.

Orrun says, "Then let it begin-not as a clash, but as a carving. Truth
written not in bark nor blood, but breath."

Orrun lowers the bark scroll gently onto the earth, his limbs stilled in
reverence. The wind dares not interrupt.

Bandali regarded the gnome with narrowed eyes and venom in his voice.

Bandali says to Foggledonk: "Bandali greets you, Sage. How are your
laurels?"

Orrun tilted his head slightly, leaves whispering in anticipation. A length
of bark peeled from his arm, curling like parchment ready for ink.

Bandali: "As you can see, Bandali has overcome the constraints of your jest.
You may mock Bandali from on high for now. But Bandali comes."

Foggledonk: "Is that so?"

Foggledonk: "Do the winds of chaos howl through your head? What irks you
so?"

Bandali: "This is a question?"

Bandali: "Have you read the scroll prepared by your followers?"

Foggledonk: "I have not."

Foggledonk: "Speak freely, if you would."

Digitte chirps: "He wants to kill you, I think. For revenge."

Bandali: "You took part in the defeat of the Baron. You celebrated his
passing. With tricks, and magics, and ascending Gods-you defeated him."

Bandali: "But it was not you. And you do not know this. Bandali shall
teach you. That is all. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Orrun curled a branch gently around a strip of bark, the tip etching lines
in slow, deliberate movements-no ink, only memory.

Foggledonk: "And did you swear fealty to the Baron?"

Bandali: "Bandali was not sworn. Bandali was owned."

Bandali: "Bandali was severed. Not freed."

Bandali: "You must learn. You are weak. Lesser than. Nothing compared to
the Baron."

Foggledonk: "Was dear Valindra in attendance? My memories of the adventure
have faded with time."

Bandali: "She was. She told Bandali as much. And this Avenar."

Foggledonk: "Ilromie and Wylsin partook."

Bandali: "Two gods to one Baron. This is fitting. An equal measure."

Airetha's voice dances over the Consortium channel, confusion tinged in her
lyrical tone.

Airetha (Chronicler): "I don't get why he is so mad. Baron Zero still lives
in the Underworld to my knowledge on occasions when people insert skulls
into the hellhole."

Bandali: "You sorcerers. You have no measure of truth."

Airetha (Chronicler): "Unless I'm missing something?"

Foggledonk (Abecedarian): "You are not."

Bandali: "You are the same creature as you always were. Your magics may be
great. But Bandali learns of the Way. And when the teachings clash, behind
them will be just you and Bandali."

Bandali: "Just the gnome. Just the quasit. And you will know weakness."

Bandali: "You have Bandali's respect. But we are done here."

Bandali: "When the time is right, Bandali comes."

Foggledonk: "Bold words for someone lacking experience."

Digitte: "You are no match for the Abecedarian."

Orrun: "Bandali, have you sought the Hellhole? Some say the Baron yet stirs
in the deep... Though not as he was."

Bandali: "Bandali has lived in the shadows of greatness for its entire
life."

The quasit's hunger scratches him, but he stands unflinching.

Foggledonk: "I will be here when you are ready."

Bandali: "You are not."

Digitte conjures a sandwich, placing it gently into Bandali's hands.

Bandali: "Bandali appreciates your help this day."

Digitte: "It's delicious. Made from magic."

Foggledonk: "Perhaps we could pay a visit to the Baron together. I can
bring your master back... If only temporarily."

Bandali: "When the time comes, record what comes of Bandali."

Foggledonk: "Would that appease you?"

Bandali glares at Foggledonk.

Orrun: "Even the wind is ignored, yet it shapes the mountain all the same."

Bandali: "The Baron is no more."

Digitte: "That tickles!"

Orrun: "A force removed, but not forgotten. The grove remembers all who
shake the soil."

Bandali whispers quietly to himself, "No. No, Bandali. Do not believe. Do
not hope."

Orrun: "Roots crack stone not with strength, but with belief. Hope is no
weakness, Bandali... It is the seed we bury in spite of the darkness."

Bandali looks away.

Bandali: "Enough. Bandali returns to training. Bandali shall return.
Again, and again, and again. As many times as it takes."

Orrun dips his boughs solemnly, leaves stirring with a hush of wind-as if
sealing Bandalis words into the grove itself.

Orrun tells Bandali: "Then let the roots remember this vow. That the wind
has borne witness to your return, and shall whisper of it until you rise
again."

Bandali tells Orrun: "Bandali thanks you. May you find shade where your
path leads... Or provide it to others, as you prefer."

Avenar: Wild Weapons and the Freedom of Research
Transcribed by Orrun, Lore Keeper of Herald

Dear Serin,

For many years, the Consortium has aided the adventurers of the land through
the great Codex, a wealth of useful information on the items of the land.
We take our responsibility in maintaining this great compendium seriously
and we believe all its knowledge should be accessible and its continued
upkeep unhindered.

It has thus been determined that the current Justice law barring the use of
wild weapons within the towns of Serin is an untenable restriction on free
research and knowledge.

Our information shows there is widespread support for the abolishment of
this law. We hope that in accordance with the will of the people of Serin,
that the Justice cabal shall change their scrolls such that this law is
removed.

The Consortium shall await the response of the Justice cabal on this matter
and we hope a meaningful consensus can be reached.

Avenar the Prophecy of Starlight

Justice Speaks: A Response to the Wild Celebration
Orrun the Lore Keeper of

Commander Pipkin, guardian of Serins peace and law, responded decisively to
a prior proclamation from High Herald Avenar regarding the legality and
research of wild items. Below is the Commanders statement in full,
preserved for the sake of record and public understanding:

As many of you citizens know, I am a Commander who aims to spread protection
and order above all else within Serin through diplomacy or as necessary -
judgement.

Unfortunately this day I poke my head from my mushroom brew making to find
something that smells quite awful, and no - it's not the mushrooms!

This day I find that Avenar has sought to make a mockery of the Law and a
public declaration to seek for Laws to be rewritten for the benefit of those
who have chaotic hearts. Before I unraveled the scrolls to find such
unsettling news, I was much more inclined to discuss an opportunity to
revise the fines given for those who wear wild weapons in our beloved
cities. As said before, I am a diplomatic man and understand that it is not
the weapon that is dangerous, it is the intentions of the wielder. However,
I take even more seriously an attempt to rouse the population to
intentionally spread unrest, especially without the attempt to seek private
counsel on such a delicate matter.

In response to Avenar's attempt to invoke chaos within our protected cities,
Justice will triple the maximum fines during the event of a Wild Celebration
to anyone participating in brandishing wild weapons or holding wild potions
within the walls of Seringale, Timaran or Solace. Let this be a warning
that we - the Justice - consider any participant to be in direct opposition
of the Law and thus should be punished more deeply for such.

Choose wisely for the hand of Justice is heavy.

Commander P

Chaos Endorsed: The Legion's View of the Wild Celebration
As transcribed by Orrun the Lore Keeper of

When the balance of Serin was stirred by competing scrolls of law and
liberty, the voice of chaos emerged with laughter and scorn. In this
missive, Dogran, Lord of Unbound Chaos, offers his sinister support for the
wildest impulses of the realm-inviting not peace, but provocation:

Long have those that call themselves 'Justice' been full of pomp and hot
air. This latest scroll from the Commander fills our hearts with perverse
pleasure at the blatant corruption. We in the Legion have always had our
goals of dominion, yet here the Justice cabal believes they have already
obtained such dominion. The arrogance of such a proclamation, It fills us
with laughter. After all, we all need someone else to laugh at and to
ridicule.

Know this, the Legion fully supports wearing, brandishing, wild potions,
weapons, or even murder in broad daylight! We sit with baited breath, at
the thought that the Heralds will shout to all corners the true corruption
that has filled these streets.

Dogran the Sinister Minister,
Lord of Unbound Chaos,
The Dark Lord

The Grove Dances: An Observation of the Wild Celebration
Recorded by Orrun the Keeper of the Grove, Lore Keeper of Myth

Upon the Day of the Dragon Wars, beneath the fading gaze of Nunitari,
Mockers Tavern in Seringale opened its doors to a rare and raucous revelry -
a Wild Celebration, hosted by the Consortium under the shimmering eye of
prophecy and whimsy.

Presiding over the gathering were beings of great eminence:

Avenar, the Prophecy of Starlight, weaving destiny into shifting form.

Valindra, the Old Witch of Acadia, embodiment of Air and Change.

Dogran, the Lord of Unbound Chaos, whose laughter stirred the wild winds.

The revelers, mortal and immortal alike, danced amidst offerings of chaos:

Erratic earrings whispered mischief.

Wild watermelons tumbled across the polished floors.

Frenzied firewater set mouths aflame and hearts astir.

Magic mushrooms sprouted from nowhere, sowing unexpected enchantments.

Potions of Liquid Chaos promised uncertain delights.

Beneath the vaulted beams, laughter echoed, feet stumbled, and wild goods
were exchanged with reckless abandon. Koji toasted with chaotic fervor,
Tippletoe demanded attention with comic flair, Trillian recited praise like
a trickster bard, and Exen marveled at each unfolding wonder.

Yet the revelry was not without disruption.

Virosecs, the Bringer of Nightmares, found himself repeatedly accosted by
the city's guards - shouted down, struck, and pursued within the Tavern's
very heart. Despite calls for peace, the clash between law and wildness
flickered dangerously. Notably absent from these proceedings was Pipkin,
the god of Justice, whose presence might have soothed or stoked the fires
further.

Through it all, the gods present guided the evening:

Avenar dropped gifts of frenzied firewater like starlight scattered across
the tavern floor.

Valindra laughed and sighed by turns, her mischief as light as mist.

Dogran grinned wide and watched chaos dance, his shadow falling long.

The Wild Celebration closed not with solemnity, but with lingering echoes -
of laughter, mischief, broken glasses, and memories stitched into the very
grain of the Grove.

Thus is it written, that future winds may remember.

-Orrun the Keeper of the Grove
Lore Keeper of Myth | Acolyte of Air | Herald of Serin

I have spent many moons of late within the confines of my tower, away
from the hum of Serin. When one removes themselves from the daily rhythm of
the world, the perception of "now" begins to shift. I have realized that
our understanding of time is often limited by our desire to measure it,
rather than inhabit it.

We are taught to view time as linear. A constant. But as I have watched
the sky and the way energy moves through the world, I have come to see it
differently. Time is not a steady progression; it is a conductivity.

Consider how energy chooses its path. It does not move slowly or
thoughtfully; it finds the path of least resistance and completes an arc
instantaneously. I believe the significant moments of our lives function in
much the same way. We spend years in preparation, a slow buildup of
potential that we often mistake for the passage of time itself.

Yet, the true substance of our lives occur in the arc. They are the sudden
connections between who we were and who we are becoming. From my
perspective, a century of preparation and the single second of realization
hold equal weight. One provides the tension while the other provides the
discharge.

When a powerful force passes through a medium, it leaves a trace. Even
after the energy has dissipated, the air remains altered and the ground
retains a hum. Time leaves similar traces. I have found that the past is
not behind us in the way a road stays behind a traveler. Rather, it is a
resonance that we carry. The more intense the moment, the more conductive
our memories become. This is why a single day from decades ago can feel
more vibrant and present than the entirety of last week. We are not simply
moving away from our past, for we are actually vibrating at the frequency it
set for us.

Time passes most gracefully when we stop trying to catch it and instead
allow ourselves to be the medium through which it flows. Do not worry about
the speed of your life. A spark is no less meaningful because it is brief.
In fact, its brevity is exactly what allows it to pierce the darkness.

Be the path of least resistance and let the moments arc through you without
the need to contain them. There is a profound peace in realizing that while
we cannot stop the current, we were always meant to be the ones who
facilitate its passage.

Forbearingly,
Foggledonk

Obituary: Bonfo, the Master of Moustache

Some souls slip unseen through the shadows. Others stride boldly into the
pages of legend, their laughter carried on every breeze.

Bonfo, the Master of Moustache, was a halfling who needed no cloak of night.

Brazen, brilliant, and endlessly mischievous, he turned the art of daylight
thievery into a craft - plying his trade under the gaze of sun and stranger
alike, turning every marketplace into a stage, and every pursuit into a game
worth savoring.

In his time upon Serin, Bonfo was no mere trickster.
He was a contributor to the Mystique, a scholar of roguery,
penning works such as Bonfo's Blackjack Almanac,
and offering the world a rare glimpse into the wit and cunning of a true
artisan of deception.

He lent his laughter and cleverness to the annals of Serin,
a contributor to stories that stretched beyond gold and shadow,
enriching history with the light of daring spirit.

Now, Bonfo's steps have ceased upon mortal soil.
He has crossed the unseen threshold, entering the Halls of the Exalted -
a place reserved only for those who have left an indelible mark upon the
fabric of Serin.

There, amid the stories of heroes and scoundrels alike, his spirit endures:
forever clever, forever laughing, forever free.

Bonfo's moustache may no longer twirl in the winds of Serin,
but the echo of his brazenness shall linger -
in every audacious theft, every sly disguise,
and every soul who dares to grin at the impossible and walk forward anyway.

Thus recorded,
by bark, by breath, by memory.

-Orrun
Lore Keeper of Myth | Acolyte of Air | Herald of Serin

Fawneria the Grand Spectre of Selective Delusions

Farewell, farewell, Fawneria,
though I don't understand the hysteria:
A pixie with teeth
but lurking beneath
was a killer who knew every area.

--Wilomene

Kelmia the Grand Mistress of Seasons

I sing of the Warlord Kelmia,
A Blademistress who could sell me a
Graveyard Vacation--
No hesitation!--
Though she took the trip first ("just kill me, ugh!")

--Wilomene

Dumdee the Holy Patriarch of Healing, Annotator of Religion

For the Mystic giant lost his head,
Or, if he kept it, he is still dead.
Dumdee, we miss you.
Hand me a tissue--
I swear these are tears that I shed.

--Wilomene

Digitte the Scrying Sorceress of Acadia

The faerie Mystic of Arcana
touched the sphere, now she's a goner.
Digitte, we dug it--
Oh, motherf&#! it--
I hope what you find is nirvana.

--Wilomene

Darling

Was there ever a man so debonair?
Dashing and handsome with wind in his hair?
He invented the phrase devil-may-care.
To Burroughs, aye, to Burroughs.

Stalking his prey and frightening his friends,
He hardly ever tried to make amends
And then gave us all a case of the bends.
Dear Burroughs, aye, to Burroughs.

He slit the throats in need of slitting,
(A droll affair from where I'm sitting)
And even had the goats all shitting.
To Burroughs, yes, that Burroughs.

He is the scoundrel of which I now sing
In the Lazarus pit, the bones licked clean,
And never again to call us darling.
Gone Burroughs, yes, dead Burroughs.

--Valindra

Thrag the Holy Shaman

A demon dies, as does the giant,
Though neither was that self-reliant.
Cat's out of the bag--
Farewell to dear Thrag--
The heat of ice consumes, defiant.

--Wilomene

Prologue

(A bard strums a dented lute in a moonlit glade. Several goblins peek from
behind bushes, stealing snacks strategically laid out and pretending not to
listen.)

"In a moonlit glade where goblins crept, the bard, she played while others
slept, with gold and song she won their pride, "Come join the stage!"
Loudly, she cried."

(... And with the proper amount of coin, nine were conscripted - with very
vague instructions.)

(Nine goblins stumble out on the makeshift stage, dressed in colorful
mismatched robes. One has a bucket on their head. They salute the audience
at random intervals.)

The Conscripted...

Warfare: Thick, loud, smells faintly of brimstone. Crimson robes
embroidered with tiny swords. Talks really loud...

Literature: Ink-stained blue robes, quills everywhere. Reads things
upside-down and declares "acting" at random.

Fundamental: Simple grey robe, carries a huge tome with a lock on it.
Thinks everything's very serious.

Physical: Bronze robe, pockets full of dirt, pebbles, and twigs. Speaks to
inanimate objects, constantly collects random items.

Arcane: Glittery violet robe full of shifting stars. Dramatic finger
wiggles. Makes "magic" noises.

Religion: Dressed in gold and white, blesses everything. Cheese, buckets,
anything really.

Tragedy: In black silk, sighing constantly. Every breath a monologue.

History: Brown robes of parchment, covered in scrolls. Writes constantly,
even when nothing's happening.

Myth: Silver and pale blue, faintly glowing. Probably the most
understandable of the bunch...

ACT I, "What Are We Doing?"

(The nine goblins waddle onto a stage made of barrels and crates crates.
The sign above reads "THE PILLARS! (Probably)." Physical is gently patting
a chair, History is doodling, Myth stands ominously to the side...)

Warfare: Right! We here to... To... What we doing agains?

Literature: It say we "embodyin'." Me dunno what dat means, but it sound
smelly. Maybe we hum real serious.

Arcane: (sparkly fingers) Bard lady said we's "symbols of pillars!" - means
we important, probably.

Fundamental: Sound va-gue. Me hates va-gue.

Religion: Me got paid in cheese. Praises be! (kisses, and blesses, the
cheese)

Tragedy: The cheese speaks, yet nones listen. (sighs, candle flickers out)

Physical: Pillars need props! (acquiring a nearby stick, he pets it) Me
bring. Stick important.

Warfare: We got cheese, stick, and ... Mysterious... (everyone stares at
Myth, then amongst themselves. After, Warfare stamps a fist on a barrel)
Where battle!?

(Arcane tries to relight candle, accidentally sets sleeve on fire.)

Warfare: FIRE ATTACKING!

Religion: (throws ale) Me cast! Blessing! BXucygaGH!

(The sleeve smolders. Everyone cheers anyway.)

Fundamental: So we embodys now?

Tragedy: At last, my purpose!

(A crate breaks under them. Half the cast tumbles offstage.)

Warfare: Yess! Glorious battle!

(Curtain, a dirty blanket, falls halfway. End scene.)

ACT II, "Important Topics (of dirt...?) "

(The goblins huddle around center stage; a wobbly crate with a smudge
labeled "PILLARS" - each has a script in their hand, looking confused...
Finally, Physical sets a rock proudly on top of the crate. They all cackle
and agree, seeming to approve.)

Warfare: We starts wit somefin' dramaticses. Like... WAR! Loud,
bu-ra-saa-RAH, everyone shouts!

Literature: No, no, no! Gotta start wit words. "Once upons night dat dark"
or maybe... "In de beginnin' snacks."

Fundamental: Make plots first, den loud. Structures, den chaoses.

Physical: (holding rock aloft) Me found prop! It strange artifact. (just a
normal rock)

Arcane: Rock is magical! (wiggles fingers; nothing happens)

(They all gasp anyway, nodding and grunting like they just saw incredible
wonders.)

Religion: Me bless de rock! (sprinkles ale) It holy rock of dirt now.

Tragedy: De rock will betray us all... (sighs dramatically, making a faint
pose but peeks one eye to see if anyone's looking)

History: Ancient Gobex say rocks not betray anyone. Only pebbles do.

Warfare: Den we betray rock first! Get ahead of it!

(Several cheer for reasons unclear, Physical is distracted, History is now
doodling what seems to be goblin letters on the stage-top with soot, and
Myth is standing off the stage on a nearby table for some reason.)

(A nearby goblin stagehand hurls another dirty cloth overhead, symbolizing
'next act'... It happens very late)

ACT III, "Making Progress"

(The goblins regroup. The rock has mysteriously returned.)

Warfare: Right! We all here embodyin'... We gots war, blessin's, and
betrayals! Dat's plot, right?

Literature: Needs depth! Like... Inner struggles! Monologues-ses!

Physical: Me make scenery. (gestures proudly to a chair with leaves stuck
on it) Dis tree now.

Arcane: Yes! Me add lightning for drama! ZyYusyk! (waves hands - a weak
spark fizzles out and hits Tragedy's sleeve)

Tragedy: (clutching arm) Abas! Me struck down, cruel destin-ty! Tell me
story-... (sneezes glitter) - of my fall!

Fundamental: Dis story no make sense.

Myth: (now standing on another table, on the opposite side) And dat's how
creating works! It all nonsense, but to someone it mean somefing.

Fundamental: Hmmm... Dat make sense. Maybes.

(Everyone nods like this is the wisest thing ever said. Then they forget it
immediately.)

Warfare: Alright! Now, we embody - and then, fight!

(They all start swinging sticks and chairs at invisible foes and themselves.
Religion blesses the dirt. Arcane claps once - a spark flies and sets the
"tree" on fire.)

Myth: See? Symbolic!

(They all cheer wildly as smoke fills the stage.)

ACT IV, "The Performance"

(The stage is now "ready." The fake tree leans dangerous, there's some kind
of cheese altar constructed in the center... Smoke still curls from
somewhere unseen. The goblins march in single file around the stage,
carrying the crowned rock on a pillow made of some dirtied cloak.)

Warfare: Right! Dis it! Big moment! We shove de rock center stage- nice
and gentle- no droppin'!

(They immediately drop it. Religion gasps, blesses the floor, and they
pretend it was on purpose.)

Warfare: Behold! De mighty... Uh... What it name again?

Literature: De Great Pebblor!

Arcane: De Rock of Grands-est Power!

Religion: Praise Pebblor! (throws handful of crumbs)

Physical: Wait... Dat me rock!

Tragedy: Oh no! De betrayal begins! De rock will be our downfall!

Myth: You foretolds this, Tragedy.

(Several begin shouting and waving props. One tries to duel with a stick.
Religion blesses the cheese again, for good measure. In the confusion, the
rock rolls off stage and vanishes with a sad thunk. Everyone freezes.)

History: Gasp! The Fall of Pebblor shall be remembered forever!

(They all cheer, thinking this must be the end. The fake tree collapses
behind them.)

(A random goblin runs by on fire with a few others chasing. One stops,
throws a cloth - the curtain - and continues chasing the enflamed
colleague.)

ACT V, "The Finale!... Kinda"

(Everyone gathers at the stage center. Smoke has mostly subsided, but their
robes are damaged and they look disoriented.)

Warfare: So... We bows now?

Arcane: No, no! Endings need UhaSYXc! Big finish!

Like lightning - but sneezed! ZXcuuyS!

(Arcane sneezes violently - a puff of sparkly glitter dust bursts out,
exploding and covering all of them.)

(All chaos breaks loose once more. Warfare swings a crate like a shield,
Literature dramatically narrates, "The sneeze of arcane power!" Arcane
shouts out random magic words, like 'fireball'. History frantically writes
doodles labeled "Important." Tragedy collapses at the front of the stage,
crying out randomly, "Tell Pebblor... Me tried!" Religion prays to - or
possibly for - the bucket.)

Myth: (calmly, in the middle of the chaos) And den... De Pebblor lived in
the sky mountain annndd... Dat why dirt sacred.

(Everyone cheers, flails, and topples over each other. Warfare starts
throwing wild punches.)

(Slowly, Physical crawls back to the front, covered in soot, holding a
fork.)

Physical: Where food now?

(The end?)

(Several seconds later... The blanket "curtain" gets thrown on top of
Physical by another goblin who missed their initial cue entirely.)

Penned on the 17th Renewal of the Celestial of Disregard:

Searching reports from Justice over the span of several weeks, one name kept
coming up. An individual whispered to be a menace against Law and Order,
actively assailing. Incident summaries recount that the person of interest
has escaped and outright resisted. Justiciars work tirelessly to pursue
him, seeking to end his disregard for public safety.

Mixed views unfold about the one known as Vaen; some say criminal, others
claim misunderstood. One thing remains certain, his infamy grows by the day
and little is known about his ultimate goals. Does he seek to spread
injustice, endanger the innocent? Is there a purpose behind this outright
aggression toward enforcers? Time will tell!

Any information pertaining to Vaen should be brought to officers. As of
this passing, it is suggested that he has been at-large for perhaps months.
Citizens are urged to treat the culprit with extreme caution and stay near
protected areas.

The banners of Valour wave valiantly in the winds, the clamor of horns
resonated beyond the gates. Spirits were lifted as the remarkable Sir
Kaelen was raised to full knighthood, a most celebratory occasion. The
calling of duty, to protect and serve the realms, to defend it from
darkness; this loyal protector continues to demonstrate excellence,
honorable quality, and courage where it is normally scarce.

In recent affairs, key members of nobility and the armed branch have been
occupied. Some tend to foreign matters, diplomatic or otherwise, and others
- it is uncertain. Morale has drifted up and down, but the esteemed Sir
Tynidas is certain stability will come with time. The skies of Valour
shine, and the Knights are diligent in their crusades against evil. Alas,
the shifting of darkness in the real, stirring old enemies and new, has
encouraged heightened guard.

An interview was conducted with Tynidas (see: Issue 73, 3-6), who made
mention the Knights are always seeking new blood. The order hunts down and
fells evil-kind for the good of Serin, seeking to protect the innocent and
vanquish darkness. If you feel you've what it takes, you should seek them
out in Valour, inquire with their representative or one of the veteran
knights. The good of Serin would thank you.

Legion went from a phase with Cylis as Forsaken to an intermediate phase
of quiet followed by the current situation. Certain intelligence is limited
to vessels only, but what is known otherwise is covered in the interviews of
Cylis, Llhurgove, and Eira in this issue.

The Warlords seem to be doing about the same as ever these days.
Pursuing honorable combat, though one of their opponents claims he was
deathmarked for reasons which were not part of the code. Apparently guild
membership is less rigid these days because Bandali, a thief, was allowed to
join their halls. Jignasa is the current Warmistress, and Thrumdor and
Bandali are the other known members at this time.

The Keepers have not been seen for some time, so they might as well not
exist. As such, nothing can be said about them that truly matters.

Daraelia: So I know yer bein' very busy so I'll jump right in.

Daraelia: Warmaster o' the warlords, how did that be comin' about?

Jignasa: Our cabal was rather empty without many willing to walk the lands.

Jignasa: I filled a need with my presence I suppose.

Daraelia: I be seein', so how does it be fulfillin' yer?

Jignasa: It has been a goal of mine for quite sometime, I am happy to achieve it and hopefully be around for the next crop of warlord willing to take the reigns.

Daraelia: Well, yer seem ter be very healthy. I tink yer will be around for a while yet, no?

Daraelia: Any current members yer wish to speak on, or are particularly proud of?

Jignasa: I am not one to predict the future, but I do hope so.

Jignasa: I think most members still have a ways to prove themselves.

Jignasa: I do hope they will increase their presence and duels.

Jignasa: In time we shall see.

Daraelia: Do yer be forseein' any wars brewin'? Perhaps against the justices, those Knights, or in the recent emergence o' the Legions?

Jignasa: Not at this time no.

Daraelia: Any personal beefs with any o' them?

Jignasa: No not really.

Jignasa: Things have been quiet.

Daraelia: And what o' that unaffiliated guy, um... what be his name... the one attackin' all the establishments?

Daraelia: A ranger, Vaen I think it be?

Jignasa: I don't have any opinion on him.

Jignasa: He does what he does.

Daraelia: Alright, I be wrappin' up soon, but this one be near and dear to me heart.

Daraelia: Are yer a big fan o' adventure?

Jignasa: Not lately, things have been good and quiet.

Daraelia: Perhaps I can be convincin' yer sometime down the road.

Jignasa: Aye perhaps.

Daraelia: Final Question. As leader o' Warlords, what do you be seekin' from the world, and what do yer be wantin' them to seek from yer?

Jignasa: Just good battles and honor.

Daraelia: That be seemin' simple enough.

Daraelia: Thank yer fer takin' this time out ter speak ter me.

Jignasa: Thank you.

-Daraelia Silverforge

Daraelia: Thank yer fer takin' time out o' yer busy... whatever it is yer be doin' ter speak ter me.

Daraelia: Yer bein' the first one I be seein' wearin' the banner o' Legion openly in a long time, how did that come about?

Llhurgove: I was visited by a shadow long ago after I departed from the swampy bog. It spoke of a purpose that aligned well with mine.
Daraelia: A shadow? Do yer be knowin' o' its origin?

Llhurgove: Hrm.. something ancient. As old as the weeping willows on the mountainside, and the murky rootwood from which I came.

Daraelia: So this shadow enticed yer to take a demon onto yerself?

Llhurgove: My sentient side has always been hollow to some extent. Allowing the entity to share this vessel with I, did not concern me to any degree.

Llhurgove: There was once a life which I care not to remember.

Daraelia: I see

Daraelia: The organizational structure o' the Legion be a mystery to me, can you speak to it? Specifically who leads you?

Llhurgove: The Dark Lord, of course. That should be common knowledge to any who roam the realm.

Daraelia: Well, o' course, but he be more o' a behind the scenes type o' guy.

Daraelia: I be meetin' two o' yer now, and that big giant guy tried to kill me. Thankfully I still bein' here.

Daraelia: Just wonderin' if there bein' a peckin' order or no, if it bein' secret, I understand.

Daraelia: But inquirin' minds do want ter know.

Llhurgove: I will not give names, but it seems you have met one other.

Daraelia: Historically, there has been a bit o' infightin' for supremacy, from what I be readin'

Llhurgove: The halls have been vacant since the war with the Justice cabal, I have discovered.

Daraelia: Does that still bein' a thing?

Llhurgove: From what I gather, the old guard was wiped out after the regiment before them perhaps lost the war. Stories, these.

Daraelia: So... the new Legion bein' more unified, then?

Llhurgove: Perhaps.. that is to be discovered, truly.

Daraelia: I trust yer be keepin' me informed on that.

Daraelia: Well, if I be survivin' yer assaults, collectively.

Llhurgove: Oh? This sounds like Vessel intel.

Daraelia: So to more public matters, do yer still be 'oldin' a flame fer those Justices?

Llhurgove: That was before my time. I do not feel any angst or ire towards it.

Daraelia: I see, I see.

Daraelia: And what are your thoughts on them Knights?

Llhurgove: Someone whom I recently battled and nearly triumphed over had a good perspective on this, albeit slightly flawed with arrogance.

Llhurgove: Everyone serves their own purpose and contradicts their own virtues or beliefs to suit their needs.

Daraelia: Even the Knights?

Daraelia: They be followin' a set o' virtues, no?

Llhurgove: They are merely following what they believe, but in the process have angered many.

Llhurgove: Which corner of the realm will you go to ask the same question? I guarantee you will(not?) yield different results in the topic.

Daraelia: Bein' diametrically opposed I'm sure yer have had your own encounters with them, no?

Daraelia: Any juicy tidbits to impart?

At this point Llhurgove pulls out the head of Tynidas and throws it in the river.

Llhurgove: They are our mortal enemies. What do you expect?

Daraelia: I hold no expectations, merely ter observe and report.

Daraelia: So a victory oer the Guardian Tynidas, was it? I rather liked that guy.

Llhurgove: He is a brave soldier.

Daraelia: Aye. Any dealin's or thoughts on those Warlords?


To be continued in part 2

Continued from part 1

Llhurgove: Jignasa has assisted me to pinnacle and on some adventures before I reached my pinnacle. There is a silent, mutual respect there. We have battled some.

Llhurgove: Respect is earned. By any.

Llhurgove: Though all shall come to succumb in the Dark Lord's favor and rule.

Daraelia: Well, given and gotten, as I be seein' it. Or die, is it?

Llhurgove then drops some fur recognizable as Vaen's that scatters in the wind

Daraelia: I be seein' that fur scatterin' o'er there. Was that another victory for the Dark Lord?

Llhurgove: Only a battle of skirmishes. He is marked for death, however.. and not just by us.

Daraelia: Has he too, earned your respect?

Llhurgove: Whether I die, or they die, or a good battle is fought, respect can be earned.

Llhurgove: I believe he has, save his incessant whining, he is a good fighter. Arrogant, but skilled.

Daraelia: I be seein' a bunch o' creepy lookin' trees e'erywhere lately, be that yer doin'?

Llhurgove shakes her head.

Llhurgove: Though they do seem to be spreading.

Daraelia: What plans does the Dark Army have fer the future?

Llhurgove: To rebuild, first and foremost.

Llhurgove: Then the realm is our oyster.

Daraelia: I be thankin' yer fer takin' the time out ter be speakin' with me. As per our agreement, I'll be keepin' my eye out when yer bein' around.

-Daraelia Silverforge

Daraelia: I be sensin' demonic energy from yer.

Daraelia: Yer be one o' dem vessels?

Eira: That I am.

Daraelia: I thank yer fer takin' the time ter speak with me today.

Eira: I have nothing better to do.

Daraelia: I see that yer were plenty busy fightin' the Guardian.

Daraelia: How did that battle be goin'?

Eira: Rough as usual. Tynidas is a difficult foe as a storm giant.

Eira: Will be needing to try unusual tactics to best him.

Daraelia: What do yer be findin' most frustratin' when fightin' 'im?

Daraelia: Be it size and strength? Or perhaps the skill?

Eira: Well... That is a surprising question! He resist everything a monk stands for.

Eira: His size and skin being tough as nails for sure.

Daraelia: Oh, the defensive prowess, aye.

Daraelia: So... a draw for today then?

Eira: He has the upper hand for now.

Daraelia: Well yer know what they be sayin', the bigger they are....

Daraelia: So yer be lookin' like a jagar, but yer bein' a demon. How did that be comin' about?

Eira: A vessel, a contract with the demonkind.

Eira: Allowing their possession on us for powers unheard.

Daraelia: Powers eh? How did those be manifestin'?

Eira: By tapping on to our inner demon.

Daraelia: So yer always be havin' the gremlin's in yer?

Eira: Always.

Daraelia: Seems like somethin' yer can be seein' a healer fer, instead o' goin' the other way.

Eira: Needing to suppress them at times. Makes our lives interesting.

Daraelia: I be quite proficient at exorcism.

Eira: No spells will work on us for it is a promise, an oath to the demonkind.

Eira: No exorcism breaks an oath.

Daraelia: Ah, an oath.

Daraelia: True, those be based on the strength of conviction o' the individual.

Daraelia: So yer be supplicatin' to the Dark Lord, with that oath? Be hearin' a lot 'bout 'im these days.

Eira: It all started from a cooperation between the Dark Lord and the Demonkind.

Eira: What goes about in the heavens, I cannot say, but one thing is certain, the demonkind has promised to aid us.

Eira: And with it comes power.

Daraelia: Oh? Interestin'. What be their goal, you think?

Eira: Domination of Serin through us.

Eira: It seems that way, but who knows what actually goes on inside their minds.

Eira: The Dark Lord has his plans I am certain.

Daraelia: What are your thoughts on the recent pact with vampires the Dark Lord has made?

Daraelia: Invitin' them into his house. Be there any friction there?

Eira: I believe the pact was not simply vampires but the undead in general.

Daraelia: Well, there bein' few types o' undead with the mind to understand such a deal. The majority o' them bein' mindless husks bereft o' soul.

Eira: I do not think the vampires are strong in our fortress. Domination does not allow weakness and their weakness of the sun is detrimental to our cause.

Daraelia: Aye that would prevent them from fightin' ter effectively during the day.

Eira: Indeed.

Daraelia: I be wonderin' somethin' though.

Eira: The Alhoon are another matter. I do believe them a good addition to our cause.

Daraelia: Oh' aye, I be forgettin' about them Alhoon.

Daraelia: Liches bein' among the smartest o' undead. But that smell. At least the vampires be coverin' it up.

Eira: If their strength leads us to vanquish the Knights, I will gladly put up with the smell.

Daraelia: If the Dark Lord be seekin' to spread shadow across the land, do yer think it bein' for the vampires benefit? That he be holdin' a soft spot for them?

Eira: A deep question.

Daraelia: History bein' a side hobby o' mine. Never before in the past did the Legion and Vampires get along. In fact, the demons were at war with them until very recently.

Eira: I do think benefits are mutual. The vampires get to feed as what drives their carnage and if they are strong enough, we get to dispose the strongest enemies.

Eira: A win win situation would it not be?

Daraelia: How do you feel about teamin' up with them?


- To be continued in part 2

Continued from part 1

Eira: I have yet to see a vampire in my travels. Until I do see one, I am not sure....

Daraelia: An interestin' line o' thought though, as demons still be mortal creatures, havin' blood. I be wonderin' what would prevent them from turnin' on yer.

Eira: Strength. We have to be strong enough to stand up to them. Mutual respect is necessary.

Daraelia: Respect bein' a point comin' up quite frequently.

Eira: As always.

Eira: I need to take my leave soon. If you have any final questions.

Daraelia: So what bein' your goals personally?

Eira: For now, to grow with the Legion and to hone my battle skills.

Daraelia: What, if anythin' do yer be havin' ter say to the denizens o' Serin as a whole?

Eira: Serving the Dark Lord to vanquish the many powerful enemies roaming the realms.

Eira: I will be saying, Darkness is coming. The Light will dim very soon.

Daraelia: Lot o' people be likin' that guy lately, not sure what it is about 'im. Just can't be seein' it, no offense.

Eira: That guy be referring to the Dark Lord?
Eira: Indeed. Our numbers are growing.

Eira: I believe we will have a new member very soon.

Daraelia: Yer efforts may be havin' an effect, I see more openly worshipping 'im.

Daraelia: Oh? A new member?

Eira: Indeed.

Daraelia: Not somethin' I look forward to you understand, but havin' that knowledge to disseminate be helpin'.

Daraelia: I appreciate yer takin' the time ter speak ter me this day. I'm sure the people will find your words entertaining, if not edifying.

Eira: All of ye should be looking forward to being vessels for the demonkind.

Eira: I will take my leave.

Eira: Perhaps the next time we speak, I will have taken down a few powerful enemies.

Eira: Be well.

-Daraelia Silverforge

Daraelia: This bein' the Mocker's tavern.

Daraelia: No fightin' bein' allowed here.

Pipie: Honestly, first time in here.

Pipie: No worries from me. I follow the law!

Daraelia: So thank yer fer takin' the time ter speak with me today. I really be appreciatin' it.

Daraelia: Those mushrooms be a fine meal, if yer be gettin' hungry.

Daraelia: So yer equipment be peakin' my interest.


Pipie: My favorite!

Daraelia: I generally dun be seein' mages wearin' the vulpine guile.

Daraelia: What be leadin' yer ter be doin' that?

Pipie: I was causeing mischief at emerald forest the other day, and a well dress fellow suggested this to me.

Daraelia: It be providin' yer a good bit o' protection, and a bit o' strength and damage.

Pipie: He told me where to find the first piece and how I can lore the rest.

Daraelia: It not bein' bad or anythin', but I be seein' mages wear more gears that bolster their health.

Daraelia: 'ave yer ever been to Ofcol?

Pipie: Aye I have. Interesting place.

Daraelia: The Marshall there, Diana, be wearin' a whole suit o' platinum that might suit you better.

Daraelia: It bein' pretty heavy, but it'll bolster yer health quite a bit.

Daraelia: She'll hand it over ter the nicer folk, those who walk the path of goodness and light. Others may have ter ask more.... forcefully.

Pipie: I will check that out.

Daraelia: She bein' a tough one, so be careful if yer intend ter anger her.

Daraelia: Yer be knowin' ter be carryin' some o' dem purple potions aye?

Pipie: Aye good question.

Pipie: So same said fellow, showed me this.(pulls out a flask labelled' Aura)

Daraelia: If yer be doin' yer devotions properly, yer can be keepin' em in a sack without them goin' POOF!

Pipie: I keep it topped off

Daraelia: Yer be knowin' about the devotions aye?

Pipie: Devotions? Can't say that I have.

Daraelia: Be readin' the helpful scroll on devote.

Daraelia: Yer can be makin' offerin's to yer temple priest ter get some' blessin's

Daraelia: One o' those allows yer ter sack potions indefinitely.

Daraelia: They won't go POOF then. But yer can be keepin' it topped off the 'ard way until then.

Daraelia: Yer friend seem ter be 'avin a good head on 'is shoulders. Care to put a name to the benefactor for all to know?

Pipie: I will ask if he wishes to be known. He seems the hush hush type.

Pipie: Took me a whole day to get him talking.

Pipie: I am sad I haven't seen him this day.

Daraelia: Some people be sleepin' at different and odd times.

Daraelia: So 'ow have yer adventures be goin' thus far? Any pitfalls?

Pipie: Ticklewiggles, I am having a wonderful life so far. Some narrow escapes, but wounderful.

Daraelia: Sounds like yer be havin' fun! That bein' the important thing ter be sure.

Pipie: Just the other day. Me and my friend was walk north of Timaran, when I stop to drink from a lake. This creature sprung out and attacked me!

Daraelia: Ah the Nalaeng. A pretty dangerous cretin.

Pipie: I was bleeding everywhere, but he was not worried. He is a druid.

Pipie: Stood up and protected me. I nearly left my skin it scared me soo.

Daraelia: Thats the wonder o' adventure, wonders ter sate the desires o' any, but dangers too.

Pipie: Aye

Daraelia: I be glad yer be makin' it out o' that trap. So... what yer be enjoyin' most about explorin' these lands?

Pipie: OH, learning! Mostly about my guild, but learning I am loving. Did you know I can make my own friends?

Daraelia: Yer be usin' that funny marionette thingie, right?

Pipie: Yes! yes! you know! She is so helpful.

Daraelia: A real puppet show. I hear rumors they bein' very strong if yer be maintainin' it right. Have yer be learnin' ter duplicate the creatures o' Serin yet?

Pipie: I have been testing it out to find a good one. The one I use now is the pikeman southwest of emerald.

Daraelia: Yer generally want ter stick to something that maintains the same moral stance as yerself.

- To be continued in part 2

Daraelia: But those giants be pretty strong, so I tink a false copy o' one be strong too. Down there in the ford.

Pipie: Yes, forgot the name but yes Ford.

Daraelia: So, there bein' anythin' yer not be likin' in yer explorations o' the lands?

Pipie: Been seeing if I can get a thousand year old treant but has not worked yet.

Daraelia: You'll have ter get a bit stronger fer that un.

Pipie: Aye, the older I get the scarier the world seems. Strange creatures like an undead creature talked to me. The gods protected me still, but scary none the less.

Daraelia: For all the fun ter be had, there bein' quite a bit o' risk.

Pipie: Been training on how to escape fast.

Daraelia: Be sure ter make friends as yer can. They will be of an aid.

Daraelia: Yer should be pretty good at it. Bein' able to make them fancy gates.

Daraelia: Find some friendlies ter be gatin' ter.

Pipie: People seem to like me for my haste spell.

Daraelia: Like Young Jim, or those Bellas, or mayba e'en someone stout like Diana.

Daraelia: Haste bein' the most powerful spell across the lands. It can change the outcome of a war, in short order.

Daraelia: Find a warrior type ter stand behind, give 'im a little finger wagglin' o' haste, and they will lay waste ter all before them.

Pipie: Aye!

Daraelia: Be sure ter be usin' it on yer marionette and yer duplicates ter.

Daraelia: Slow propbably be better fer yer personally, ter keep yer mind sustained.

Pipie: I am still learning to use them to stand behind.

Daraelia: I believe yer can order them all ter rescue yer.

Pipie: Still learning that part.

Daraelia: Research be takin' time and effort, lots o' repetition.

Daraelia: Anythin' yer be wantin' the world at large to know about yerself?

Pipie: I am Pipie friend to small and tall, wielder of fantastic Illusions. All I want are more friends to explore with.

Pipie: See your my friend now!

Daraelia: If yer be hittin' any major snags, yer can be reachin' out.

Daraelia: E'en the gods be listenin' to prayers, though they too seem ter sleep at odd times.

Pipie: Ah yes, when I first came to this land one talked to me for a good day or so.

Pipie: Very helpful that was.

Daraelia: Most people bein' the helpful sort, even the ones that do evil things. Though some o' dem be holdin' interest in torturin' the weak.

Pipie: Forgive me, My time has come, long sleep is calling.

Daraelia: Thank yer fer takin' the time ter speak with me. Be well and be lucky!

Pipie: Yes yes we talk again another time.

Daraelia: Certainly. Off with yer, scamp.

-Daraelia Silverforge

Daraelia: I be appreciatin' yer takin' the time ter speak ter me today.

Daraelia: An interestin' combination, bein' both a member o' the Covenant and a patron Lord o' Justice.

Solmundi: Be it always a Scholar who judges.

Daraelia: To find somethin' interestin' ain't necessarily a judgement one way or ta other.

Solmundi: Yet your interest drives me here. What questions do you have for me?

Daraelia: I be wonderin' if yer be intendin' ter take up the reigns o' leadserhip for Justice again, considerin' they recently lost their Immortal patron?

Solmundi: I am the Immortal of Justice. It seems my fate is ever tied to the laws.

Solmundi: I'm just glad Illi isn't here to annoy the officers of the law.

Daraelia: Well I no be questionin' that. I do be a bit o' a historian, as a hobby. She was known as a vigilante, if I do be mistaken. Or perhaps just a scofflaw.

Solmundi: That's one word to call her.

Daraelia: Do yer be 'avin' any plans for the organization as of now?

Solmundi: I'm glad of what the current officers are doing. My 'plan' is simple and has remained the same when it comes to Justice. Enforce the laws and breaks the backs of any criminals. Simple and effective.

Daraelia: What are your thoughts on Vaen, who has flouted the law and eluded capture, openly opposin' the cabal?

Solmundi: Yes, yes, Vaen. I appreciate that he exists and is on the run. He will be used as an example of those who break the law.

Daraelia: On a different note, what be yer thoughts on the Dark Lord's invitation fer undead includin' those of the the covenant to join their ranks?

Daraelia: Did yer secretly be makin' a pact with 'im, or be this his own initiative?

Solmundi: Horrible! Those demons cannot tell their arse from their hands. All they do is screech and fly about like bats. The undead may join their ranks, but the law will never protect them.

Daraelia: Hadn't the law protected the undead up until recently?

Solmundi: I believe it is currently written that the undead will not be protected and if not, I will rewrite fate and make sure of it. Rare will it be for a vampire to join the ranks of Justice.

Daraelia: Personally, I would be flashin' my holy symbol at them. Unnatural ter lack a soul.

Solmundi: A holy symbol? Oh my. Perhaps I should be afraid.

Daraelia: Aye hard ter get them ter drink holy water. Well, I would ne'er assault someone I be interviewin', even if they bein' a vampire.

Solmundi: Are the undead that terrible to you?

Daraelia: Its the smell, and yer know, the unquenchable desire to destroy all livin' beings.

Solmundi: You say that like it's a bad thing. The undead live forever, one day you will die. Maybe you should join them in undeath.

Daraelia: I be preservin' this goddess-given life o' mine, treasurin' it, but I not be so far gone as to sacrifice what life be ter continue to exist into infinity.

Daraelia: So before we be wrappin' up, do yer be 'avin' anyting yer be wantin' the masses ter know about yerself, the Justices, or the Covenant?

Solmundi: Goddess-given? You speak of Valindra?
Daraelia: Nay, I not bein' a huge fan o' goblins either, but I do be respectin' 'er, a good mite.

Daraelia: I be speakin' o' my Goddess, the one who blesses me daily.

Solmundi: Lumubella then. Those poor Knights maybe one day they'll strike fear in the undead, but that day is far off.

Daraelia: Well, aside from yer, I not be seein' a vampire in a dogs day. They bein' pretty good at hidin' fer now. Not much to be fearin' there.

Solmundi: As far as what the masses should know, they should watch their step, keep their nose clean and always, ALWAYS respect the law.

Solmundi: It is the structure that binds organizations and if they don't know that, they'll find themselves on the breaking wheel.

Daraelia: Follow the law, or die. Doesn't seem ter be in keepin' with service ter the people does it?

Daraelia: Perhaps you should institute some form o' punishment in between dyin' and bein' on the run forever.

-To be continued in part 2

Solmundi: Haha! You are a Scholar indeed. You know, your organization was almost listed as a criminal organization.

Daraelia: Today I be learnin' somethin' new indeed. Logically, it dun be makin' sense fer a group to be held responsible fer the actions o' one.

Daraelia: But it also dun make much sense to forake yer life for unlife, either.

Solmundi: 'actions of one.' I suspect Vanisse drove Illi into madness.

Solmundi: As if you know about life and unlife.

Daraelia: If my history lessons' rememberance be good, I be tinkin' that the Justices bein' pretty good instigators back then.

Daraelia: Life leaves a corpse and a soul to pass on, unlife just turns ter dust. A good bit o' knowledge that.

Daraelia: Anythin' ter say to potential future covenant seekers?

Solmundi: By the gods, trust me when I say Illi was a one woman army.

Solmundi: Yes, seek me out and you'll forever be free from the bonds of mortality.

Daraelia: I not be sold on it, but I do appreciate yer takin' the time ter speak with me.

Solmundi: I'll leave that judgement to you, Scholar.

Solmundi: Aye, we'll see how your publication goes.

Daraelia: It bein' an odd ting. I'm sure the people are glad ter see yer, though yer represent contradictory tings.

Daraelia: No real reviews as o' yet, but I be 'opin' fer rave ones. Perhaps these interviews bein' a bust.

Solmundi: Rave reviews are the best.

Daraelia: Not a payin' job, but it bein' a fulfillin' one while I plan my next grand adventure. Any final words?

Solmundi: Good luck citizens of Serin. You're going to need it. Hold on to your holy symbols.

-Daraelia Silverforge