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A notice would find itself pinned to the boards and roadways of the various major cities and pathways of Aevos. A depiction of a pack of wolves, with curious, menacing eyes. AS A MATTER OF INTRIGUE. I have found myself with a particular word hanging on the tip of my tongue these past few Saint's Days. That word is 'werewolf'; a new word, something given to me by a young man a top a vessel as I conversed with him, and his captain. A word handed to him by someone who had seen some new sort of spawn, more wolf than man, but not quite either. I had been visiting the Vale on a whim as I had not been through the verdant glens of the far west in ages. I'd noticed a brightness from Reinmar, more than I'd remembered in the past, and came up to investigate. The sight was not what I expected; an after math. A clinic full of wounded and bloodied folk. Riding to the castle, those who stood were on edge, clutching daggers and blades, and regaling what had occurred. "Like a wolf", "wolf-like", but when I pressed for information; it was not 'just a wolf'. I've never known dire wolves to assault cities in mass, nor, have hides so resistant to blades. It wasn't the first time I'd heard this too. My daughter the Bishop Stefaniya had passed me on my merry way in the Midlands. "Father, be careful. There are wolves attacking Hyspia." I have not known wolves, then, to attack cities, even Hyspia; let alone I have not known wolves to live in the desert or to stalk them. I had donned my helmet, against her wishes, and rode to the city and found their gates closed. But I could hear the screams from within, and I could hear the chaos. But, alas, I had still seen not; only heard. When I spoke to those in Reinmar I learned of more attacks: seemingly the Vale had been struck before as well, so has Ravenmire, so has Haense. I maintain my position: this cannot be the work of ordinary wolves. I ponder the few statements made. 'Wolf-like', but not wolf; and more man than wolf. It seems crazy, but, there are crazier things still in this world. Perhaps there is merit to these claims. My hope is people might see this notice and write to me, perhaps to meet, perhaps to offer me insight. I wish to aggregate information and either assuage fear or inform the public. My hope is to review witness testimonies and tales, survivors and victims, and find commonality in both encounter, behavior, and appearance. In the meantime, as a note, I would suggest you eye your hunting hounds warily, and monitor them for unusual behavior. We step once more into the unknown. I will make my findings available once I would consider them 'complete'. Signed, THE HONORABLE, Ser Victor Rorin of the House Tarus, Veteran-Ranger of Númendil, Wildsmen of Garenbrig, and Knight of the Order of the Pyre

The Blighted Amber Mossborn Under the cloak of twilight, the infamous dwarven necromancer ambushed the unsuspecting Epiphyte. He swiftly subdued her, leaving little chance for the forest folk to intervene. As he rode through their village on his sinister steed, the sight of Amber’s helpless form instilled a chilling dread. Weavers’s destination was a grim altar, a sacrificial rock steeped in ancient malevolence where he intended to perform a ritual steeped in shadow. With a heart as cold as the edge of his bone dagger he plucked out one of her luminous eyes, a cruel sacrifice to feed his dark ambitions. The forest whispered her name in grief as he cast her aside, leaving her at the threshold of Urguan.

The Brand And The Cowardice In the dimly lit forest road two dwarves would meet their old king now turned into an undead abomination, they draw their weapons not realizing the real threat lurking behind them. Two undead emerged from the dark together with their fallen master, they apprehended the young female. The Mage did cast the vortex of voidal flames to save her yet the Weaver fast as the shadow themselves caught him with his hand by the face. Many thoughts ran trough the Magi's head as he caught the glimpse of familiar silhouette. "Tho-" Yet the attackers piercing gaze, as cold as the grave, was locked onto surprised dwarven fire mage marking his demise. The child used this moment to run away, dodging the ghoul king's spear choosing cowardice over honor. The Mage fell down lifelessly on the dirt path shortly after with black handprint seared into his forehead, contrasting sharply against his sun-kissed skin. The Weaver mocked the child with an eerie laughter as he turned towards her, already out of his reach. Then the fallen were gone with the body and only silence remained, for now...

The Black Parade Black Procession As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an eerie twilight over the forest town of the dwarves. The ground trembled beneath the heavy, shuffling footsteps of a black procession, the undead marched relentlessly, their hollow eyes glowing with an unnatural light. At their helm, a sinister necromancer, draped in dark enchantments. The townsfolk driven by desperation and courage rallied to defend their home In a fierce clash beneath the gnarled branches, the air crackled with magic and the cries of battle echoed through the night. One by one, the undead fell, their cursed forms collapsing into dust, yet the necromancer, with a wicked grin retreated into the shadows. As the last echoes of battle faded, the townspeople stood victorious but weary, unaware that the true threat had slipped through their fingers. "The Black Parade has just begun, soon more weavers shall cover this land" "For Khorvad wills it."

The Black Parade A Black parade marching through towns In the heart of the realm, a haunting spectacle unfolds as a black parade winds its way through the rugged dwarven mountains and the quaint human villages. Cloaked figures, draped in tattered robes of midnight march with an eerie omen, their presence sending shivers through the air. At the forefront, a cadre of necromancers, their eyes glowing with an unsettling green light, channel dark energies that twist and writhe around them like smoke. Following closely behind are their acolytes, pale and gaunt, their expressions a blend of fervor and madness, chanting incantations that reverberate through the valleys. As they traverse the cobbled streets and dirt paths, the ground trembles beneath the weight of their undead forces. As common folk peer from behind shuttered windows, fear etched upon their faces. In this grim procession, the boundaries of life and death blur, heralding a new age of shadows where the influence of Khorvad reigns supreme, and the echoes of the past are forever entwined with the present.

Urguan has lived for a time in peace but due to recent developments some dwarves spread rumors that a certain tomb up to the north outside the gate Celia’nor had been pillaged and emptied of its contents. The remains of a Grand King Emeritus were claimed by the enemy of the living… the kavgar and servants of Khorvad had taken the remains of a dwarf who was willing to do whatever it took to battle evil. A dwarf far too young to die in battle, a dwarf who was still remembered for his good will and kind hand. A father of clan, a pillar of the new Urguan. His soul was on the steps towards Khaza’dentrumm before being taken back to Aevos. His eye opened again smelling foul decrepit odor as he was surrounded by masks and hooded figures in a poorly lit crypt of some sort. The group would nail bone and flesh together with their darkarts to imprison the soul within the cage that was his corpse. The dwarf knew only hatred as his memory was no longer as it was. He did not remember his friends, he did not remember his comrades and he no longer remembered those he fathered. The now servant had been awoken in rage and wrath. As his mind was clouded with whispers of revenge and vengeance. To himself he was not corrupted like those of the living, they were only seeking power for themselves. Arrogance and ignorance was the ways of the living within his mind. An error that had to be sorted. On a fateful day the now resurrected Ogdar’thrumm made an appearance in his old homeland. A day where he made a deal with Urguan. “Dreng meh dwedmar en battle… an yeh all s’all reclaim w’at oi ‘ave… ‘onourable battle en t’a north w’ere our armehs s’all meet an dreng anot’er. We s’all meet at t’e field an seattle t’es loike proper dwed… narvok oz Grelu Khron’edhekal Ogdar’thrumm…” Whence he returned to the crypt he rallied what followers he had and commanded. "All of yeh w'o wis' to save Urguan, follow meh an we s'all enact justice upon t'ose w'o failed meh an t'e common dwed... we s'all expose all for t'e ogdar t'ey w'isper... follow meh on meh crusade to take w'at es ours... Korhelon tha Khron'sirk kavgar... Veloz Kavgar..."

In the dead of night, beneath the watchful gaze of the stars, a cloaked figure slipped through the grand gates of Celia'Nor. The city of the high elves bustled with its usual opulence, but none noticed the shadow passing silently through the turmoil of the city square. Market stalls bustled, citizens hurried along their nightly errands, but the cloaked figure avoided every eye, a phantom amidst the living. He moved swiftly, gliding through the streets like a wraith, until he reached the towering entrance of the throne hall. Inside, the air was thick with a regal stillness, untouched by the chaos of the city outside. But this stillness would not last. The moment he crossed the threshold, the figure became a whirlwind of death. His movements were precise, calculated, like a blade slicing through parchment. Blood splattered the marble floors, vivid against the pristine white stone. His cursed katana whispered through the air as it carved through the hall’s elegant tapestries. His other blade dripped with crimson, its edge slick with the lives it claimed. Statues that had stood for centuries were defiled, their serene beauty twisted by the splatter of gore. The throne room, once a testament to the high elves' grace and power, was now a slaughterhouse, its sanctity forever desecrated by the figure’s blood-stained path. Scattered across the floor were blood-soaked petals, crushed beneath the boots of a long-fled intruder. At the foot of the throne, an animal carcass—a raven, wings grotesquely splayed—had been impaled on a ceremonial spear, its feathers dripping with blood. The air was heavy with the scent of iron, and on the throne itself, a single, bloodied inscription had been slashed into the delicate wood "The Kuruibi Horde claims all” But his work was far from done. With a silent leap, he ascended the walls, his skeletal frame moving with an unnatural grace. Climbing to the rooftops, he gazed over the city below, his crimson eyes glowing through the shadow of his hood. His prey, the one he sought, had slipped away, vanishing into the grand building at the far end of the city. He prowled the rooftops, tracking the fleeting shadows beneath him, but his quarry had eluded him. For a moment, he paused, his gaze shifting toward the square, where a few bystanders stood unaware of the terror that watched from above. The figure loomed like a bloody moon, his presence suffocating and silent. Then, with a swift descent, he plummeted down onto a nearby stall, shattering wood and sending a cloud of dust into the night. Panic erupted around him as the crowd scattered, and the shrill cry of a woman broke the stillness. She darted towards the bell, her hand outstretched to ring the alarm, but the figure moved to intercept. Both katanas unsheathed with a deadly whisper—Darkness and Red Flower gleamed in the moonlight, ready to end her. But as he closed the distance, a flash of gold cut through the air. An aurum dagger struck his chest, and the figure froze, a screech escaping his twisted lips as the cursed metal pierced his undead flesh. The woman fled, her voice echoing through the streets, calling for reinforcements as the figure staggered back, the aurum burning like fire through his decayed form. He did not retreat. A crowd gathered, shouting in terror, their voices rising in a cacophony of fear. From the chaos emerged his challengers—a stocky dwarf, his axe already wet with battle, an experienced high elf wielding a carbarum tomahawk, a valiant knight with his sword drawn, and the woman’s protector, standing firm despite his fear. The figure hissed, the glowing crimson in his eyes flaring with anger. He raised his blades, and the battle began. The dwarf charged first, his axe swinging in a wide arc. The cloaked figure parried, but the force sent him skidding back across the stone. The elf struck next, his tomahawk a blur of blue steel as it clashed against the cursed katanas. Blades flashed, sparks flew, and the ground beneath them trembled with the fury of their strikes. The knight advanced, his sword a gleaming wall of steel as he pressed the attack, while the woman’s protector darted in, his blade flashing like lightning. The figure traded blows with all of them, moving like a specter among the living. His screeches filled the night, the guttural sound of a soul lost to madness. Yet with each clash, the aurum burned deeper, its golden edge searing his very being. The crowd screamed and scattered, some rushing to tend to the wounded, others running in terror. But still, the figure fought on, his crimson eyes blazing with fury as he carved through his enemies. Blood stained the cobblestones, and the night air grew thick with the scent of death. But even the undead have their limits. The aurum blade seared through his flesh and bones, weakening the figure with every cut. His once-deadly strikes grew frantic, driven more by rage than precision. The stocky dwarf charged forward, pinning him to the ground, his hands grappling with the creature’s rotting neck, trying to sever its cranium from the decayed body. The woman’s protector, relentless, hurled aurum daggers that sank deep into the ghoul’s cursed flesh, each one sending a fresh screech of agony into the air. Above them, the woman herself raised her tomahawk high, its carbarum edge gleaming before it slammed down toward the figure’s skull. Yet even that was not enough. The knight, seeing his moment, delivered the final, crushing blow. His sword came down with the force of a mountain and the manner of a lumberjack, splitting the ghoul’s skull in two with a sickening crack. All of them knew that to end the lost samurai’s suffering—to truly put this wretched being to rest—they had to destroy its cranium. But even as his body failed him, his voice, twisted and full of hate, rang out across the square, as he limped to grasp onto the nearest stall and gaze at all the descendants. “Death to the mortals, death to Aevos, praised be the Kuruibi Horde!” With those final words, the cloaked figure crumpled to the ground, his skull shattered, his cursed blades clattering beside him. The battle was over, but the shadow he left behind lingered, a scar upon Celia'Nor that would not soon be forgotten. Yet both of his katanas, Kurui and Akahana, lay forgotten on the blood-soaked ground, their once-pristine blades now dulled and tarnished by the chaos of battle. The brave warriors, a knight and the elf, emboldened by victory, scavenged these filthy weapons from the battleground, claiming them as trophies of their triumph over the nightmarish ghoul. They marveled at the dark elegance of the blades, whispering tales of their legendary past, unaware of the darkness they had inadvertently inherited. But little did they know that these relics were not merely remnants of a defeated foe. They were vessels of vengeance, longing to be wielded once more by their true master. In the shadows, the figure’s soul lingered, a vengeful spirit forged anew by his hatred. One day, he would rise again, reclaiming what was lost and returning stronger than ever, ready to unleash his wrath upon those who dared to wield his power against him. The cycle of death and vengeance was far from over, and the warriors' triumph would soon be stained by the specter of his return. Praised be the Horde

The moon hung heavy over the village of Hefrumm, its pale light flickering through the dense forest like the last gasps of a dying flame. A trail, once familiar and safe, now felt cursed, thick with a growing dread. The soft rustle of leaves gave way to an unnatural stillness, and from the shadows, two figures emerged like phantoms. The first was a necromancer, his robes frayed and dark as the deepest cavern. Humming with decay, tendrils of sickly energy seeping from his fingers. Beside him, a far more twisted figure strode—a ghoul, clad in tattered coat, once a warrior of a prideful Oyashiman family, now a husk of twisted malice. His hollow eyes, burning with a malevolent crimson light, fixed upon the helpless forest dwarf they dragged through the dirt. The dwarf’s cries echoed through the still night, but no answer came. The village slumbered, unaware of the doom unfolding at its doorstep. As the ghoul tightened his grip on the dwarf’s chains, the necromancer’s voice, a hiss of corruption, filled the air, marking his prey. The ground beneath them churned, and with a final glance back at his village, the dwarf was swallowed by the mist, stolen into the darkness by forces far older and far fouler than any in the dwarven realm had ever known. Far beneath the stone-carved citadel of Urguan, the dwarves prepared for battle, though they could not have known the true horror that awaited them. Within the grand halls, where the legacy of the dwarves was etched into every stone, two warriors stood ready. A templar coated in blue, and a clan father of the Frostbeards. A cloaked ghoul was spotted merely at the capitol entrance, slipping through the sleeping gatekeepers, as he defiled Urguani halls with it’s stench and spilled descendant blood; an offering, a sacrifice adorned with bloody-red petals scattered across the cold floor. The air grew thick with the smell of decay, a ghoulish stench that clung to the stone like a disease. Without a word, the ghoul moved, his blade flashing in the dim light as he met the dwarves in deadly combat. The priest’s prayers echoed off the walls, his holy light cutting through the corruption with ease, yet the ghoul was relentless. His movements were precise, a grim dance of death honed over centuries of war. The Frostbeard’s blade struck true, yet the ghoul endured, till he faltered under his shield; as his skull was smashed to pieces and his body adorned with silvery flames, as it exuded final screeches from it’s dimly light maw. The halls of Urguan, once filled with dwarven pride and strength, now lay in eerie silence, the scent of rot and spilled blood hanging heavy in the air. Even with the dead of the filthy creature, it was certain that it was merely a pawn of a much… much grander plan. Far below, in the deepest tunnels, darkspawn stirred. The necromancer’s work had only begun. In the forgotten depths where no descendant dared to tread, corpses twisted and writhed, clawing their way from their shackles. Ghouls, once proud warriors entombed with honor, now rose as slaves to the necromancer’s will, their eyes hollow and lifeless. The kingdom of Urguan, proud and ancient, was becoming a tomb of its own. Whispers of old curses filled the taverns, while the mountain itself seemed to shudder under the weight of something foul and ancient. Urguan’s once-mighty halls now faced an enemy not of steel and fire, but of rot and death, an unholy war that no sword could cut trough. The dwarves, brave as they were, could feel the shadow creeping upon them—the shadow of an impending darkness that pulled the strings. The forges grew cold, the mines silent, and the dead restless. For in the heart of Urguan, beneath the stone and steel, death itself had come to call within their lands. Praised be the Horde

[!] A missive would appear by bird, spread to the notice boards of Aevos, in all cities, for all to read at their leisure. ISSUED THE 3RD OF THE GRAND HARVEST, IN THE YEAR 196 OF THE SECOND AGE BY THE WILL AND AUTHORITY OF THE RADIANT GUARD War comes. The foes of all that walk in the light—those who savor deep breaths of air rush through the tree, a sip of cool water, and the warmth of a hearth—scheme within their dens. Their schemes have spread across Aevos: through Celia’nor and the Vale, Balian, Petra, and Númendil, Norland, Lurin, and Hohkmat. Roads are strewn with the corpses of those who seek freely and safely. Bandits prowl in the name of coin, while those with darkness in their hearts bow cravenly to stone men. Women are abducted, the fire in their hearts snuffed out, with spikes of ice in their place. The good people of Canondom turn to their Churches, praying to the Creator and the Exalted for deliverance. They cling to the steeples, clawing at holy bricks to escape what comes. The glacial tide creeps higher each day, and with it, good men and women drown. The tide comes from the North on horseback, borne of a pact between those with rime-choked veins and those stained Ibleesian. Their acolytes vary from gargantuan, masked, metallic beings, to twisted, writhing creatures with hives of crawling insects just behind their very eyes. Even more, a pact of Gravelords, their stonemen, and dark-figured followers. Their empty bodies swallow souls to fill a hollow that would consume the world. To them, I declare War. Tar-Caraneth Aryantë has tasked me to deliver justice and retribution upon our foes. Not simply the foes of Númendil, but the foes of all Canondom. The Tar has recognized the great strife and conflict inflicted not only upon myself and my family, but upon the world. I have ventured to their den and survived: my soul taken, my warmth torn from me. I have gazed upon the face of my virtuous daughter, the Reverend Stefaniya, and beheld the wounds inflicted by wicked cruelty. Their words to her, as she lay, eyes ripped from her in their sadism: “We are targeting you because we enjoy it.” I am no shepherd. But it is the duty of the strong to protect our meekest. I call upon the strong to raise their shield arms in the defense of the innocent, and their sword arms to punish the wicked. To the wise, I seek knowledge, that we might find our foe’s hearts. To the faithful, I ask that your prayers shield us. To the ingenious, I ask you to arm us with your tools: bottled flame, dragon’s breath, null-arcana, and your sturdiest hammers. To all, I urge you to find your wrath. Boil with righteous fury. Let that anger become fire. For it is we, the Righteous, who will grind stone to dust, and ice to frost, and scatter them to the dark corners of the world. I have been to their den and survived: my soul taken, my warmth ripped from me. I have been to the mountains in the frozen North and kept my baleful eye upon Lumbridge. I have seen their voidal tears, and the remains of them, all the same. A weapon of cataclysmic proportion has been whispered to me, something pursued by our foes. For the sake of all those who breathe, who drink, who seek warmth, and safety: they must not be allowed to take it. To Naele. To Pompo Perea. To the Gravelords. To the Pale Knights. I seek you. BY ORDER OF, HER ROYAL MAJESTY, Tar-Caraneth Aryantë of the House Arthalionath, by the Grace of GOD, Queen of the Númenedain, Princess of Númenost and Minas Amath, Protector of the Adunians, Master of the Sharadûn, and Templar Justiciar of the Archangel Michael, and Knight of the Realm HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, Arathor Erenion Caranethion of the House Arthalionath, Prince of the Númenaranyë, Ranger of the Aran-în-Eryn, Templar Justiciar of the Archangel Michael, and Knight of the Realm THE HONORABLE, Ser Victor Rorin of the House Tarus, Veteran-Ranger of Númendil, Wildsmen of Garenbrig, and Knight of the Order of the Pyre THE HONORABLE, Ser Eldacar of the House Marsyr, Knight of Numendil, Spear Sergeant of Gwaith Halbarad HIS GRACE, Aerin of the House Marsyr, Arch-Bishop of Idunia

A CALL TO SERVICE! It has become apparent in the lands of Hohkmat and all throughout Aevos that the forces of Iblees have become more bold and invasive by the day. Their agents now openly raid our cities, infiltrate our communities, pillage our travelers, and defile our sacred places. We must NOT stand for this any longer! We cannot foolishly enact the same strategy that has been failing us over and over and expect to have different results. We must go on the offensive. We must be proactive in our approach so that our loved ones may sleep softly at night knowing that such beasts will no longer have the strength to fight us in open combat. I call upon any citizen of Hohkmat or in the surrounding regions to heed Xan’s call to service in this time of crisis and strike down the wicked foe that seeks to envelop us all! We will make them COWER in the shadows once again! We will make them flee from the Sun’s cleansing Light! Best Regards, Elena of Joma, Paladin of the Morninglord and Resident of Hohkmat.

Mi Nepos was a complicated man, he was a fighter, a drunkard, a scholar and lastly he had a heart of pure aurum. Lucius Ramneseii Brutus died way too soon and way too violently for my liking and today is the day we make a vow as a people that we will not let any more of our own die to the servants of the wealthy one. For too long we have suffered at the hands of many different groups; in the deserts of Almaris it was the numerous desert tribes and in the distant past it was the LaVassieur Forest Dwarfs. All of these foes we have beaten back; and we will beat these new ones. The Mvs Rexum will be hunted for their crimes and crucified The Caelian people must be vigilant once more for around any corner could be your enemy. Lucius was killed in his own home with no one there to hear his last words; he clearly fought bravely like a true Caelian but even the brave Lucius could not beat the mvs alone. The Caelians must work as one to fight off these great threats or we will never be as great as our ancestors. However, we can not forget our great heroes like Lucius, who shall be remembered as one of the great heroes of Caelia up there with Caelianus Ramneseius and others. Signed ~ Marcus Ramneseii Scipio

[!] The pious and faithful within the city of Sin and Vermin as they cleanse it from the corruption of Iblees & the void __________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Blessings be upon those who read this and we pray GOD guides you through life. The war against Vermin and Sin has been a roaring success and has exceeded the expectations of all of us within the Friedrichian Band. We did not expect such swift action and widespread support within Canondom when we first called to action. It makes us glad to see Canondom has not fallen like Lurin. A few days within us penning and announcing our PIOUS & RIGHTEOUS quest, the HOLY MOTHER CHURCH and Canondom rallied a force before marching into the city of Lurin. Clergy and faithful. There they handed several terms to the lord of the GODLESS city which they promptly accepted. The forces of Canondom were allowed to cleanse the city from Sin & Vermin through whatever means necessary. All that was needed is a permit from the HOLY MOTHER CHURCH to do such. Only a few hours passed before some of the culprits behind the attacks on clergymen within the city were caught and dealt with. A great victory for sure. Yet our work is not done. The corruption of Lurin runs deeper than expected. They have forbidden clergymen from preaching THE HOLY LIGHT OF GOD within their lands except within churches. The WORD OF GOD shall not be restricted to certain areas. They insult and mock our faith and faithful openly. This cannot be tolerated. They intervene in the testing of lurinites and draw blades against clergymen still. I shall remind you that these are the doings of the average citizen and guards within the city of sin and vermin. When we, the merry knights of the Friedrichian band alongside faithful from aaun and veletz, tested spooks with a permit granted to us by the HOLY MOTHER CHURCH, we were met with intervention from Lurinite lackeys and drawn blades. They had no intention of letting us conduct our testing in peace. They tried sowing seeds of distrust among us by questioning our purity. An attempt to lead us into bickering and targeting ourselves. Their sly words fell on deaf ears FOR GOD PROTECTS AND UNITES THE FAITHFUL. When all failed they drew a blade on our most beloved Bishop Callahan, demanding his blood be drawn. Seems like it wasn't just darkspawn and xionists who thirst for clergy blood within those walls. Our conclusion is this: Lurin has fallen beyond redemption. The only way to save the few remaining and dwindling faithful in the city is by crusade. To cleanse the land of the sinful and vermin scourge by fire and blade. Destruction to the current Lurinite regime and establish a PIOUS state from its ashes. Thus, we the faithful of Canondom, plead to you, Pontiff Sixtus V, save them from the GODLESS pit that drains purity from the faithful. Call a crusade. Crush the agents of Iblees and the symbol of sin & vermin that Lurin represents. ✠ AVE HOREN, AVE OWYN, AVE GODFREY ✠

[!] Letters are spread around Almaris JUSTICE SHALL COME ~Capturing one of the Cultists (see below for better description of their appearance)~ ((skin blanked out b/c you should be a true gamer and use my ms paint drawing instead and not metagame based on a skin from a screenshot)) Recently, one of the Darkspawn-loving cultists returned to Bywater, complaining that our missive ruined their ability to settle any place else and that multiple darkspawn-hunting groups have been after them. Knowing this, as an act of mercy, us halflings of Bywater hereby offer a FAIR AND HONEST TRIAL to the cultist coven. The terms are simple. Come to trial and ye shall be offered a chance to make your case, argue your innocence, and make your pleas. Refuse to come to trial and ye shall be HUNTED BY ADVENTURERS AND DRIVEN INTO THE UNCIVILIZED WILDERNESS where unrepentant cultists belong. The following groups are called to observe the trial: ~The Druids of the Vale, who originally drove these cultists from their lands~ ~The Shamans of Krugmar, whose knowledge of darkspawn will serve the trial well~ ~The Paladins of Almaris, for similar reasons~ ~The halflings of Bywater, who will provide the jails and courtroom for the trial~ ~Adventurers and friendly bigguns who can keep the peace~ ~The Cultists themselves, who are to stand trial~ ~Any lawyers and legal experts of Almaris who wish to serve on the prosecution or defense~ In the event that ye cannae provide a lawyer of your own, us halflings can offer you a public defender. The trial is to take place next Pumpkin Day. Be there! ~Mimosa Applefoot, Mayor of Bywater. ((EVENT 1 PM EST TOMORROW, SUNDAY THE 19th OF FEBRUARY, 2023. Not guaranteed to occur, keep that in mind)) [!] An additional sheet of paper is attached: TO YE DARKSPAWN HUNTERS: In the event all of the cultists do not come to trial, use the below descriptions to find them and bring them to justice! SUSPECT 1: An elven man with grey pupils and fair skin colour. He usually wears a grey shirt with a green sash and darker grey pants. He was recently apprehended in Bywater yet escaped from jail due to poor jail security. I don't know much of his personality besides that he doesn't burn when aurum is thrown at him. He will try to run away from you if you ever see him. SUSPECT 2: An elven woman with pinkish purple hair equally colorful clothing, and darker skin tone. She is frequently barefoot. I've forgotten their eye color, t'was probably a bright color of some sort. She is missing a hand due to fights with Necromancers (I think it was? Or was it snakes?), probably over dominance or something. She has some old religious trauma or something. You could probably convert her back to the way of the light with enough effort. As it stands, she has some strange psychological complex which convinces her that her soul is damned no matter what and that she is beyond saving. This is a lie that the others tell to her and that she tells herself. SUSPECT 3: The blue-skinned horned devil is so iconic as to not need a drawing. He is a 'cursed child' or whatever, as the druids say. It has nothing to do with him being a darkspawn; he is cursed to look like a devil due to his unfortunate birth, yet he chose to walk the path of darkness later in life. This is the darkspawn to which the cultists pledge their souls out of fear of the afterlife. He is beyond saving. SUSPECT ???: There's probably more. I don't remember all of them. I will let you monster-hunters know if any of the suspects clears their name through the FAIR and JUST Bywater court system. ~Mimosa Applefoot, Mayor of Bywater.