Keep this close to chest, 

Secrets forever bound, 

In metal must inscribe, 

That which is yet to be found. 

Veins to make the door, 

Thus, Blood is the key, 

The Wicked one shall reign, 

And the People will cry out to be freed. 

Shadows tempt and corrupt, 

Even Those most pure of heart, 

But the ones you must be of most wary, 

Slither now in the dark. 

One shall be among you, 

Quiet and deceiving. 

Its voice is like a black hand, 

Feeding you lies, quite convincing, 

Until finally it calls out, 

And beckons you aside. 

Come with me it says, 

Its voice shall be sickly sweet, 

It is the worm in the apple, 

It is the fly in the meat. 

Careful now wanderers, 

Can you hear it softly speak? 

It is omnipresent, 

Its promises like slick sleet, 

It calls out its succulent words, 

And you hear it alone below your feet. 

Blood may wash your hands clean, 

So that an acolyte may atone, 

Of Discoverer of fate unbound,

For the life of a scholar, 

A baseborn soldier 

You may yet repair a shattered shadow born. 

Careful now wanderers, 

You disciples of fate, 

And remember this our warning, 

It was never going to end any other way…

Dagor Dagorath

The powder of the gem hits the fire, and the world goes black. The darkness seems to rise as the fire wicks out in an instant. Suddenly, you are not sitting by the hearth on the deck of a ship. You are standing in an infinite void. Below you is a room and a bed, where a strange illusory figure lies sleeping. You do not recognize the shape, as it is made from shadows. As if deliberately removed from your mind. She holds a vaguely feminine shape, but that is all you can tell.

“Would you be God?”

The hissing whisper permeates your surroundings and wakes the figure with a sudden start. Your eyes open as if from a slumber, but the darkness at the edges of your vision does not go away. You see a dark shape take hold at the edges of the expanse that is this strange place. Spires like rock trees jutting out towards the endless, shapeless sky.

Dim light radiates from the flecks of light falling from the endless void, as if snowflakes were stars, and they sparkle from stolen light. A sense of ominous foreboding coats the air and everything you can see and touch like a viscous oil. Like a living creature made of a shiny sheen, it whirls and writhes under the figures’ touch, suffusing everything in this place.

And as if it finally noticed you, it abandoned the figure, and it fades into mist, as if someone’s will began to believe that this was all too real.

“Tiny little Sparks,” came the voice, the sound of beetles crunching on dry leaves. It echoes everywhere, but seems focused on you alone.

Still, as if it was right next to your ear, you hear it, “You could be so much more, with my help.” It laughs, like a debased giggle.

______________________________________________________________________________

It whirls around, growing larger and darker, like a tsunami of foul water, yet dry and wafts around like mist. It spins and eventually coalesces into the eerie shape of a human, cloaked like the breath of a foul miasma. Except, you can’t see it, exactly. It is as you see everything but the creature in the shape of a human, as if they are a walking void. An impossibility. You see nothing, in the shape of some monstrosity being vaguely human.

It reaches out a black, clawed hand, and you can hear whispers from it and in your mind, chanting, almost singing like the echo of a massive chorus, “Come with me, and we’ll be, in a world of pure devastation.”

But his voice is so far away. And it feels so real.

It reaches back a hand, crooked, and is obviously offended. It rises into the air and spins, and a wave of force and air like a crashing tidal wave besets you. All around you the strange creature spins like a whirlpool, with you standing in the eye.

“Do you think you could harness the light inside without my help? The light of the dawn suffuses you, for now.” It leans in close, whispering from many mouths into your ears, an echoing acapella from a singularity, “Power is the only thing that can save you. Knowledge of magic can help, yes. Perhaps stem the tide of the encroaching tendrils of creatures that crawl from the ether like bloated maggots.”

It reforms, like a school of fish, and is in the shape of an ancient looking boat.

“Heroes have crossed the Sea before, delved the depths of the ocean and even unto breaking the center of the world, in search of secrets. Secrets that I offer you. Heroes, Villains, and even mighty Demon Lords have come to me for help before. I do not suffer most of them. They do little to interest me.”

______________________________________________________________________________

It spins round and round, the liquid-like creature forming the vague face of a woman. It takes a different approach, this time speaking sweet and somewhat seductively, “Yes, you are not the first to need my aid.” It leans in even closer, and whispers something, barely audible in your ear, yet the words spoken boom with revelation, even as light fills your eyes to see into the past.

Out of the mist, a prominent figure, dark and terrible with a crown of four glowing jewels  walks towards a city that stands against him and what he stands. He does not draw his sword, for he does not need to. His mouth moves, but you hear nothing. After he finishes, you hear the word ‘Break’ and the walls break before him, obeying the Truth of his word.

Scattered and destroyed, the army allayed against him , men, elves, dwarves. instead took the knee, and surrendered to his indomitable will. He was led through the city, and into the heart of its power. Two hundred men in silver and gold armor stand before the invader, fearful but determined to follow their Oaths.

“Submit.”

______________________________________________________________________________

They crumpled. They could not resist, but they would not break their Oath, for their will and heart of spirit could not be so easily conquered. Instead, they did the only thing they could.

They died.

Soon, the ruler was knelt by the sheer presence of the intruder’s aura. His eyes bloodshot, and they began to bleed from the pressure. He choked, and died. His golden, bejeweled crown fell upon the floor and landed at the feet of He Who Would Be Everything.

The Intruder, now the conqueror, places his newly claimed crown upon his head, above his mask. Shadows writhe and undulate, and as the day passes they grow like the dark side of the sun, engulfing him completely. The stark shadows match with the cold obsidian that makes up his mask. Under one eye on the mask, you can almost make out a sapphire gem, like a permanent luminescent tear, as if a prayer for the fallen.

In an overpowering, echoing voice, you hear in your mind as the people in the city hear his voice, “I shall give you what the world needs. A world without fear. A world without dissent. A world of Order.”

“Yes, a world of Order he was granted. However, what would you Wish for?” The voice is cut off with a hiss, as the shadows melt from a light from above. *

“With me. It was but a Story. A Story.”

I’ve heard the murmurs. You speak softly, but the river listens. And so do I. 

You question our bond with the Maw, with Ur—the Ever Hunger, the Endless Void. You wonder if our alliance with the cult is too steep a price. That perhaps we have stepped too deep into the dark. 

Let me answer you plain. 

When we sailed alone, we fought wind, steel, and the noose. Now the wind favors us. Now our blades strike true, and the noose hangs from our hands. Every raid that ends in blood and silence, every village that gives no cry before the flame—that is Ur’s blessing. The cult does not demand worship. It demands results. And in return, it gives power untouched by kings or gods.

 You fear what you do not understand. That’s fair. 

But let me remind you: it was not Ur who bled you dry in the dungeons of Blackhaven. It was the Crown. It was men. And now those same men burn because we kneel to something greater. You think we are being used? No, my friend. We are the blade. The priests may chant and bleed, but it is we who deliver the offering. So choose. Continue sailing under the Drowned Flag—stronger than ever, feared across the seas and rivers—or return to the chains and the cold and the silence. 

But if you speak against us again… the Maw will not wait for your offering. It will take what it is owed."

The river runs red, just as we agreed. Villages burn low, grain convoys sink, and yet your fine court still debates shadows while we grow rich on the smoke. 

Your messages reached us clean—clever ink, hidden in ledgers and sermons. The coin you promised has been received, though you know well that gold is only half the bargain. Influence buys silence, but continued silence buys survival.

 The patrols you “redirected” never came. My ships passed the ford at Albrecht without so much as a torchlight to greet us. It seems your reach stretches further than most realize. A marvel, truly. Still, rumors stir.

 There are eyes even in wine cups and whispers even in silk-draped halls. A junior clerk has asked too many questions. A young legionary rode too close to the truth near Glenmere. 

If their blades get curious, it will not be my crew that bleeds first. So let me be plain: if you wish this storm to stay at sea, ensure your house remains dark and your friends obedient. 

We are not so easily unmade as alliances in court. But let us not dwell on sour winds. The river belongs to us now, just as the docks and markets soon will. You will have your spoils. We will have our tribute. 

And when the crown falls—and it will—none will suspect the dagger came from within the throne room. 

And so it was on the black moon's rise, when the veil grew thin and the winds tasted of ash, that the prisoners were led forth in chains of bone and sorrow. Twelve in number, one for each cursed star that burns in Ur’s unholy crown. 

Beneath the Maw of the Deep—where the earth screams and bleeds molten despair—they were cast into the chasm. One by one, their names were devoured, their screams echoing through the hollow between worlds. Their flesh fed the hunger, their souls stitched into Ur’s endless void. 

The priests chanted in the tongue that breaks minds, draped in robes woven from the night sky. Their eyes bled, their hearts stilled, yet still they sang, for the Rite must not be broken. For Ur, the Ever Hunger, must feed… lest he turn his gaze upon us

Orders to Seventh Tent Party, Fifth Cohort, Thirteenth Legion, under command of Monitor Cafree on request from Decurion Éoherë Haldir, acting on orders from Duke Mardil

•    The tent party is to depart Arta Uial and head to the area surrounding Arta Glaw and make camp and assist the Decurion Éoherë Haldir in the efforts to stamp out the pirates plaguing the upper Anduin 

o    In support of this, the party is to…

    Discover the pirate base of operations

    Eliminate the pirate threat, to the last man or woman

o    Arrest any Imperial citizens supporting the pirates for trial

o    Locate the missing tent party – the 11th party, fifth cohort, 9th legion, previously based in Arta Glaw

    Return the remains 

    Bring back any survivors

"Current orders:

The 7th tent party under the command Caffery of is to be dispatched to the village of crickhollow to assist the population in whatever it requires and to assist in the ending of the kobold raiding situation"