Coming very soon
Posted: Sat Jul 02, 2011 12:46 pm
Monday April 27th, east of the Cloudspine,
Four Flint was gone when I awoke this morning. I suppose that he grew tired of chasing shadows.
I am not alone, exactly. Phelot has gathered quite an entourage. The dead rise from the ground wherever we travel. Passing creatures of the Dark are gathered to him. Four bandits fell in with us on the road without a word. Their numbers constantly change—Ghols come and go as scouts and spies, and squadrons of thralls are sent off to accomplish Wyrd knows what.
We are in the lowlands now, in the arid line between the verdant farmlands east of the cloudspine and the vast, empty expanses of the Barrier. Muirthemne is out there—Llancarfan now, with Alric as its Emperor. But we are not going out there, fortunately. Instead, Phelot’s goal is a small town once populated by farmers and tradesmen, but long since captured by Soulblighter. Phelot says that the Fallen Lord keeps something important out here, where no one will find it.
Soulblighter’s days—his hours—are numbered few. His armies are diminished, Shiver is dead, and he has nowhere to run. I can see the smoke of Tharsis even from here, a dark cloud blotting the horizon far away—something is afoot over there, but I don’t believe he can win now. The upper hand is ours. The war is about to end. And in its final hours, before Soulblighter’s armies crumble into chaos, we are going to take one of his greatest treasures.
But that almost feels hollow to me. For some reason, I feel as though we all have a long way yet to go. For some reason, I feel that this is never going to end.
Four Flint was gone when I awoke this morning. I suppose that he grew tired of chasing shadows.
I am not alone, exactly. Phelot has gathered quite an entourage. The dead rise from the ground wherever we travel. Passing creatures of the Dark are gathered to him. Four bandits fell in with us on the road without a word. Their numbers constantly change—Ghols come and go as scouts and spies, and squadrons of thralls are sent off to accomplish Wyrd knows what.
We are in the lowlands now, in the arid line between the verdant farmlands east of the cloudspine and the vast, empty expanses of the Barrier. Muirthemne is out there—Llancarfan now, with Alric as its Emperor. But we are not going out there, fortunately. Instead, Phelot’s goal is a small town once populated by farmers and tradesmen, but long since captured by Soulblighter. Phelot says that the Fallen Lord keeps something important out here, where no one will find it.
Soulblighter’s days—his hours—are numbered few. His armies are diminished, Shiver is dead, and he has nowhere to run. I can see the smoke of Tharsis even from here, a dark cloud blotting the horizon far away—something is afoot over there, but I don’t believe he can win now. The upper hand is ours. The war is about to end. And in its final hours, before Soulblighter’s armies crumble into chaos, we are going to take one of his greatest treasures.
But that almost feels hollow to me. For some reason, I feel as though we all have a long way yet to go. For some reason, I feel that this is never going to end.
