Conquest of the Horde

              Darkness filled the decrepit stone chapel, shadows painted alongside the walls as moonlight crept through the broken and discolored windows. Exaggerated silhouettes of bronze candlesticks which have turned green and discolored reached over the small altar at the far end of the building like an elongated claw grasping for the pinewood podium. The only sound was that of a quiet wind blowing through the cracks in the glass, which whistled faintly as if it were afraid to awaken someone sleeping nearby. Then, a loud creaking on rusted hinges echoes soundly as the front doors are pushed open slowly. A ragged skeletal claw reaches around the oak door, followed by a dainty frame of what would look to be a woman as she stepped inside the ruined church, shutting the door behind her with a hollow thud.

              She stepped forward slowly, each step poised and deliberate, though scuffing along the dirty stone floor as she dragged her feet. Upon reaching the pulpit, the Forsaken woman carefully pulled out a leather-bound tome, inkwell, and writing pen. Dabbing the pen's discolored golden head in the ink, she starts to write on the yellowed pages of the book. Her strokes were slow and delicate, but also thoughtful.




             

              Today was a most eventful day. Our beloved and dutiful adjutant, Sir Malachai, has returned to the fatherland of Lordaeron after almost a year long absence with his comrades in the Ebon Blade. Acting Executor Somerly was there as well, though their reunion was not entirely a joyous one. While I agree with Sir Malachai's sentiments regarding orcs in Lordaeron, we can do little about them with war at our borders. Priorities must be made. It does my soul well, though, to see him again. Perhaps in time, even Sir Jared may return to us. . . Shadows willing, Shadows willing.

              Sir Malachai was not the only reunion I has today, however. I came across mister Arnaldo Gallows, bless his pitiful soul! Oh, how he has fallen onto hard times. . . he drinks this enchanted liquor called "Spiritwine", which supposedly recreates drunkedness artificially. No doubt some elven snob has made a fortune selling this poison to the freshly risen members of our society, as if they did not have enough to concern themselves with already! Disgusting.

              Well, I took mister Gallows' spiritwine from him, and tried to cheer him up with words of encouragement... but Shadows, he hardly remembers me I think. He has given up on his long lost son - that is right, he had a son, whom I wished to help him find, but alas he has surrendered hope on that. He's a right mess, that mister Gallows, in need of some serious spiritual help I think. I told him about my little congregation here. . . I only hope he listens!

              Shadows willing, I will help him find his true strength. Shadows willing.

Embrace the Shadow as your own,
Maeia di Silvio

              With that finishing note, she stops writing in her book. Setting aside the pen, she closes the journal and places it back inside the pulpit from where she pulled it from. Turning on her heel, she looks up at the large center window, a dirty and broken stained glass effigy of the Light's cross. The moonlight shone pallid face, her bony jaw clicking quietly.

              "Strength in Shadow, mister Gallows... you will learn in time. Yes..."