I have updated my prices to reflect current economic downturn and further training.

I have also added some of my new creations, namely torques that allow you to utilise message, detect lie, auric colour, DPNA and artefact study.

Twisting Bark, Lo Thi high druid

Thanks to all, had an excellent day

Across the Empire, the Walgrafines, in the deserts of Ishma and the Lands of the Amlas, large buildings are starting to be built near places of large populations.

They look like fortified temples, all ethereal in nature with no true form. They appear to be being built by ethereal creatures who look like dwarves but their dress is like nothing from Primus; they seem to be using a mix of dwarven building techniques and mysticism.

Scouts from the various regions and empires have been seen walking through the walls seemingly unable to interact with any of it. There has been no sign of any interaction so far.

The ritual chamber trembled, walls began to crack and the brands lighting the room flared. Julian turned and saw the sigils he had inscribed breaking and the demonic energy flowing into the room. Turning he began to flee but even before he could reach the door to the chamber a demonic claw reached from the rip that was forming. Grasping his soul it yanked it from his body and he fell dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

Deep in the grove the druid stood ready to enact the ritual of life to ensure the eternal blossom did not die in the winter. Touching each of the trees in order something seemed wrong. He could not feel anything, the power was gone, the Ley lines were weak and failing.

~~~~~~~~~

The scribes ran through the halls, similar reports were coming to every city in the Empire, ritual chambers had flared with power and then suddenly nothing. Reports were that this was even bigger than the Empire, the Baronies and even Ishma and Amles were being effected by whatever this was.

~~~~~~~~~

“Order, I demand order” the mage said. The Towers of Magery had assembled, a rare moment as most disliked at least someone from the Towers. “Can someone explain what has happened?”

“No, it was sudden. Every mage we have contacted said the same. Ritual chambers have lost power, even the less stable places of power are unable to be tapped. We thought at first it was the return of the Onyx Champion but it is effecting druids, priests, everyone”

“There was no warning of this?”

“Nothing from the Inquisition, and the mages of the South did not have any insight. I’ve sent word to Clan Rain but am waiting for a response. We’ve not heard from Amles yet but it appears to be the same”

Lots have, but just a reminder to get those contract spends/Alamanac submissions/wanted posters in for the Jan edition

A poem, quickly becoming famous throughout Thimon.

Slavik’s Children

In the hidden realms of burrows deep,
Where moonlight shadows softly creep,
A child ratfolk, small and fleet,
In Slavik's grace, they find retreat.

With fur of gray and eyes so bright,
They scamper through the silent night,
Tiny paws, a rhythmic beat,
Guided by Slavik's pawprints sweet.

In corners dark, where secrets hide,
They weave their tales, side by side,
A whispered prayer, a heartfelt plea,
To Slavik, their god, forever be.

Through mazes old, where dangers loom,
They navigate with nimble plume,
Slavik's whispers in their ear,
A guardian, forever near.

Oh, child ratfolk, with dreams untold,
In Slavik's arms, a love to hold,
Through tunnels vast, in unity,
They dance with joy, wild and free.

So, let the moon its radiance cast,
On ratfolk dreams that everlast,
In Slavik's care, a sacred bond,
A child ratfolk's faith, so fond.

In the shadowed sanctum, where pious whispers hum,
A ratfolk priest, favoured by Slavik, has come.
Cloaked in robes of reverence, anointed in grace,
Second to just one other, in the sacred ratfolk space.

Tiny paws kneel in devoted surrender,
As Slavik's blessings in the air tender.
A priestly heart, beats with devout zeal,
In the ratfolk congregation, an honoured appeal.

Chants echo softly through the hallowed halls,
As the priest, faithful servant, answers the calls.
In Slavik's name, with incense that curls,
The ratfolk priest invokes the divine swirls.

Tiny shrine adorned with sacred artifacts,
In reverence, the ratfolk priest imparts acts.
Second favorite, yet first in devout decree,
A chosen vessel in Slavik's sanctity.

Through the tunnels and in moonlit glen,
The ratfolk priest carries the divine ken.
In the congregation's hearts, Slavik's flame,
A sacred bond, the ratgod's esteemed name.

So in the holy echoes, where shadows entwine,
The ratfolk priest, in devotion, does shine.
Second of Slavik, yet in faith, perhaps first,
A sacred covenant in the ratfolk's verse.

In the ember-lit caverns where shadows dance,
There's a ratfolk wizard, Fivel, in a fiery trance.
Cloaked in flames, a sorcerer's attire,
Fivel, the conjurer, with eyes of pyre.

Whiskers twitch with an arcane desire,
Fivel weaves spells that set hearts afire.
A master of flames, in a realm untamed,
In the dance of embers, his essence proclaimed.

Fingers alight with a mystical glow,
As Fivel commands the infernal flow.
Fire whispers secrets, in the language of heat,
A wizard's incantations, in the furnace beat.

In the labyrinth of magic, Fivel's path unfolds,
A pyromancer's legacy, in stories retold.
Cloaked in the wildfire's untamed embrace,
Fivel, the fire wizard, in a radiant chase.

A conclave of flames, a blazing kin,
Fivel, the sorcerer, with sparks within.
In the tapestry of fire, his presence told,
A ratfolk wizard, in the inferno bold.

So in the flickering glow of Fivel's arcane trance,
A pyrokinetic symphony, a mesmerizing dance.
In the heart of flames, where his power unfurls,
Fivel, the fire wizard, reigns in fiery whirls.

In the heart of woods where whispers play,
There's a ratfolk druid named Nature, they say.
Tiny paws tread softly on the forest floor,
A healer by calling, with an affinity to explore.

Nature, the healer with fur of mossy hue,
Pinecone in paw, a treasure tried and true.
In the boughs' embrace, a sanctuary found,
Where verdant whispers echo all around.

Through rustling leaves and sun-dappled glades,
Nature weaves healing in the woodland shades.
A gentle touch, a whispered incantation,
Pinecone in hand, a symbol of salvation.

In the tapestry of trees, where magic aligns,
Nature's essence, where tranquility entwines.
Mossy robes adorned, a druidic grace,
A guardian spirit of the sacred space.

A rustle in the branches, a squirrel's delight,
As Nature shares the pinecone's pure light.
Tiny seeds of life, a symbol profound,
In Nature's grasp, healing resounds.

So, in the forest's embrace, where shadows fade,
Nature, the ratfolk druid, finds solace in the glade.
A healer's heart, a pinecone's embrace,
In the verdant haven, they leave a healing trace.

In the labyrinthine alleys, where shadows conspire,
Emerges Shard, a ratfolk, with eyes afire.
Fanatical whispers weave spells untold,
A magical assassin, a legend to unfold.

Serrated dreams adorn Shard's mind,
In moonlit nights, his fate entwined.
Obsidian blades, his silent confidantes,
Dancing through darkness, where chaos enchants.

Whiskers twitch with a calculated grace,
In the underworld's clandestine embrace.
Fanatic heart, a fervor profound,
In the realm of silence, Shard is crowned.

A symphony of steel, a shimmering waltz,
Each knife a story, in the moonlit vaults.
Magic courses through his nimble paws,
As Shard leaves echoes of clandestine applause.

In the shadows, he whispers, a phantom unseen,
A ratfolk's devotion, a perilous sheen.
A cloak of secrets, his mystical guise,
Shard, the night's enigma, beneath moonlit skies.

So in the tapestry of shadows, Shard weaves,
A fanatical dance, where darkness conceives.
Magical whispers, knives gleaming bright,
In the nocturnal ballet, Shard takes flight.

In a burrow deep, where shadows play,
Lived a young Rat Folk named Scratch, they say.
With fur so sleek, a tail that twirled,
Neuronic powers in a Rat Folk world.

In moonlit corners, her whispers spun,
A witch's magic, the night begun.
Her eyes aglow, with secrets untold,
A story of power, both young and bold.

Through tunnels dark, she'd weave her way,
Neuronic sparks in the quiet fray.
A witching spell, a whispered charm,
In Rat Folk tales, she caused no harm.

With whiskers twitching, and paws so fleet,
She'd dance with shadows, a rhythmic beat.
A sorceress of fur, and wisdom too,
In moonlit nights, her powers grew.

So, heed the tale of Scratch, the Rat,
A creature of magic, in fur and hat.
In tunnels deep, where moonbeams stitch,
She's the enchanting, young Rat Witch.

In a tower tall, where secrets align,
Okram, High Wizard, weaves spells divine.
Whiskers twitch with arcane might,
A Rat Folk sorcerer, in the realm of night.

Robed in velvet, a starry array,
Okram commands magic in the moon's soft sway.
Eyes ablaze with a mystical fire,
Casting enchantments, reaching higher.

Scrolls unfurl, revealing ancient lore,
In the wizard's chamber, power evermore.
Whispers of spells in the night's cool air,
Okram's wisdom, beyond compare.

With a staff that crackles with lightning's embrace,
He conjures illusions, bending time and space.
In the tapestry of magic, where dreams are spun,
Okram, the High Wizard, his reign begun.

In shadows deep where moonlight's gleam,
Lies Slavik, Rat God, in realms unseen.
Whiskers twitch in the silent night,
A deity small, yet full of might.

With fur as dark as the midnight sky,
His kingdom hidden, where mortals pry.
In tunnels winding, a maze untold,
Slavik's empire, a secret to behold.

Tiny paws command a subtle grace,
Through the urban jungle, he claims his space.
Whispers of worship among the alleys,
Slavik's presence, where darkness rallies.

A deity of scavengers and the night,
Guiding rodents with a divine light.
In corners forgotten, his altar stands,
Slavik, Rat God, ruler of unseen lands.

Few in the mortal realms would even notice, but today a quiet ceremony, with few in attendance, was conducted in the Celestial Heavens.

Got-Cha, Kami of those in Need, was welcomed into the Celestial Court. After the formalities, which of course took quite some time, Got-Cha took his seat in the chambers with a pleased smile, but only after offering an appreciative low bow to Lord Azriel Panama, the only mortal in attendance. It was perhaps noteworthy that Got-Cha's seat was particularly well situated in the chamber, for a Kami only just elevated to the Court.

I see that the treasury has issued another round of special notes.

I am interested in acquiring a set. Do get in touch if you find yourself in possession of one and in the mood to part with it. I am sure we can reach a deal.

Sonasello

You're not escaping part three that easily

Leg pending - Teinley 8k Neuronic ninja

Adventurers,

As promised we have after many weeks of meticulous exploration of the suspected areas tracked down the location of the ritual texts that the Cult of Ruin is using to summon, or rather recreate the Wraith Knights to create their own chapter.

We have narrowed the search down to an old complex of the Cult of Nightmares dug into the West side of the Needles. The cult are very much like vermin, and seem to have a habit of worming their way back into places where they were previously cleared. The level of activity around this place has intensified in recent weeks and an interrogation of a captured cultist has indicated that some form of ancient texts were recovered and brought here recently.

I think this is likely to be a fairly straight forward smash and grab. We have set up an outpost near the site to meet on sunsday morning from which you can gather, talk and strike out.

Good luck.

Tael Rathom
Devotee of Subtlety

As said on Whatsapp, I'm more limited by my leg than threshold

I can probably get involved in both

Err soft yes!!

More trouble reported from Bildteve with the undead once again causing mayhem and despair. This time the people of the Southern quarter's night's sleep was broken by the wailing and chanting as the undead marched upon Edryd Bury'em's Undertakers and Funeral Directors (a fine profession for an Ogre around town, certainly saves on the burial plot fees).

No one dared to venture out but all reported the sounds of undead chanting (again reports suggest something like Boom Bag) drowning out the screams of rage and hunger from Edryd himself before at midnight suddenly falling quiet.

No sign of Edryd could be found in the morning but again hundreds of footprints could be seen passing through his shop and morgue before abruptly disappearing.

Obviously keen, likely advise

An excellent response. Thank you.

Ace

Dear Kail,

Thank you for standing.

There have been some debates over the past years about the nature of "being a Knight" and what that means in terms of our oaths.

Could you let us know your vision on the oath, what you see a Knight "being" and how you might ensure that is adhered to?

Ace

Normally Scheinder would be the one for this, but as you say. Primal Gravity.

Given this is a matter of strife between two supernatual power users, I am happy to offer myself to look into this in the absence of Scheinder.

Sonasello
One of Seven

Patrons of the The Still and West, that well known tavern in Port Miere usually frequented by the more piratical sailing folk were lucky to escape unharmed after the tavern mysteriously burnt down on Moonsday.

The militia have received reports of a mysterious figure dressed all in black with a demonic visage (including horns) seen near the scene of the crime. Enquiries with the Silver Dragon have drawn a blank but the spirits suggest an entity called Kora's voice may be responsible for this outrage.

Rumours spread of alarmingly intelligent undead roaming the streets of Bildteve and meeting in more secret than usual. This past Sunsday night the mortals resident near the meat market district acting on premonition alone closed up their shops and locked up their homes early. Even behind their locked and barred doors the sounds of ominous foot treads; the wails of the unliving and their chanting as they congregated at The Griffin's Innards (a local butchers of fine quality) quailed even the stoutest heart. A number of brave souls sought to catch glimpses of the horde through cracks in their shutters; brave they were foolish they were not and most fell dead from sheer terror.

At midnight the sounds reached a crescendo and then just as suddenly fell quiet.

As dawn rose and the braver (but wiser) souls opened their doors no sign of the undead could be found. Edryd Griffin reported however the sight of many hundreds of foot prints in his cellar all heading towards a wall before disappearing.

Enquiries suggest the chanting sounded something like Boom Bag but no one can quite agree on the precise sound.

I can now add any colour of magic (except brown).

And make weapons that are pure. I have added to the original list.

Prices may change as we attempt. It is a very complicated process.

Please do get in touch.

The crew definitely made this one 😊

Hey, I didn't make the deal.

V