A monster from the past has been brought back to lead the werewolf assault upon Glenumbra.  To stop it, we must re-discover how it was first killed.  The mages guild has mustered in number upon the moors and use their talents to open a doorway into the past.  I grow sick of magic ritual and ceremony.

Magic itself does not decide whether to kill or heal; it is but a manifestation of a decision that has already been made.  It is as guiltless as moonlight.  But all light creates shadow, and it is in these shadows that our greatest dangers lie in wait.  Magic is blameless, but it cannot be trusted.

S.K

The battle-worn moors of Glenumbra, where the ghosts of a conflict long past fought are cursed to patrol ever more; never to reap the peace of afterlife that soldiers sacrifice deserves.  These wraiths and ghosts still carry deadly blade and spell, and they take their ire out on any hapless living being that misadventures upon their fateful moorlands.

Soulless warriors who fight on despite the greatest loss of all, in a forlorn endeavour to appease the tortuous emptiness that abrades the abyss where their souls should lie; fighting on for cause, despite the ever dread that their inner essence shall remain barren forevermore.

It all feels very familiar.

S.K

I wonder whether Gloria Fausta’s proposition to sacrifice herself for another is but a warrior’s yearn for martyrdom, or a flight from an erroneous sense of guilt for her inability to right the wrongs of her ancestors.  Either way, I am once more cursed to find myself having to weigh one life ‘gainst another.

How can one make such a judgement as this?  How would I want the scales balanced if I were the one being judged?  Which should weigh more, deeds done, or potential deeds to come?  In the end I am… was, but a soldier, and can only make honest judgement under that perspective.

In these times of turmoil and conflict, I would rather have a soldier standing beside me, than a politician standing behind.

S.K

By way of ritual, Gloria is able to make use of the captured werewolf’s spiritual connection to its sire and gain us a valuable glimpse behind the enemy’s curtains.  Our worst fears are confirmed.  The tumult of Glenumbra is not, as first thought, the result of disparate foes seeking to take advantage of a country standing on the precipice of war.  But rather, the cultists, werewolves and bandits are but three prongs of the same trident, forged by one man whose sole aim is to conquer these Breton lands.

This Reachman Angof must be a man of great vision, determination, and endeavour, to have fired up the hearts and minds of so many of this country’s disillusioned and desperate to the point of subversion.  To defeat the Bloodthorn, we need slander his vision; for without followers, what is a visionary but a crazy man with a beard.

To achieve this we must break the trident… we must retake Camlorn.

S.K

For I am a hound of Hircine, scourge of the mortal plane,
I breathe to hunt and ravage; the warm blooded are my prey.
I hide amidst your flock and herd, live beside you through your day,
Till the horn calls out the beast within, and I suffer Hircine’s change.

I endure my each bone snapping, before setting shaped anew,
My skin ripping as it stretches over fresh tendon and raw sinew.
My blood curdles into syrup, and my hair thickens into fur,
My teeth swell into glorious fangs, and nails flourish into claw.

Once final pain doth taper, and my shriek turns into howl,
A perpetual hunger rise within, and I’ll soon begin my prowl.
My tongue shall be painted crimson, and claret mat my fur,
I crave only now the hunt begin, for man meat and blood of mer.

I’ll hunt for you up mountainside, cross crag and rocky bluff,
I’ll achieve every peak and summit; your fear shall raise me up.
I’ll hunt for you down valleys deep, and across greenest glen and vale,
Cross ravine, and barren desert, I’ll pursue your dusty trail.

I’ll hunt for you across heath and moor, wade deep through every fen,
I’ll hunt you through the polar freeze, my pursuit will never end.
I’ll hunt you though sweltering tropics, suffering jungles humid flush,
O’er creeping vine and tangled root, clambering nature’s underbrush.

I’ll be just like your shadow, haunting every step you take,
There’s no escape when the hunters mark is the fear that you secrete.
For whether rich or poor, king or peasant, you are nought to me but prey,
For I am a hound of Hircine, the scourge of the mortal plane.

S.K