The wind howled through the streets of Mhaldor, whistling eerily through
gaps in the buildings.

High up on the fortress walls, the sentry stamped his feet, holding his
hands out to the brazier in an attempt to ward of the chill.

Far beneath him he could see a cloaked figure making its way through the
Circle of pain.

Arriving at the Stygian crossroads Lord Hwolf, paused a moment to speak
with the sentries placed there.

The wind managed to cut through even his thick fur cloak, reminding him
of years gone by when he stood sentry duty at the Iron Citadel

Suddenly there was an oppressive feeling in the air, making the hairs on
his neck stand on end.

The air was suddenly alive with energy at work here, the likes of which
had never been witnessed by any mortal in this land, as magic of an
unknown origin was woven.

As guards rushed in to secure the area, Hwolf suddenly felt an odd
sensation, a distant numb feeling that was travelling slowly down his
body.

With jerky movements, he started to approach a shrine to Lord Sartan,
the god of Evil.

Suddenly, being compelled to remove a large amount of gold from a hidden
pocket, he dropped it on the shrine, uttering a curse to defile it. The
shrine splintered instantly, the dust carried away on the gale force
winds upon the mountain.

The Tyrranus was thunderstruck. He was outraged, and annoyed, but as
realisation dawned upon him he started to chuckle to himself.

Aware that the guards around him were peering at him, wondering if he
had gone insane, a passing apostate explained it to them.

'Those bumbling incompetents couldn't achieve this themselves, so they
have dug up some mysterious power to come to Mhaldor and do their dirty
work for them'

'Hrm I thinks I understands' said one of the Sentries, 'But what I
durn't understands is through it all, the only things I could think of
was me wife's over sized bosom. Damn I've been on this shift far too
long....'

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Aeguary, in the year 320 AF.