The harvest was poor this Sarapin. Our moral was high and our numbers
great but perhaps the weak had finally learned to recognize this month
as the time when they even more vulnerable than usual.

We hit a group led by Walter who was fighting Archen in Azdun first.
Though all of his protectors quickly fell, he was magically summoned
before the ritual could be completed and was taken to Shallam where
their priests licked his wounds for him.

As the Lord hates all that is 'cute' we incapacitated and prepared Hawk
for the ritual, only to have her hoisted away by another Druid at the
last moment.

Kolieer entered the newsroom. Aldair and company fled at the sight of us
while Takath kept tabs on our movements thinking that we were unaware
that we were being watched.

So the weak cowered in their holes, the ruins of the Basilica and the
cloaked groves but we would not give up. We would not be denied. And
neither would our Lord.

Inevitably, our chants began anew. Makta Ra, Makta Re, Makta Ru. First
we were chanting it, the we were yelling it, then we were shouting it so
that the whole world could hear us. And as my warblade cleaved the head
from the body of the helpless Harro, I could hear my voice rising in
defiance of all that is and all that there ever will be-

"All Hail the Lord!"

And all did.

Except for the weak.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Sarapin, in the year 293 AF.