Many years ago a rumbling underneath Hashan brought a shift in the landscape. A sundering that tore into rock and earth, a gaping darkness-filled chasm that swirled with mist, the screech of a thousand voices reaching up as the very city was wrenched from it's core, causing a vacillation in both land and spirit hitherto unseen.

Progress.

The enemies of The Court come in their droves, those that strive to stunt our growth and turn our streets to rubble. Twisted metal lay in their wake as the deafening sound of battle gives way to the crackling of burning wooden shop fronts. For so long we have valiantly fought off our oppressors, rising from the claret covered rubble to rebuild and regroup, taking defeat in our stride and moving onto the next.

The landscape has shifted once more. The Court of Shadows has grown.

Instead of obsidian fragments of Sundered rock, we now see smoke billowing through the air in Ashtan at the destruction of their War Room.

Where once we gazed upon the fog filled chasm, we now step over shattered bone and resolve in the Mhaldorian Red Square.

In place of screeching voices echoing across the void, we now hear the cries of embracing Targossian souls resounding through the ruins of the Avenue of Angels.

Progress.

Rubble will litter our streets for years to come, this we know, but the Court of Shadows is rising. The wounded whimper of Chaos will come calling, the smouldering embers from the south will set our streets alight, and the blood covered heretics of the blighted isle will set foot upon us once more, but they do so in fear. They do so to halt our advancement as they know what we can become, what we have become.

The Court is rising through the Shadows, advancing with sword and scythe, with fire and flame, with mind and body.



Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Lupar, in the year 791 AF.