To Captain Luc Valenforth, Commander of Valgarde,

Our situation has grown even direr since my last writing. I have yet to receive a response- was the bird lost or do you find slaughtering the washed-up fishmen so engrossing? Fears have become reality- a shade was found within Farshire. Such things can only be created by the Cult of the Damned- I fear we have a traitor in our midst- possibly the man you have foisted off upon us. You cannot continue to ignore Farshire, our fortunes are bound together despite what you think. Do you truly believe what you have implied in other letters, that Valgarde can hold on its own against the Scourge and Light knows what else is infesting this place? We must stand together if we are to have any hope of survival, and put our hopes in something other than memories of Lordaeron.

Your last response suggested that you expected some sort of aid or instructions- with whom you are conversing I cannot imagine, there is no one alive left to write to much less to command us or provide support. Of all the chivalry of Lordaeron the only remaining notable is Weldon of the House of Barov. The seats of all other Houses have defaulted to distant relatives, exiles, and lesser sons, by and large they are no true men of Lordaeron or worse yet lost in the madness of the Scarlet Crusade. For Light's sake, "Lord" Brighttree, the result of that incident with the elves is now head of both the House of Avon and the House of Brighttree. There is no Lordaeron anymore. The undead have taken our leaders, lands and people- our only hope lies with Stormwind, as I have told you more than once. I hope that you have thought upon the matter and become more reasonable on the subject. Understand that while I disagree with your acerbic take on it I like it no more than you, but our hand is forced. Your settlement was never intended and there were humans inland when Farshire was founded. I too mourn for our homeland but nostalgia begets death in this merciless land. Highlord Bolvar Fordragon has written to you offering the support of Stormwind; a letter you should be receiving shortly if you haven't already. I beg you to accept for both our sakes. I know the Crusade is more to the taste of men of action as I found the hard way when their ill-fated fleet made port here. Our previous sheriff, guard garrison, master alchemist and many other able bodied joined their ill-fated expedition, never to return. They still fly the banner of Lordaeron but they have abandoned hope for life in favor of revenge. You will get naught but a heroic death from them, and if you were the sort for such things you would have done so long ago.

Hoping you will see reason,

Tobius Clerk, Mayor of Farshire


Brynn was not certain of his headcount but it appeared every citizen of Farshire had answered the call or damn near it; he had fended off questions from most of them as they trickled in far too slowly for his liking. Never mind what needed doing with the crops, the sheriff knew honor, duty and blades but cared not for farming. Horns were not sounded to discuss the town budget for the coming year- you were bound to come when called. Oh well. Brynn wasn't the one who had to ride home in the dark after hearing about an imminent undead attack. "Sarlock" was the last to arrive in her ragged dark cloak, even after Brighttree lugging his winged armchair, his hair a wild mess from exertion revealing the mismatched ears of a half-elf. "Sarlock" reluctantly sat in one of the mammoth skulls, the last open seat, glass clinking under her cloak. The townsfolk had a superstitious fear of the skulls, which suited Brynn fine as they were quite comfortable.

Jeremiah's bow saved the other for Brynn but like as not he would be standing this whole meeting. "Sarlock" broke the silence with her best attempt at an intimidating voice. "Why have I been summoned? My studies are of great import and as the sole learned member of"- at this Father Miller clicked his tongue, the mayor issued what sounded a great deal like a growl and Brighttree fell out of his chair laughing -" this desolate place I should not be idly interrupted." "Sarlock" forged on as if nothing had happened. "My great wisdom can neither grow nor benefit the unenlightened if I am constantly subjected to your nattering." To her credit "Sarlock" had managed to make herself heard even as Brighttree gasped and pounded on the floor, breathless with laughter.

"How many a'times has yer wisdom set yer house on fire girl?" quipped old man Jenkins. Oddly enough Jenkins' son Stevron, a stiff and blank man in a stiff and blank set of tunic and overalls, was one of the few not to join in the ensuing laughter.

"That was uncalled for Zebadiah. Afraid to jest at a grown man's expense?" Gerald Green fixed the old man with a stern gaze as he said this, while Brynn's eyebrows ascended his forehead, summiting beneath his ragged bangs. Gerald had forcibly removed Sarah Green from his house after the first fire and her adoption of the name "Sarlock". She was his sister. Or cousin. Or aunt. Brynn could never remember which, a failing that did not unduly trouble him. The two could not have been more different. Gerald was balding, stocky and the most down-to-earth man in the bleak little town of Farshire. Sarah had been shaping up to be an attractive blonde, or so Brynn was told, before she disappeared under her cloak, declared herself "Sarlock" and moved into Phoebius' abandoned house in an attempt to fill his role as master alchemist. Brynn had only ever seen the figure enveloped in a cloak stained many dark hues by potions, collecting herbs at odd hours but otherwise remaining closeted in the increasingly distressed alchemist's hovel. Sarah had actually been Phoebius' assistant as a child and had picked up enough to make potions, but not enough to make them well. Judging by the variable quality and quantity of her wares, she was still struggling with that second skill. Brynn had once taken one of her healing potions and then found himself in the court of the Lizard King Terenas Menethil III and had promptly sworn himself to his scaly service. He had been sent to "subdue the rebels of caterpillar land" before waking and deciding that bandages would suffice for his next injury. It strained belief that the two were related, and indeed they had not spoken to each other in years. Gerald seldom held grudges yet his aid for Sarah was out of character...

Out of the corner of his eye the sheriff noticed that Green and Jenkins' argument had ceased. As in every previous rendition naught had come of it, but now the mayor spoke. "Sheriff Desechain, give the townsfolk the same report you gave me." The mayor passed off the announcement, playing hot potato with the additional rule that if the game took too long ghouls ate everyone. Partly with this in mind but mostly to spite the mayor, Brynn was blunt.

"A shade was found scouting Jenkin's farm. While not a direct threat shades can only be produced by the Cult of the Damned and never travel alone. The Scourge is likely preparing a push against Farshire, and at least one Cult member is nearby." You would have thought Brynn had drawn his saber and gored the mayor from the reaction he got. Stevron's face twitched manically; his father had not warned him. Mammoth and Ice Horn, two of Jeremiah's comrades named for the skins they wore, had been forewarned but looked grim all the same. Brighttree sat rigid in his chair, a stern and chilled expression on his usually jovial face. Gerald Green swore and put his head in his hands. These were the composed reactions. Scarlet shrieked and wrapped herself around Gerald. She usually charged for that sort of thing. Sarah Green produced a large flask from under her robes just in time to vomit into it. Wendy Darren drew a dagger as if she expected ghouls to plunge through the crude windows. In the corner, Father Miller began giving himself last rites. Lester Stubbins pulled a wooden carving of what looked like an octopus but with too many tentacles and began rubbing it and chanting. Many others among the assembled were openly weeping or worse. The sheriff gagged at their reactions. He would have thought a land this harsh would have bred a harder people, but most looked ready to break and flee.

The sheriff took control before someone suggested mass suicide. "Since there are no abominations battering down the door it seems we have some time to prepare. Most importantly, we have time to deal with the issue of the Cult. Shades can only be produced by sacrificing willing Cult members and are too fragile for long journeys, which means an altar of some sort and those who built and used the foul thing are in or near Farshire."

"We must search the surrounding area! No outside could hide such a thing from us in our land!" Wendy had found her voice but not her dagger's sheath; she waved it above her head as she spoke prompting nervous looks from those adjacent. The sheriff had been afraid of this. No one had an exact tally of Farshire's population but it didn't go far past one-hundred if that- everyone knew everyone else from birth and couldn't see them as a Cultist. To them the Cult of the Damned were strangers in dark robes embroidered with eldritch runes, but the Cult's strength was its ability to blend in. Like as not at least one Cultist was in the room and there was nothing they could do about it. Brighttree's parentage had prevented him from becoming a Magister despite his skill in magic but most Cultists knew enough arcana to cover their spell's tracks- it would take an Archmage to sniff them out. A rare few of the most powerful paladins could sense evil but the Scarlet Crusade had spirited off all likely candidates in the area. That meant Brynn had to convince the townsfolk that at least one of their own had betrayed them and drag them through an investigation that meant death for someone they knew.

Jeremiah broke in at this point, smothering the false hope of interlopers. "Me, Ice Horn and Mammoth know this country better'n anything else and haven't seen hide nor hair of any Cultists; no one new has been foraging in the area neither. They've got beds and food in town somewhere. Someone in town has gone over to the other side." As a native, Jeremiah's pronouncement met worried acceptance rather than argument as it would have from Brynn.

Mayor Clerk spoke up, catching Brynn unaware. "But no one has gone missing, they would have had to bring in a sacrifice and such a thing could not be done without my knowledge. No new person has arrived in years." But one of the gathered knew how such a thing could be done. Lester twitched nervously and began to sweat profusely. The sheriff, like everyone else, did not notice, his full attention and a questioning look trained on the mayor. What the hell was he doing? The man was far too eager to please, not realizing how much respect his cow-towing cost him. Was he going to contradict the report of the shade and say everything was alright? The sheriff had been appointed because there were no other candidates- he had never been popular, and turning on him would be a sure way for Tobius to win the next election. Brynn realized belatedly that he should have planned out the meeting before blowing the horn. As in most things Tobius could not lie to save his life so either way the sheriff could have prepared for what was coming. But if the mayor named him a liar in the packed town hall Brynn didn't think he could cut his way out. And even if he could, it would be a poor end to a life spent in the service of Lordaeron.

What exactly the mayor had in mind for the meeting he took with him to the grave. Lester Stubbins instead issued the challenge. "On whose word? Weren't no one with you when you killed this shade. You ain't from these parts and you deserted when Lordaeron needed you the most, your word ain't worth nothin'!" His voice was high and accusatory, crackling like a sail in the wind. Stubbins was one of the truly destitute in the community, filthy black hair wreathing his head except for the sores, clad in brown rags and sustained more by religion than the meager food he could purchase doing odd jobs. Except that if he followed the Light Stubbins did it very differently from anyone else Brynn had ever seen. When he had asked Father Miller about it the priest launched into a long-winded history of the practices of various mystic sects and orders which did little to allay the sheriff's concern.

"I don't recall the mayor saying I was alone" parried the sheriff in a falsely calm voice, slowly, deliberately, an accusation of his own plain for those few not having a breakdown to see. A risky gambit, Stubbins was disreputable but he did not invite hate the way the technically correct charge of desertion did; but the sheriff had a sore spot where his honor was concerned and under an impassive face he seethed. Mincing words had never been something Brynn excelled at and he wearied of the constant heckling- he wanted to kill something and in that moment he neither knew nor cared if Stubbins had misspoke or was the cultist. But the ragged man blanched, a guilty look on his face, and the sheriff smelled blood in the water. A decidedly predatory grin surged forth upon his face and his gauntleted hand drifted slowly, longingly towards his blade. He had him; he just needed to press his case and Stubbins, the Cultist, would crumple under examination. The sheriff couldn't believe his luck, catching the traitor before planning began, no need to issue false orders or other chicanery…

Then old man Jenkins stood up. Brynn's face clenched in a rictus of horror- he didn't know what the old man had in mind but he had a truly bad feeling, as if his entrails had slithered out- a feeling he'd had only once before. Whispers harried his ears, fleshless eyes gored him- vast maw, dark hunger, his brothers thronging the lure, soon they would scream, but their silence frightened him more than any sound…

The sheriff flinched, panic refusing a bridle as Jenkins wheeled to face where Stubbins sat across the hall, a reedy shriek commanding the heretofore absent attention of the hall. "Yer tha' Cultist ain't ye!" Brynn could tell that Jenkins was gesticulating in Stubbins' general direction, but to those just rejoining the conversation a quarter of the assembled now stood under suspicion. Terror long forgotten constricted Brynn's throat, he could not shout- were the torches dimming? It was so dark and he was so cold... Sarlock, returning a now corked flask to her robe, had the misfortune to be sitting next to Stubbins- his smell the reason the skull had been the last remaining seat. Green, assuming his sister was being targeted again, roared like a bull and rushed towards Jenkins, bowling over seats and their occupants- few enough but it made all the difference. Scarlet fell hard when Green broke her grapple, right into Terrance Jenkins' lap, estranged and silent son of Zebadiah and apparently the secret burning desire of Wendy Darren. Or maybe she just hated Scarlet, things were moving too fast for Brynn to start breaking down motivations.

Darren shrieked "WHORE" and whipped her dagger over her head and out- the sheriff, mastering himself, could not help but admire the throw, he had known Darren wasn't soft but she had a rare mastery of knives- it neatly whizzed past bystanders, spinning end over end, slamming hilt first into Scarlet's forehead, knocking her out cold. Adding to the chaos, Brighttree's chair, which he had been using as a stool, was knocked over as Green demolished the front row of seats. The half-elf had remained cognizant of his surroundings and had been moving to help but the spell he launched against Stubbins went foul as Brighttree lost his footing, sending a white star to the roof where it burst just as Green's fist reduced Jenkin's knobbly staff to kindling. The flash bound Brynn's sight; a writhing scream crawled into the sheriff's ears which then heard no more, deafened by the mayor's thrice damned pistol.

It only took a few moments but as the sheriff's senses returned the last few of the wretched cowards were ramming each other out the door, or several of the now broken windows. Not that Brynn had room to condemn- what had seized him? Pushing unpleasant remembrances out of his mind, the sheriff looked to Stubbins' chair. He saw only Sarah, and blood.