Aelycia now carries the Stygian Hunger.
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Sike, now Thorne has the Hunger.
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Survivor of Aranalâalah â It lies faraway in the Hinterlands, wellnigh cloistered and much elder than the provinces of stone-men and forest-beasts. A river of crystal clear waters rumoured to reflect more than the scourging light of the sun and the soothing shine of the moons and their complements â the beautiful stars â runs around it like a moat. Even more, severing it from the mundane world. And on the other side of that dull world lies Seradane, the sylvan landscape overseen by the towering tree of a many thousand years. Many things are hidden in the monumental treeâs shadow: Once mansions and temples of a high cast and even higher civilization, now decrepit ruins of an untold age and a sneering testament to the sad insignificance of todayâs times.
It was here that the words âAranalâalahâ or âLightâs Riseâ in the common tongue were first spoken. It was here where the forefathers of Sir Aurael Firmum and Sir Heros Vir Athan and his son met. It was here, under the âgreat and dreaming tree.â But who would know all that? Who would know that the prince of darkness they vowed to vanquish would return time after time in the Starbroodâs Cosmic Circle? No one, most likely.
Less than a handful of venerable priests of the old teachings even know that Aranalâalah persisted thousands of years until now. Now? Who knows? However something else persisted all those thousands of years as well.
The vagrant madmen that came to uncover it saw but a near crumbling, almost indescribably old, abnormally disgusting woman. A yet healthy and sane mind would have waived her off as a time lost mummy. But those inclined to shadows that creep through the ruins under the towering tree took a closer look â she was yet alive. Breathing only once or twice within maybe half an hour, her leathery skin cracking with every breath she drew. It was impossible to tell whatever race she belonged to, human or elf â the tooth of time has gnawed off her eyes and ears, mouth and nose and the shadows in which she drowned darkened her skin.
Yeshaâneth the WitchâŚ
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The company of vagrants that stumbled upon Yeshaânethâs mummified remains soon set out from Seradane, informed by the dying words of a predecessor that their next step was to find a suitable sacrifice for the witch.
Without a proper leader or veteran of the craft to guide them around, the amateurish cultists seize a pig farmer and his livestock, dragging the whole of it back to Yeshaânethâs cadaver. Heaping it all together, what followed was a crudely executed bloodbath that thankfully met the hideous ritualistic requirements. The shackles with which Yeshaâneth was bound many aeons ago were undone; finally, she was free to roam Azeroth once more, and prepare her for the coming of the Mother of the NightâŚ
âI know it to be true, that the Lord of Dernglen shakes the fabric of this measly world! That the shiftings and the mere promise of return make the earth quakeâthe birds flyâthe rats scurry!â
âGo! Go with my blessing! Go with your dark deeds! The Two-Headed Godâs eyes are upon youâŚâ
And the company of madmen was graced with an unwholesome vision: that of two cosmic serpent monsters, crossing in the skies above a raging battlefield. They coil together, intertwined in that Black HorizonâŚ
In the aftermath, they celebrated as mortals would, with cries of exultation and aspirations of even greater heights. They made promises to meet one another once more, when the next step would present itself.
Album: https://imgur.com/a/KD8p6D0
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From the writings of Reverend Fidelstein
I recall the day the safekeeping of that statue was entrusted to me. My predecessor, once a man valued for his formal integrity and holy diligence in all his duties now stood before me wrinkled and bent, with hollow eyes that starkly shewed the torment of livid nightmares.
He had the sculpture swaddled in cloth like a babe, yet some perverse instinct of mine bade me peel away some of that linen and sight that grisly abberation. I could only guess at the sheer antiquity of it, and yet it seemed as sturdy as steel. Afterwards, its craftsmanship would leave me awake for many nights, wondering at the hideous angles somehow carved into that lapidarian monstrosity; for I could only conclude it hinted at something otherworldly.
Of my dreams, I (âŚ)
(âŚ)
(âŚ) and certainly, I realise the import of keeping it locked away, and only the church could possibly satisfy so noble a task as to keep that sacrilegious thing forever away from public eye! But me? Iâve not the strength nor holiness to see this task through. Tomorrow, I will tender my resignation, and never again will I have to see that Light-damned thing!
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The old church had been built as the worship of the Holy Light and its saints Tyr and Mereldar spread across the lands of the fracturing Arathorian Empire. Some of the local Arathi clans had mustered their protests, claiming the menhirs were sacred to them and their removal was tantamount to sacrilege. Perhaps there was some truth to their words, and perhaps the power of the fabled Princess served to âsanctifyâ the holy ground.
Although the warlockâs felfire desecrated the ground and withered away the grass to ash, with the churchâs removal comes the promise of regaining the primal sanctum in the name of what came before.
Somewhere in the HinterlandsâŚ
âI, Yeshaâneth the Witch, have returned! The flowers wilt, the sky darkens, the wind shrieks!â
Summoned by Omenâs unkindness of ravens, the vagrant cultists that released Yeshaâneth the Witch from her bonds reunited to harken to Sigdurâs new tale, claiming the Witch bad them travel south and hunt down a statue of her God.
"And I â a mere fraction of our true Godâs power⌠a scourer of rats to the murderous plague that will level all would-be heroes! Even now, I feel close by, something old and precious of the Starbroodâs.
They were joined by the scholar Amrita and the vengeful Snake Eater, Layne Morrigan, who shared in the dreams of the Witch, and together they ran amok across the highlands, leaving a trail of murders and the burnt remains of a church in their wake. Their directive was to bring the sculpture to the centre of a fungal cave, and it was Morrigan who discovered the craft and ferried it thither.
âYou have done well⌠it thrums with the same old power! Come, my deliverers, my champions. Come, pay your respects to our God and touch the head of the Cosmic Plagueâs idol.â
Reunited with the statuette of Xaâsugoth, Yeshaâneth the Witch beckoned the burgeoning cult close. As each laid their hand on the statue, they felt a strange sensation that would follow them to their beds, and visit weird, lucid dreams upon themâŚ
Stromgarde CityâŚ
From the desk of Sergeant Ulfr
Captain Nials
I have come upon a dead end in my investigation. Thereâs no sign of Reverend Fidelstein save the blood on his floorboards. Judging by how the place was ransacked and all his coin missing, it would be logical to condemn the event as a kidnapping or bloody burglary, had it not been for the incident at the church.
Regrettably, some remains have been found among the wreckage which my Lieutenant attributes to both Minister Eidel and Brother Arthur. Keeping this in mind, there is little hope of finding Reverend Fidelstein alive. As for the trail of the perpetrators, it vanishes at the tunnel into the Hinterlands, and last nightâs storm has left our scouts clueless.
I have informed the Church officials inside the city. It likely wonât be long before new settlers can take over Reverend Fidelsteinâs farmyard.
[âŚ]
Album: https://imgur.com/a/YhojrRv
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In minor settlements abandoned by the major factions, and half burrowed in the soil, malicious tablets wrote in Thalassian can be found by keen eyes of the faithful.
Unstartled, like a Dragon at sounds. Walk alone.
Unsnared, like the Wind in a net. Walk alone.
Unsoiled, like a Rose in a bell. Walk alone.
Like the Snake in the cosmos. Walk alone.
HoweverâŚshould you find a companion, upon whose soul you can rest yoursâŚ
Then across all manner of adversity, brimming with joy,
Walk with him.
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On originsâŚ
Diaries and logbooks lay discarded across âââââââââââ now, telling tales of a bizarre household. Servants, especially in the years ca. 590 K.C. comment in diaries and logbooks of a certain unease and pensive silence which quickly befell âââââââââââ. There were convivialities during private dinners; hushed pleasantries when it was solely the family in attendance.
The servants also wrote of an interest in trade at the seaside of Gilneas around the year 590 K.C., noting Lord ââââââââ to have engaged in several hushed-up dealings in Duskhaven and the Hayward Fishery when it came to be.
Of note is the sudden disappearance of four masons and one guardsman in the year 590 K.C., publicly written off as a workplace accident in an older area of the mansion, which was indeed found to have collapsed upon investigation by officials. Their families were compensated for their loss and their names gradually faded from record within âââââââââââ.
During that same year, Lord ââââââââ sent out various hunting parties across Gilneas, yet there are no details to be found on what their quarry might have been.
On the Cult of Kzalthoth, the Court of Ebonwood, and Walter HurtâŚ
Associates of Lord âââââââââenlightened individuals sharing in his ambitious madness or thralls kept docile and bound to his willâstill dwelled the labyrinth when Lady Sallien Harrow led an expedition to the mansion and inadvertently broke the barrier between the dungeons and the outside world. Servants driven to madness within the cellar,s prisoners and their jailorsâtest subjects allâwander below. Madmen who havenât seen daylight in decades roam the dark caverns even further down. In the deepest reaches lie the tombs of the Black Empire, where unspeakable horrors reside, called from the nebulous beyond.
The residents of the labyrinth have split into their own groups. Settled on the fringes of the Black Empireâs mausoleum resides the Cult of Kzalthoth. They were led by the old guard captain, Samuels, a man twisted by the dark magicks at work underneath the mansion into an abominable brute. As their influence spread across the Eastern Kingdoms unchecked, vandals of the Black Wolf-God Lycanthoth and tidesages lead by the enigmatic Penkelly found their way down below, working in horrific tandem.
The noblemen herded and trapped in the labyrinth formed a makeshift court, where Lord James Ebonwood held sway for many years until a band of vagrant do-gooders exterminated him and many of his sycophants.
A loose third group, turned away by the mad court of Lord Ebonwood or Samuelsâ insane cult, resided primarily in the uppermost reaches of the catacombs and cellars, where they looked to Walter Hurt for guidance. After Lady Margred and her retainers burned the mansion down, these unfortunate souls were said to have made their way to Kalimdor, to live among the elves.
On MaqlotepâŚ
[âŚ] and he is Maqlotep. He is the guardian. He is the guide. He is the beacon which I so found as I travailed the dreamways between Qeer and Shulâgoth [âŚ] the passage of the ethereal between is as his purpose and utter aptitude [âŚ] by my rightful ambition, seek him out and should I [âŚ] summon him, utter the world I desire, be it the lakes of Halei or abyssal Gâfuhn, and incant chtennfâkaakxth hafhâdrn, lwânafh naggwa Gâfuhn shelâron Kzalthoth! and [âŚ]
â scrawlings found in the late Brother Vakluâs libramPillaged from a monolithic sarcophagus in the Black Empireâs mausoleum, a wayward cultist brought honour to his Gods when he surfaced with the Amulet of Maqlotep, intending to release the Guide of a Thousand Dreams. Pilgrims from Lightâs Dawn Cathedral set out to combat this thread, forging three amulets in their templeâs image: bronze that would raise the wielderâs agility; silver that would bless their strength; and gold, to stand resilient in the face of Evil. The pilgrims succeeded, returning to Lightâs Dawn with the profane amulet in towâŚ
Although all four artifacts vanished during the sacking of Gilneas, the holy amulets were eventually reunited by the paladin Nathanael Hartell and his brotherhood. Regrettably, they were too late in stopping Baron Blightreek and his Grim Gest from releasing Maqlotep, at the very peaks of Northrend.
Instead, Maqlotep found his end on the blasphemous ascent of Dernglen, struck down by the wizard Wayfaren. But that is not dead which can eternal lieâŚ
âŚand with strange aeons, even death may die.
On the death of Elyza LeeâŚ
The Cult of Kzalthoth has been left desolate and without a singular purpose in recent times, worshipping minor deities and reaching out to the cosmos in vain. They needed a directive, and an idol of worship; for they would stand a force to be reckoned with should any hand so reign themâŚ
The Amulets of Maqlotep - https://imgur.com/a/41yJlO3
The Cult of Kzalthoth and the Court of Ebonwood - https://imgur.com/a/dbFrT4y
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A pilgrimage north of the SpanâŚ
âThe rest of the patrol will make another round across the Highlands before heading into the Hinterlands. I think Sergeant Ulfr intends to petition the Wildhammers for aid.â
âOur task is of higher import.â
Layla looked over at her brother-paladin, pulling the strap of her gauntlet tight. âAnd what if our vision showed to us the very threat the League now pursues?â
âThen the Light has deemed us worthy, not they.â
âAnd what if the Light showed to us the days of yesteryear, and what has long come to pass?â
âThere sits the answer to thy wonder,â came the reply, and her companion gestured inside. Propped against the ruinous masonry of the dilapidated tower sat an elven figure, clad in worn armour and chained rigidâŚ
A cell in the bowels of the CathedralâŚ
It wouldnât stop. It had to stop.
She dashed her head against the wall.
The shock dazed her, and for a moment she teetered on the spot, reveling in the bliss of numb silence. Then she heard others, their whispers seething with hate.
. . .
No. She caromed around, and again she dashed her head against the wall. Pain stabbed at her forehead, hauntingly familiar ever since the storms of the west.
. . .
When her head crashed against the wall for the third time, she felt something wet run down to her nose.
. . .
Thud.
Thud.
Thud⌠thud⌠thudâŚ
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Blightheart has been given the Stygian Hunger by Thorne.
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Once again, the motley band of Yeshaânethâs followers gathered in the darker corners of the Hinterlands, exchanging dialogue concerning what visions they shared in of temple-worlds and the ocean floorâŚ
âIt is time we surpass gathering here, in these old dirty caves!â
So spoke Yeshaâneth the Witch, sending her followers across Hillsbrad Foothills to the coast, where they met with Gwynn the Drake-Eater, another unfortunate soul beckoned by visions of Xaâsugothâs idol.
âBut you must beware! You are not alone in this world, and there are opposite forces at work, hunting for us. Hunting for you! The Highlands are no longer safe!â
Purgation Isle. A legendary haunt of spirits and a stage of warfare. It was thought to lie abandoned; a jagged relic weathering Neptulonâs endless wroth. Yet as the cultists ascended the hill to the dilapidated tower crowning its peak they found the very enemies Yeshaâneth had warned them against lying in wait.
When at last the paladin pilgrims were defeated and the grounds were suitably desecrated, the cultists found a prisoner left in the tower by the name of Lucid, an old comrade of the Snake Eater. She, too, joined their ranks, and they bent their heads in reverence as Yeshaâneth the Witch returned, delegating her share of profane blessings amongst the company.
âGood, good â feel the surge of power! The dark essence of a mere shred of the Cosmic Plague. You did well to heed your dreams, and your call.â
Meanwhile, in the dreamscape of Layne MorriganâŚ
âDo you see as the pits of Hell open up and the demons of this underworld claw at the recesses of our mind, that there is but one sort of salvation attainable by your earthly sort!?â
âYes. I see now. I see everything. You are our salvation. The Two-Headed God is our salvation!â
âThen hear its name, and guard it close; Xaâsugoth, the Mother of the Night! The Starbrood! XAâSUGOTH!â
On the coast of GilneasâŚ
Shavka dragged herself lugubriously out of the rowboat, landing in the mud with a squelch and a groan. She stumbled for a moment, nearly teetering over before finding her grip on the wet oaken frame. She made to wipe her nose with her sleeve, managing little other than to smear her dribbling snot all across her lips and cheeks. Everything about her was soaked. The black leather cloak hung burdensomely over her shoulders, too old to properly repel the water anymore and thus weighing a good stone or two heavier. Water dribbled from her ears, into her trousers and down her legs. Everything felt like Hell.
She jolted into motion with another cursing groan, finding her boots quickly free of the mud and strangely pristine. Right. Everything was wet, except these damn things. Who the Hell makes magic shoes? She fastened the spool of wet rope around her shoulder, digging herself into the muddy bank and straining to heave the rowboat sufficiently ashore. She had to stop halfway through, coughing up two pints of seawater and shouting the worst of profanities when a rogue wave took her down under, ruining all the progress she made pulling the last three minutes.
When the boat was finally secure, she sank back against the gunwale, running a muddy hand through her hair and searching in vain for an unspoiled packet of swiftthistle powder. Twelve Silver landed above her on the rowboatâs frame, worriedly nudging his beak against her temple.
âDonât know how much longer I can keep on doinâ this, TwelveâŚâ
Album: https://imgur.com/a/jW9angJ
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A terrible ritual takes place in the central forests of Quelâthalas. After taking part, and raising his new ally, the necromancer Isaac gives Sir Exolth The Stygian Hunger.
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Purgation IsleâŚ
As Layne Morrigan woke up a new man from his blessed dream-quest, he, Omen and Sigdur congregated around the revitalised command table to work on developing their burgeoning cult proper. Plans were forged, and the trio set out with renewed convictions and the dark biddings of Yeshaâneth the Witch at heart.
Hillsbrad FoothillsâŚ
âŚyou are in luck! A blessing you will have, today â a rare sighting will pass across your mortal eyes, ha-haâŚ
Summoned by the ravens of Omen and the call of Yeshaâneth the Witch, the motley band of cultists congregated on Purgation Isle and from there heeded the command to travel to Southshore, where the Alliance had begun their pathetic efforts at repairing the Forsaken blightâs wrath.
âYou arrived, but did not heed the most important part of my words! You have been followed, damn you for blind bats! Eyes have been on you, even nowâŚâ
Yet there the cult was met with Yeshaânethâs fury, as an itinerant madman had trailed them along their way and had begun to divine their purpose. The admonishment was cut short, however, when a ridiculous fleshbeast pounced into their midst and abducted the Renâdorei âLucidâ.
Astonishingly, the dark magicks of Amrita and Omen did little to hamper the cryptidâs rampage, and only the incredible might of Lucidâs sword and arm gave it pause, rending its unwholesome grotesqueness apart and sending it scarpering for the river. But surely, they havenât seen the last of it yetâŚ
Album: https://imgur.com/a/dwCRztA
I reckon itâs time for the cult boys to have some fun down south in the near futureâŚ
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A journal entry is written.
Remarkable, truly remarkable. How oneâs day can shift so effortlessly from the mundane into the macabre!
My ability to chance upon terrible discoveries grows more acute with each passing day, and yet I find that to be both a blessing and a curse; though, I am unsure as to which outweighs the other. Regardless, today was but another example of my aforementioned talent.
In the lurid depths of Stormwindâs forgotten region, and I of course mean Duskwood, I came across the scenes of battle that had seemingly been pulled straight from some fantastical novel; indeed, if it had not been so terrifyingly real. Even now I feel apprehensive to put my full discoveries to paper lest I draw fateâs ire, or worse, pull the eyes of the cosmos upon my dwelling. Alas, I will do my best to recount that which threatens the thin veil between peace and a true, terrifying, reality.
The site of the following horrors was none other than a simple orchard which had been fatefully chosen as the scene of an eldritch ritual. Nothing about the surroundings betrayed any hint as to why it would serve such a dark purpose, and so I have come to a single conclusion⌠the evil at play is truly the most unnerving kind. An indifference that weighs humanity and finds it entirely inconsequential; if indeed it ever gave it such a thought in the first place.
The careful piecing together of clues has revealed this site of ritual to have doubled up as a scene of a fierce battle. The passing of days, I am hesitantly pleased to say, had little effect on the residual aftermath, and to the untrained eye it might have seemed as if it had only just taken place! Seldom are the annals of time so kind.
The power of the divine, the overbearing presence of the void, the blasphemy of blood and the heresy of necromancy all made camp within the soil and hung like a nauseating haze in the air. It wouldnât be a stretch to proclaim that the fighting never actually ceased, it only shifted from being waged by pawns to becoming a passive struggle of lingering magicks.
Perhaps the most astounding of facts is that this insurmountable evil was defiantly, if not foolishly, combated by what seems to be a holy band of brothers. In years past I might have found comfort in the knowledge that such noble souls still exist, although I confess that I instead feel a tinge of fear⌠the fear that I, heaven forbid, should one day end up at the tip of their blades or in the shadow of their warhammers. I pray that the tides of time might catch me fast, and give me a peaceful death before I spiral into those depths of depravity that I edge ever closer towards.
I shall delay no longer in the summary of evil that stands in testament to realityâs iniquitous nature, but in turn, I will keep this blissfully short as to spare myself this creeping stress. Undead, first and foremost, but far removed from simple Forsaken. No, these are undead of the foulest and most base kind. So imbued with the cosmic dark are they, that I would be hard-pressed to categorise them as undead at all! Instead, I will mark them as abominations. But it is not just eldritch powers that set these unliving creatures apart from the Forsaken, it is also the blood that some use and contain within their bodies. Blood that holds inextricable proof of an old and hitherto extinct foe⌠the Sanâlayn. Truly, there is so much more that I could write, but I simply canât bring myself to conjure it from my mind and put it to paper. Such an act would be almost ritualistic in its tempting of a terrible fate.
As a final point, I should note that I was not alone on this fateful evening. I will be open about my naturally lonely inclinations, however, in one of lifeâs many ironies I was chanced upon by a group of women belonging to what I can only describe as a cult of sorts. They mentioned, rather openly, that they followed a witch; although I am frustrated at my own inability to recall specific names and details that are outside my usual scope of research directed thoughts. As prone to thuggish violence as they were, I found in them the potential to be the most unlikely of kindred spirits.
I am on the precipice of a dizzying fall into forces far beyond me, and this chapter may be the last in my story. The next act will take place on Purgation IsleâŚ
-Dr. Arthur S. Reed
https://imgur.com/1DaZDmX
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Following an attack on Purgation Isle by a rival cult and their mysterious patron, the followers of Yeshaâneth the Witch decided to expand their operations. The raven-prophet Omen suggested a dark sect he knew to live in the bowels of an old mansion underneath the Greymane Court in Gilneas, and so the cultists ventured west.
âLong have our halls hailed many Gods and godlets, and all their creations therewith. Greater powers from beyond the veil. Now our calls go unanswered. Madness without direction reigns, and my brethren grow desolate.â
âOur God is dead.â
They met with the brutish Captain Samuels, the old guard captain of the mansion who had since taken up the mantle of leadership over the vagrants trapped beneath the mansion in the labyrinth. Samuels goaded the trio into promises of their power, and took them belowâŚ
For many hours the company meandered through the old cellars, dungeons and caves, as much horizontally as they did vertically. When the soft sigh of the sea was heard through the walls, they arrived in halls of onyx masonry, where sarcophagi and burial urns lined the walls. Here, the titans of the Black Empire rested.
âWe resurrected the greatest of beings in the confines of this tomb. Xaâzal, the Hunter. Maqlotep, Guide of a Thousand Dreams. Kzalthoth, our true GodâŚâ
Calling on Yeshaâneth the Witch, the trio of cultists summoned up a dazzling font of profane power and directed this at the foremost tomb. Although it taxed their minds and bodies, what emerged from the sarcophagus must have been a worthy reward. Zekâriss the Vicar walked the earth once more, and was thusly bound to the service of the cult through the aid of Captain Samuels. Omen, the raven-prophet, now holds the key to this servitude.
Album: https://imgur.com/a/9J3WWYV
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It has been a long established fact that survivors of Lordaeron have been returning to their homeland ever since the Cataclysm, fighting tooth and nail in the Eastweald and Hillsbrad for their old farmsteads. Following the fall of Lordaeron and the restoration of Stromgarde, a boom in settlers occurred, and many new caravans crossed the Span to resettle their lost homes. Corshire is one such colony, founded by the venerable Mayor Demichov and nestled against the southern mountainrange of the Eastweald.
A basic wooden palisade surrounds the young village, and a lonesome sentry mans the gate. The wooden fencing has always served to keep wandering ghouls and stray plaguebats at bay, but there were darker forces afoot now. The followers of Yeshaâneth the Witch gather, intent on bringing about the next chapter of their cult with zealous violence and sacrificeâŚ
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Rumours in the Eastweald . . .
The news trickles in slowly. The farmfolk of Corshire in the Eastweald neglect to meet with the trade caravan of the Argent Crusade. Soon after, maddened survivors turn up crying into their mugs at nearby taverns, bemoaning their tragedy.
As the Argent Crusade investigates, the truth is revealed. The colony of Corshire, founded shortly after Lordaeronâs fall, was left a ruin, with what seemed to be nearly its entire population put to the sword, or executed at the hand of methods far more gruesome.
Hear me! It is by the grace of Yeshaâneth the Witch that we stand here amidst the ashes of victory! We have spilled a rich bounty of blood this night. After many long nights of wandering unseen and biding our time in the shadows, we have left our mark on this world! It is now time we dedicate this sacrifice to our god, the Mother of the Night! Join me! Join me in worship, in prayer, in communion!
Hei! Aa-shanta 'nygh!
You are off, chosen souls! Be cast into the nameless void beyond the stars, and meet our Black King! They are the brood of black stars! They are the Cosmic Plague, the ruin of the pits of Auchronas!
Come together, my brethren, my champions! Direct your eyes to the cosmos and hail the stars, yet fear! Cower in reverent fear!
HEI! AA-SHANTA 'NYGH! You sacrificed souls are off, SENT OFF!
Hear us now, Mother of the Night! Your servant, Yeshaâneth the Witch, has delivered us unto you, and it is with her blessing that we strive to serve!
Be beckoned by our faith! Be beckoned by our sacrifice! Let tonightâs slaughter be testimony to devotion, and so grant us your blessing, O Starbrood!
Hei! Aa-shanta 'nygh! Be beckoned by the terrible name, the glory of Xaâsugoth!
Hear our voices enjoined! Hail the Starbrood! Hail the Starbrood! Hail the Starbrood!
â Sigdur and Yeshaâneth the Witch, their voices enjoined
Make them ALL kneel!
And now, the rest of you must kneelâŚ
BrothersâŚ
SistersâŚ
It is with your own eyes and ears that you see the Cosmic Plague spreading across the lands of this world!
We, as the first faithful once, are now witness â no longer alone in our conquest for the stars.
Their callings are crude, still⌠but theyâre true!
â Baron Blightreek, upon finding the vagrant cultists
Ma hâiwn qwaz ywaq nuq uhnish nuul vwah Puul ez Uhnâagth!
Oou fssh lwhuk za anâshel ni shn lyrrâketh shfk oou shgâullwaq!
XAâSUGOTH!
â The fiendish tongues of the Grim Gest joined in unholy choir
Album: https://imgur.com/a/2dMcnab
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Something dark has crept into cold NorthrendâŚ
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Pact and prayer
The sacrificial foolâs body glides into the near freezing cold depths. It sinks seemingly instantly. The lifeless empty head goes down first, almost as if being pulled by someone or something hidden beneath the seaâs surfsace. Once it is gone, nothing remains. Not even a slight stream of bubbles is there to hint at it.
Some time passes and something akin to slimy driftwood appears perhaps half-way on the seaâs surface close to where the troll carried out his sacrifice. It turns, as if it means to look at Khagâmaku. Then it vanishes. In the coming days, maybe even weeks the arm Khagâmaku lost to the Light would return. However, it would not look like beforeâŚ
Words of foreknowledge are spoken in hallowed Sylvarus, as a gift from the Stars is passed from Champion to Pilgrim.
Rothus now holds the Stygian Hunger.
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