I bring you news. From beneath the iron-laced balconies and flickering gaslight of New Orleans a new Underworld Guild gathers like a secret in the shadowed heart of Louisiana. Surrounded by deadly bayous, crumbling cemeteries and the tangled embrace of cypress trees, Louisiana’s dark lore is a tangled tapestry of ghost stories, forbidden magic, and whispered curses, stitched together from centuries of conquest, tragedy, and survival. We barely needed to write a setting description. It already existed OOG. 

Please join us in welcoming Underworld LARP Louisiana, Guildhouse Chanté Noir!

Hidden deep in the choking embrace of the southern bayous of Arthos, the town of Chanté Noir is more whispered about than visited. Locals say the name comes from the black song the swamps hum at dusk, a low, droning melody that seems to follow travelers long after they’ve left the waterline. The origin of the settlement is lost to rot and time, but the crumbling stonework foundations and rust-bitten wrought iron fences suggest the hands of a long-forgotten colonial power.

Chanté Noir is an unclaimed settlement, no proper Baron or recognized noble lays claim to it, and none seem eager to. The town stands on soil soaked with old blood and older curses. Its people, those few who remain, are a strange breed: weathered, wary, and fluent in both the old tongue and the quiet signs used to ward off things that crawl from the marsh after nightfall.

The surrounding swamplands are a tangled mess of half-sunken manors, leaning cypress trees, and fog-thick trails that shift from one season to the next. Folk legends speak of the Marais Chanteur, "the Singing Marsh", which is said to lure the lost to their deaths, their final screams woven into the endless nighttime hum.

Almost as dark and terrifying as the land itself, join me in welcoming your new GMs:

Adam Warmhold

Meet Adam, a longtime LARP enthusiast whose passion breathes life into every storyline.

From a young age, Adam thrived in a variety of sports. Football, wrestling, baseball, and hockey, building a foundation of athleticism, teamwork, and discipline. After graduating from high school in New York, he transitioned into the world of professional wrestling and combat sports, dedicating a full decade to honing his craft among the ring, the training gym, and the roar of the crowd. But, Adam's passions didn’t stop there. He also cultivated a love for immersive, theatrical experiences, spending nearly ten years at the acclaimed New York Renaissance Faire performing as a stage combatant. These combined experiences solidified his love for giving back to a waiting audience. Even as the fair’s torches dimmed, he carried that energy forward into spooky realms at the Faire’s affiliated haunted attraction, “The Forest of Fear.” 

For over ten years, Adam has immersed himself in the world of Live Action Role-Playing, playing, organizing, and staffing more than half a dozen LARPs across the Eastern US. From navigating the ruins of a post-apocalyptic wasteland to enchanting fantasy realms and unraveling supernatural mysteries he's done it all with flair and dedication.

Since 2021, he’s been a pivotal force in the Underworld LARP community, where he joined the original Shaper team at Underworld Dark Harbor in his home state of Florida, taking over as the Head of Plot shortly after and has remained on that team for over 4 years. 

When he's not conjuring imaginative tales or infusing playful dread into his friends' lives, Adam is probably off adventuring with his wife, Sarah, whom he met at a LARP event, no less. Their shared love for live‑action role‑playing is still a cornerstone of their connection today. However, when the costumes come off, Adam doubles down on the fun, he’s a devoted gamer across multiple formats, diving into tabletop RPGs, collectible card games, and board games with equal enthusiasm.

It’s this deep love for LARP and his unwavering desire to give back that inspired him to step up as Guildmaster for the newest Underworld chapter. With a love for storytelling as vivid as the worlds he helps bring to life, Adam is ready to guide you into the songs and shadows…Welcome to Chanté Noir.

Lia Leleux

Since first picking up a foam weapon in 2018, Lia has been a whirlwind of costuming creativity, rulebook knowledge, and boundless enthusiasm. Two years as a New Player Liaison taught her the fine art of shepherding wide-eyed recruits into fearless adventurers, while her time as “Dragon Mom” in Uw Toronto earned her a reputation for equal parts kindness and ferocity. Whether she’s teaching a newcomer how to land their first “fatal” blow or rallying a guild for a late-night quest, Lia is rarely seen without a grin and a plan.

In her travels through UW Toronto, Lia once sat upon the Council, where her voice carried as much weight as her foam sword. She’s known for weaving rich stories into her games, sprinkling in just enough chaos to keep everyone on their toes. Wherever she goes, the adventure is bound to be grand, the laughs plentiful, and the snacks excellent.

Beyond the field of battle, Lia’s own saga is worthy of song: a Canadian traveler whose fateful meeting with her husband in the realm of World of Warcraft led her across borders to the United States. There, she claimed a new party - three beloved stepchildren, and a homestead guarded by a loyal hound and two mischievous cats. Fierce protector, devoted stepmom, and champion of all creatures great and small, Lia’s life, both in and out of game, is a quest well worth telling.

Welcome to both of you.

We’re still setting up many of the Guild functions but for now you can find them in their Chanté Noir discord here: https://discord.gg/ma3hTabX

Several of these foul butchers have been captured by those who still hold fast to the Light, and were subsequently put to the question. Yet, despite having seemingly very little in common, each and every single one of these demonic-tainted warriors has told the same tale. When the Hell King violated the very fabric of Arthos with his globe-spanning spell, hundreds of thousands were slain as the presence of divine magic or favour upon them became a most foul curse, ripping their very spirits from their flesh in an instant. While some were saved before death could claim them, or when others were at least strong enough of spirit to resurrect, many instead met what should have been their final end.

Ultimately, It was not.

When these beings opened their eyes, they did not bear witness to the glories of the heavens that they felt that they were owed, that they deserved for all the grim deeds they had done in the name of the Light.

Before them stretched a vast, desolate plain of nearly infinite size, its sand - pulverized bones of a million innocents. The skies that developed them were as a shrieking tempest, the spirits of countless damned mortals wailing their regrets and laments as they were whipped about like cloth in a hurricane. At the center of this horrific place stood a ziggurat of what was once white marble, now stained black by a literal ocean of divine blood that had long since scabbed over. As these spirits walked towards the foot of this grim edifice, they passed by hundreds of still living trophies, monuments to the overwhelming power & glory of the realm’s occupant.

Mounted upon blackened pikes stood the heads of both Gods and Dragons, the light of sentience still reflected faintly in their eyes, but the majority of their mind was clearly lost to madness.

Not even the strongest willed spirit amongst the throngs that shuffled to the foot of the Ziggurat could bear to look upon the figure who sat upon the loathsome throne atop its peak, for even the barest of glances invited madness and insanity. Perhaps then, that is why those present on that day or on subsequent occurrences choose not to focus on that sublime being, and instead remember what hung in the air above it.

The Black Sun.

Awash in its midnight radiance, a voice echoed forth onto the minds of each and every spirit. To those that would serve it promised power, glory, victory, and a place in the New Order that the Hellstack would impress upon all of creation. To those that refused, it promised only an eternity of torment, without the release of death or dissolution. Of those spirits, we know precious little, save that not even the strongest mystics were incapable of calling to them.

Those spirits that accepted the pact all had their own reasons for doing so. Some merely craved the power that it offered, for the previously fallen Church of Light they had fought for had just been a socially-acceptable way to indulge their darker impulses. Some gave in out of despair, reasoning that the Gods they had served in life were either truly dead, gone, or weak enough for the distinction to be unimportant. And for some, the mental fog that clouded their minds during their service to Roderick Hale never truly faded, and they simply believed that they continued uninterrupted along the same grim, yet righteous path. Whatever the case may be, all those who accepted the power of the Black Sun found themselves restored to the world of the living, empowered with both the powers of the Hellstack and divine power stolen from the Celestial realms.

Calling themselves the “Temple of the Black Sun,’ these once supposedly-righteous warriors quickly organized when they returned to the mortal plane, and with entire legions of demonic soldiers at their command they began to lay waste to what was once the Kingdom of Teifanue. Without the presence of Prince Leopold or any of his divinely appointed bloodline, its people have remained scattered and weak. Castle Lightguard was the first to fall to the Hell King’s unobfuscated demonic horde, and the pattern that was established there was then repeated countless times across the countryside. Whereas Hale had once believed that the actions of himself and his armies still served the Light, these monsters suffer no such delusions. They knew exactly what they were doing as they butchered Castle Lightguard’s people and looted priceless magical artifacts from its vaults. Since that horrific day, countless other settlements have met the same fate, and the horde shows little sign of slowing down…

The other nations of the Whiteraven Alliance have hardly fared better. Demonic cults, once the product of gossip and whispered rumors, have thrown off their cloaks of obfuscation and have begun to strike out openly at the forces of the Light in earnest. Already beset by the chaos that has engulfed Maud’madir and suffering from the losses that the Divine Severance inflicted upon their populaces, many of these nations were ill-prepared for these assaults. Their respective militaries, economies, and societies along with their leadership have truly been stretched to the breaking point. The Council of Elders has not met in months, and little to no cooperation currently exists between its various member-states. Most are simply too focused on their own survival to look past their borders and provide aid to their allies.

The Empire of Berphaunt and its client kingdoms remain closed off from the chaos that threatens to envelop the continent, and curiously this approach seems to have more or less had the desired effect. While scattered demonic assaults have touched upon the outskirts of the Empire, none of their great cities have felt the full measure of the Hellstack’s might. Berphaunt and its possessions lie almost completely unharmed, and while isolated from much of the world, life seems to continue for its citizens as it always has. Many beings, both from within the Empire and outside of it, have questioned why this is the way it is. And while there are many theories why the Empire yet remains largely unmolested, the dominant and cynical view that is commonly expressed across the continent is that quite simply, the armies of the Hellstack have already defeated the Empire. For despite all of its manpower, vast magical, economic, and military might, it does not seem to be willing to wield it. Thus, it is not a threat. Pleas for aid from all corners of Maud’madir, even from nations that would have considered the Empire their sworn enemy, lie unheeded and unanswered by the Emperor and his subjects. Indeed, the only evidence that the Empire stirs at all lies with a sudden and unexplained burst of activity from the Conclave. The Red and White towers have recently stirred to life in a manner not seen since the creation of the Gargalen, and entire teams of Archmages have left their tower laboratories in search of ancient arcane secrets.

Yet, all hope is not yet lost. Queen Seltia Allana of Felnir has rallied what remains of the repentant Church of Light to her banner, and alongside a host of her loyal Savar, fights a brutal running war with the Temple of the Black Sun in Teifanue. Where they all she could muster, it is doubtful the noble Queen could offer the demons anything more than a token resistance. Fortunately, she is not alone in this fight.

Queen Revna Mothersblood has united the Einish clans and surged south out of Mjoll, her horde of furious northern barbarians gleefully taking the fight to the cultists and their demonic masters. While most are more than happy for the aid that the Einish bring, rumors abound of entire swaths of land forsaking their bonds to Teifanue and swearing oaths of service to Queen Mothersblood. Whether this happens out of fear or out of genuine gratitude and respect is still as of yet uncertain, and some still deny that these developments occurred at all. Queen Allana has heard these rumors, but she dares not check her fellow Queen, because like it or not, all of Teifanue would have since been food for the demons were it not for the Einish warbands. She also remains torn by the fact that ultimately, it is not a war she can win, even with an army of furious Einher at her back. That much is obvious to even the lowest of her soldiers, And yet, still they continue to fight, for it is a cause worth fighting for.

Harag Pass

Harag Pass is a key logistical location in Mjoll, resting in a large basin surrounded by mountains on all sides. The large town residing within it, Harag, is fed by a series of streams and rivers that run through the mountains and built-up roadways and dense forest, home to much game. Whoever holds this pass holds the key to moving soldiers, supplies and equipment through the mountains of Mjoll.

The forces of Revna Mothersblood of Clan Oslo took the Harag Pass in the early days of the war, with a quick raid and the pacification of nearby towns and ports. Harag Pass has acted as a staging point for her forces, with more and more of her army beginning to congregate at the pass, presumably for a decisive march on Orin the Bastard's personal holdings in the heart of Mjoll. These movements did not go unnoticed, perhaps validating the rumours that those within Revna's ranks had taken Malar-Skaw gold for information. What is known, however, is that in the days before the battle, the surrounding towns and ports received vast shipments of coin and wealth. They did not act or raise the alarm as Orin's forces moved in by road and river, no doubt due to this. 

With this information, the stage was set for the battle, and the battle can be described in three phases; the day, the night and the morning.

The Day

On the morning of the battle, the basin of Harag Pass was covered in a magical fog accompanied by the sound of constant buzzing bees. Under this cover, a convoy of Orin's ships made their way up the river to the town of Harag. Only when the vessels were near the docks did the town's watchtowers spot them and light their beacons. The defenders on the docks sprung into action. Strong arms moved great levers to raise chains from the riverbed, but not in time. They only managed to entangle the rearmost ships, though they caused great damage as the hulls were forced into each other, cracking and splintering, forcing crew overboard. From the stone walls along the docks, those in kilts of Hunhil black and white could be seen pouring vats of alchemy down into the waters below. The unfortunate spirits forced into the waters soon found their skin being burned as the acid made contact. The acid would have burned away at Orin's ships had their prows not been reinforced with Conlan forged steel. Entangled by chains and decimated by acid, the survivors in the rear of Orin's assault made it to the opposite shore while the lead ships docked at the town's port.

The first off the ships had kilts of Wolfsgar black and red. They wore light shirts of woven chains and carried the weapons and looks of seasoned hunters. With them came packs of braying hounds armoured in kind. Under a rain of arrows and alchemy from the walls of the docks by those in black and white stepped one of the most vicious Einher witnessed, Festargarmr, Chieftain of the Wolfsgar. Across his body, he bore scars from blade and fang alike. "Bedriva" Festargarmr spun a length of spiked chain in the air and barked an order "jaga och döda" or hunt and kill. At those words, Einher and hound alike leapt forward to charge the barricades, both frothing at the mouth. They charged the barricades, biting and hacking. It was hard to tell man from hound in the flurry of flesh, blood and fur. The Bothnians were routed from the docks and fled into the corridors of the town.

Festargarmr urged his warriors in pursuit of the fleeing Bothnians. The Wolfsgar hunting packs drove forth into the town. They did not meet the backs of fleeing Bothnians, however. They instead charged into the long axes and claymores of heavily armoured Galloglach warriors stationed to hold these pathways; the Wolfsgar skirmishers stood no chance. When they turned to flee, the Galloglach unleashed a hail of javelins, cutting them down. Those that could escaped and went to secure the dock so that Orin and the crews of the ships sunk could get a foothold into the town.

On the other side of the town stood the front gate, with Oslo Shieldmaidens stationed along the walls. At the same time as Orin's ships hit the dock of Harag, from the dense forests the gate looked out upon came tartans of Gotlands black and blue alongside those of Fenrik black and yellow. Revna's Shieldmaidens braced as Orin's forces began to unleash a torrent of spells at the walls.

Despite their unwavering courage and unyielding defence, the relentless assault of the Gotland mages and Fenriks proved too overwhelming for the Shieldmaidens. A Fenrik contingent led by Tyrik the half-man made an attempt to assault the walls. Upon the walls, Tyrik and Revna clashed. Fury was in Revna's eyes, and each blow of her blade sent Tyrik reeling until a final blow removed his head, and his body fell from the ramparts. As the battle wore on, exhaustion began to take its toll, and cracks began to appear in the once impenetrable shield wall. The maidens fought valiantly, but their numbers dwindled as the day wore on, and the enemy's magic began to overwhelm them.

The setting sun gleaned off spears that could be seen coming down the mountain pass to Harag. The thunderous beat of hooves echoed through the basin. Skarde the Ironbred of clan Bothnia, arrived alongside Arvid-Vano of clan Oresund, all mounted on horseback. A cheer rose up from the defenders of Harag. The cavalry crested the hill, the sounds of hooves drowned out by the screaming of wood and metal as a trebuchet fired from the other side of the dock. The sheen of mail and spear was blocked out as shadows took shape from the sky. Where the rocks fell, the column broke. Horses fled in whichever direction seemed safe. Clan Oresund fled the field, broken and scattered.

A devastating surge of eldritch energy from the Gotland mages finally shattered the gate's defence. A series barrage of meteors falling from the sky and columns of flame crashing against the battlements sent the Shieldmaidens reeling backwards. The townspeople cried out in despair as they watched their defenders forced to retreat, their spirits crushed but not broken. With heavy hearts, the Shieldmaidens regrouped deeper within the town.

As they fell back, the Shieldmaidens held their heads high, knowing that their sacrifice had bought precious time for the townspeople to prepare for the next wave of the assault. Determined to defend Revna to the very last, the Shieldmaidens prepared to face the Gotland and Fenriks once more, rallying the townspeople around them to stand united in the face of Orin's forces. The battle for Harag was far from over, and the Revna vowed to fight with even greater ferocity to reclaim their gate and drive the attackers back. 

The Night

The sun set on Harag with Revna and her remaining forces encircled, parts of the town burning from the day's conflicts. Orin's naval assault regrouped on the docks under cover from Conlan's siege weapons. On the other side, at the gate of Harag, the clan of Gotland is reinforced by the Lofoten. The axes and swords of Galloglach, alongside the shields of Oslo, hold until the moon's rise, full and bright across the sky. 

Orin had timed his battle for this night for a very good reason.

The berserker werewolves of the Lofoten cursed with a feral madness, charged recklessly through the gates of Harag. Their eyes glowed with an otherworldly intensity, their fangs glistened, and they howled with an eerie resonance. Their fury seemed boundless as they wielded their weapons—a combination of ancient Einher weaponry and their own savage claws.

Across the narrow streets and wooden buildings, the Galloglach mercenaries stood firm, their stoic expressions betraying no fear. These battle-hardened warriors from the lands of Galloglach were renowned for their combat prowess and unwavering loyalty to their chieftain. They formed an impenetrable wall with their long axes gleaming in the moonlight and claymores held at the ready.

As the Lofotens charged, the clash of steel against steel rang out like thunder. The Galloglach mercenaries defended with skilful precision, their long axes striking with lethal accuracy and their claymores sweeping through the air with deadly grace.

Javelins whistled through the night, hurled by Galloglach marksmen, seeking to impede the werewolves' advance. But the berserker werewolves, with their unnatural speed and agility, dodged many of the projectiles, their fur bristling with anticipation. While the Galloglach stood brave, many of their blades could not pierce the hides of the Wolves of the Lofoten. It is said that Adair the touched came from his tent reeking of whiskey and ordered the warriors of the Galloglach in a foolish countercharge against the enraged and blood-soaked Lofoten. The inner gate of Harag was taken by Orin's forces shortly after. Those survivors who bore witness to the fighting in the inner gate say it will be a tale they pass down to their grandchildren. 

Those on the other side of the river where the Conlan siege weapons sat silent for the night. Figures under cover of darkness, their tartans unknown and unseen, came- taking out sentries, slitting their throats and strangling the siege crew as they slept. They were like weasels in a hen house as they did their work. They skulked along the surrounding mountain range, one by one removing sentries, blinding the rear of Orin's forces along the dockside. 

The Morning

Skarde the Ironbred led Arvid-Vano and the routed Oresund cavalry along the northern mountains. Pushing both rider and steed through the night, they positioned themselves against the now unwatched dock side of Harag. Skarde the Ironbred held a weapon stronger than any Conlan war machine, Malar-Skaw coin or Lofoten rage. He had knowledge- for Orin the Bastard was raised as a Hunhil, and Skarde had grown up beside him. They played as youths, fought as teens, drank and loved as adults. Skarde knew the mind of Orin well. He knew where Orin would put his defences, how Orin would align his forces and even what shifts Orin would put his guards on. In short, Skarde knew when and where to place a cavalry charge. 

As the morning sun kissed the rugged peaks, the cavalry units assembled at the mouth of the mountain pass, their steeds pawing the earth in restless anticipation. The air crackled with a sense of impending fervour, and the soldiers' hearts pounded in unison with the rhythmic drumming of hooves. The thunderous uproar of the cavalry charge down the mountain pass echoed through the valley below, startling flocks of birds into chaotic flight. With precision and unity that only years of training could bestow, the horsemen weaved through the serpentine path with breathtaking elegance. Hooves kicked up sparks of fire from the rocks, and the dust billowed like a shroud behind them. The charging warriors exuded an air of invincibility, their faces masked with fierce determination as they hurtled towards the enemy with unyielding momentum. The sun cast elongated shadows that danced with the riders, further accentuating the almost mythical aura surrounding the awe-inspiring spectacle. In the face of adversity, the cavalry charged as one, hearts pounding with the rhythm of war, embodying the spirit of victory that surged through their veins. The mountain pass became a theatre of valour, where courage knew no bounds, and legends were born amid the tumultuous symphony of battle.

Orin led his forces in a counterattack against the devastating Oresund charge. Those who survive the encounter say that Orin cleaved through shield, armour and horse alike, blood glistening in the day's light from his twin-bladed axe. He was accompanied by a Fenrik bodyguard. It is said that the Fenrik's skin was made of black smoke, their eyes glowed green, and they had horns made of snake while their weapons screamed and cried as flesh was hewn. Orin and his guard fought through the Oresund lines and to Arvid-Vano. He came upon him with a furious rage, axe cleaving Arvid-Vano's horse from the legs. Arvid-Vano had enough time to raise his shield, yet Orin's axe bit down, cleaving shield and skull alike. The Chieftan of Oresun lay dead.

With Orin's forces engaged, Revna and her remaining forces within the town mounted a breakout, the roar of battle echoing through the air. The Shieldmaidens within Harag fought fiercely to break free from the besieged town's confines. Adorned in glistening armour and gleaming weapons, they formed an unyielding wall of valour against the enemy forces. The siege had taken its toll on those within the town, but the Shieldmaidens' determination remained unwavering. As flames raged around them, the brave warriors cut through the enemy ranks with unrelenting prowess, clearing a path towards the nearby docks where their salvation awaited. Guided by their indomitable spirit and camaraderie, the Shieldmaidens charged forward, leaping over barricades and rushing past crumbling buildings, relentlessly pursuing their freedom aboard the waiting ships that would bear them away from Harag, with Orin's forces unable to pursue in a timely manner. 

The Oresund cavalry broke from the melee, regrouping. A horn call to fall back sounded throughout the basin at the site of Revna's banner flying from the ships that had broken free. By the day's end, Orin's forces would hold the key location of Harag, having missed the opportunity to defeat her completely due to the cleverness of Skarde the Ironbred and the valiant sacrifice of Arvid-Arno Chieftain of Clan Oresund. Arvid-Arno's second son Grom Gloryman tells the tale that he was the last of Revna's forces to leave the field, that he was able to turn back Orin's pursuing skirmishers by removing his helmet and blinding them with the awe and brilliance of his glorious shining hair.

The Aftermath

Since the first efforts in taking this account weeks ago, Revna's forces have regrouped and marched on Mordenholt. Orin's own forces amass at the Harag Pass, the armies of Aslak and Felnir joining with Orin's to mobilize to Mordenholt. An Althing has been called, and both sides have agreed to produce pieces to reforge the horn of the Einherjar and awaken the High King. It would seem as though at Mordenholt, this bloody and vicious conflict will end one way or the other. 

Yet, we stand on the precipice of yet another. Hale and his army of wayward zealots close in on Mordenholt as well. I feel as though there will be many dark days ahead…

- Ser Alister, Knight of the True Prince of Tiefanue, Observer to the Einish Civil War 

This declaration has been shared by Bastion Leaders in each applicable town and city.

“Friends,

 

I am a leader of a Bastion of hope and justice. Above all that I will say today, know this first. I am Elija Quintrell, Cleric of Kael. I am, or was, a High Adjudicator in the Citadel. I am a friend to all life. I was also an angel to Roland. This may not come as a surprise to all of you but all my brothers and sisters, who established these Bastions, are Fallen. Each has their own story and I will not tell it, but know the truth, we sinned against our Divine Lord and some manner and were cast out of their celestial heaven rather than put to death. We did not know this until very recently. The items many of you have been retrieving from the celestial realms are manifestations of the essence and memories that were taken from us, when we were made mortal. Now that some of them have been returned, our eyes are open. We believe this is why we were never swayed by the false Church and their obfuscating enchantments. I am telling you this because we have a job to do and you need to trust me. The Archbishop and his frantics need to be stopped and if we do not make haste to Mordenholt and ally with the rightful Prince of Tiefanue, all will be lost. The Skein Gates are closed by some foul magic but there is another way. As Angelic beings we have the innate ability to travel to the celestial realms.

And we can bring others with us. 

 

My Bastion brothers and sisters will be opening up passages to the heavens of a dead god. We have scouted the location this past week. It is safe and devoid of any harmful life. We will use this as a muster point to gather all our resources before the real challenge begins. From there, in one week's time, we will combine our abilities and send you to the closest place to Mordenholt that we can. The Glacial Authority. Inside the realm of the Ice Queen is a stronghold, Winter’s Might. We will exit our passage directly into a room filled with portals known as the Wyrmgate. This is how Pandora and her Ice Elves travel across the vast expanse that is her domain. We suspect this room was created when she possessed her Orb of Power, Blite. In that room there is a portal to Mordenholt, or as close to it as we can get. We get in and we get out, as quickly and as quietly as possible. We liaison with Prince Leopold and a Bastion leader we’ve been in contact with, in Mordenholt. Finally we believe we can cleanse the Skein Gate in person, to allow for any late travellers. We have reports that ships from Dark Harbour have already made landfall, carrying troops and adventures. We know that Felnir and Aslak have joined the fray, making their way North. Together, united, we will defeat this false light.

Each Bastion leader will open travel to the muster point today. Prepare yourselves and meet us there when you are ready. We make move for Mordenholt in one week’s time.” 

(In each Bastion town, your local Bastion Leader initiates an innate Celestial Passage ability. A golden tear in the fabric of reality pulses with golden light and magic, opening the way for you to travel to your muster point destination. You may travel back and forth freely until Thursday Aug 3rd.)

https://discord.com/channels/360609275296481281/1134225405960786020

From the North

We have received word from inside Mjoll. The Chieftainess of Clan Oslo, Revna Mothersblood, sends word and a call to arms.

“It is with great reverence that, in the town Mordenholt, on the eve of August 5th 2265, I invoke the presence of every mighty clan to an Althing. The armies of Roderick Hale and the Church of Light rush North at quickening speed. If we do not stop killing each other and unite, under ANYONE’S banner, we will all be slaughtered like pigs and our clan names dishonoured. I do not ask this without showing my own sacrifices. I have sheathed my blade and spoken with Orin the Bastard, my enemy for this past decade. The same man who declared my Shieldmadien’s outlaw, allied himself with Fenrick traitors, and put many of my sisters to the sword. He has agreed to attend the Althing to resolve this once and for all. Thanks to the brave and valiant people of Arthos, I have assembled almost all the components of the Battlehorn of the Einherjar and, when complete, I will use it to free High King Throson Bloodeye and take my place at his side, as we are oathed. Orin has vowed that he will bring his father, trapped in his icy curse, to Mordenholt. 

 

Shieldmaidens - We Shieldmaidens swore an oath to protect the High King at all costs. The High King lives still and nothing, not accusations of treachery and not betrayal, will release us from that oath. We are bound by it until released by the King of all or in death. Remember this. 

 

To the non Einish, The Althing is a brief moment of peace where the gods watch, and decisions are made that will change the future forever. Violence or any breach of our customs will be dealt with harshly, and most likely, violently. I know our politics may seem brutish and ugly, but they will resolve this. I consider that, for the first time in our people's history, neither clan nor race divides us. We do not have the liberty of keeping this internal, as is our way. We fight for the survival of all people and you fight for us in equal measure. If your lives are dependent on our decisions then you have every right to be a part of that decision making process. You are Einher for the Althing. Any who stand against my word on this will find their bones whetting my blade. 

 

Together we will unite under the banner of Thorson Bloodeye, High King of the Einher. If we cannot free him, or if he is not capable of leading, then, under the eyes of the Gods so Savage, we will choose another. 

 

Currently, I stand accused of treason, of harbouring ambitions that would betray the very core of my loyalty to the High King. It hurts my heart and my spirit like a wound from a  poisoned dagger but it is not the first time Shieldmaidens have been falsely accused of treachery. It does not negate our Oath. I will build the Battlehorn to give back to the High King so that he may sound it and rally forth the Valiant Dead to fight by our side. If he cannot take it, then make no mistake, I will, but it will be by blessings of the Gods, not subterfuge. That is Fenrick trickery and I have no taste for it.

 

Gods watch over you. Make haste to Mordenholt. 

 

Chieftainess Revna Mothersblood, Clan Oslo"

From the West

The army of the light marches north. For many, amidst the rolling hills and verdant valleys of the Whiteraven alliance, a radiant beacon of hope emerges: the Church of Light. They speak of their sacred mission to defend the realm against encroaching darkness to the North. A darkness led by a traitor Prince and army of heathens. With unwavering faith, they embark on a holy crusade, marching northward, their ranks swelling with each passing day.

As the Church of Light makes its resolute advance, its fervour and righteousness inspire a groundswell of support. Peasants and common folk, yearning for purpose and protection, flocked to their banner. It is impossible to say if they are drawn by some force unseen or perhaps just the promise of salvation. Whatever the reason, these newfound recruits have joined the ever-expanding army of Light, adding to its strength and diversity.

https://youtu.be/GbSpyWcjAOo

From the East

Still no word from the Empire

From the South

A message across the Skein Gate from the High Warlord

“Leopold,

My heart sings for battle beside you again, but I cannot listen to its song. It pains me, more than you shall ever know, but apparently strife, treachery and betrayal isn't limited to your pale skins. Within this last moon some of my own kin dared turn on me, and now corruption grows from within the Legion. I will put these dogs down, make no mistake, but should I leave my home, it will be seen as weakness and this disease will spread faster than I can cure it. I wish upon my ancestors that I could be there by your side, and it is no surprise that the Empire has remained cowardly silent, but this does reek of design. I wish you victory in battle, my battle bother. Fight with honour, never yield. 

To my brethren, sons, daughters, and children. I call to the Amaranthine Legion and all her allies.

 

Let it be known that individuals of the Bar’Ghul and Razor-Vine Clans have turned upon their own people. My Scout Masters have informed me that a sizable force, including two War-Scarred, have taken a handful of Orcish ships after disabling many of ours. They have begun sailing toward Whiteraven territory with haste. 

 

I fear their spirits polluted and our investigations point deeply to Wytchcraft and demon interference. Although it brings me great pain, I ask you to capture or kill these traitors. Any Greenskin that stands against you from these two clans, I will pay a bounty of 5 gold per head. For the two Wars-Scarred, I want them alive. 50 gold each.

May the fires of the Legion burn brightly in your spirits and may you die with honour in your hearts,

 

Gigoliath the Flame Thrower

High Warlord of the Amaranthine Legion”