August 4, 2000

The Cragstone Librarian looked up from her reading as a hooded stranger drew near. "Welcome to the Cragstone Library,"she said, and then paused. Something about the stranger reminded her of a good old book: carefully preserved pages brimming over with fascinating and unpredictable stories. "Can I help you?"

She saw a smile flit across the other's half-hidden features. Sho, perhaps? A gloved hand reached out and gently placed a few dark, round objects next to her book.

"I found these in my travels,"came the stranger's quiet voice. "Take them to a skilled cook who knows the recipes of old Ispar. They may bring a touch of nostalgia to many . . . and now is a good time for people to enjoy the peace."The stranger stepped softly back.

The Librarian was about to reply, but her eyes were drawn to the long, sheathed tachi at the stranger's side. Like the one who wore it, the plain exterior of the sheath promised something unusual within.

Noticing her glance, the stranger chuckled. "I hardly use that these days; I travel with the wind, and the wind tells me now is the time to relax and rest up -- unless, of course, you're in North Osteth, where more creatures have arrived from the Direlands. Even a few tumeroks."The last word was said with a faint edge of distaste as the stranger turned for the door.

"Won't you stay a while -- perhaps to read?"called the Librarian, reluctant to see the other go.

"Perhaps another time,"the stranger replied. "But you have reminded me: I was writing something for the Library at Hebian-To. I should finish that before I again follow the winds . . . alas, I am a slow writer, so who knows how long it will take?"There came a chuckle of amusement, and then the stranger was gone.

August 8, 2000

In Dereth, thieves are not the only profession most active at night; many a sage has been seen unpacking and dusting off long unused astronomy gear, setting careful watch upon the mysterious skies. Strange doings, they've remarked when asked what it is they're looking for . . . when they've bothered to remark at all. However, only such astronomers seem to be the most troubled these days. Monarchs' swift-footed scouts have returned, reporting that a quiet has fallen about the lands. No new creatures have yet been seen, no new dungeon portals have yet been found. Despite the fact of Dereth's ever-present dangers, lack of danger's rise seems cause indeed for celebration; word has already begun to spread of contests to mark the occasion. While astronomers go about their hobby at night, by day others practice an equally ancient art -- that of cooking. With new recipes being developed, there is fear that while Dereth's heroes gorge themselves on the peace of these times, they may prove themselves unfit for future battle!

And while some have taken to polishing their cookware, still others practice the polishing of their words. Peaceful times this month, it seems, have fostered a true renaissance of skill.

At yet, can it be truly said that all is well? While rest may be taken in August, there can be no doubt that evil does not sleep long. And what of that -- of no new dungeons, no new quests? Sheer falsehood, certain heroes mutter. New tunnels have indeed opened in the ground . . . where corpses will stack at the hands of the dead already there. Although unwilling to disclose this supposed dungeon's location, one hero gave vague reference to a "mark of three towers".

And then, where is it the killers travel, those men and women wearing the red sash of their particular philosophy? To places where their philosophy can be acted out against one another, says the rumor. Some have proven bold enough to ask them where they go, if it's to this rumored dungeon. The only reply the killers give: Arena.

During this restful renaissance, skilled craftsmen have improved and added to the wares of Dereth. Adventurers, long since complaining of bruised toes and weary feet, have begun to sport new armored boots. And other craftsmen, skilled both in armor and in magic, have worked to improve entire suits -- shadowhunter suits -- of armor. Armor that will soon be needed, desperately.