February 6, 2001

He huddles against the soot-blackened stone of the ruined aqueduct, surrounded by piles of neatly stacked tomes. Their deliverer floats away, cloak snapping in the late winter wind, accompanied by a hum that vibrates through air and teeth.

You will do it, Ketnan. You will do it for our friends. You will do it.

"Stop," he whispers, clutching his head. It throbs in sympathy with the ceaseless, fading hum. . .

A ceaseless sea wind whistles around facets of living crystal. The crystal studies the veiled eye of the sun. More snow will fall today. The magic keeps the roofs clear. Still they do not come. The magic keeps the sconces lit, the fireplaces stoked, and the beds warm. Still they do not come. A few delicate pieces of white fluff fall from the heavens, settling on the piles around the patient crystal. The sea wind moans softly. . .

The man moans softly. A solitary, levitating gem throws gloomy syenite light across the stones of his cell. He stares at the gem, absorbing its feeble pulse, and hears the crush and roar of a frigid blue sea. He feels the salt spray sting his legs. A child laughs and crows, splashing awkwardly against the tide as she strains to catch the gulls. Warm arms encircle him from behind.

An otherworldly hum echoes down the corridor. He snaps his eyes away from the ocean light of the gem, and stands ready. He does not wipe the seawater from his cheeks. It will not be minded. The hum swells into the room. . .

The hum surrounds us. A chorus beyond the veil of time. Beyond the suns. Beyond the dark. The tone has always been. It shall ever be. Constant and resounding in the space beyond. There it sings to us, unchanging. It soothes us. It is all.

The membrane muffles it. Mere anarchic noise drowns it out, pulls us from the crystalline surety. I miss it.

The meat entity stands, leaking fluid from jelly surface organs.

Poor thing. We shall sing to it. The song shall comfort it. And in the singing, I shall comfort ourselves. . .

The next chapter in the unfolding saga of Asheron's Call is about to begin.

Turn the page.

February 15, 2001

After the fall of the Hopeslayer, Dereth experienced a breath of peace. Or, at least, some reversion to the world's more natural clime. Yet now spectral lights have appeared in the nighttime skies, and what to make of these? Some guess they are the bonfires of war, warning of new and gathered enemies. After all, with the Hopeslayer defeated, another race must surely seek to fill his vacant seat of power. Others, however, suggest the lights are associated with the geomancy of the land; that, with the Hopeslayer's fall, the same natural forces giving rise to powerful War Magic continue to fluctuate, filling the world with further spells of heightened sorcery.

Whatever the lights portend, true heroes do more than simply sit and ponder who, or what, might threaten next -- and the heroes of Dereth prove no different. Parties, gathered and provisioned, have prepared to set off on the most recent quests, drawn by the promise of journey's rewards.

To this end, one such party seeks to delve deeper than ever down the Mines of Despair (as the party's brazen leaders claim). Another has begun collecting strange items from across much of Dereth, each inscribed with an eight-pointed starburst shape overlaid on a swirling portal. And then there are those dungeon entrances half-buried in the desert sands. Entrances bearing the distinctive mark of Tumeroks. Whatever perils these quests surely promise, the rewards are certain to be as great. Potent Item Magic spells, armor uniquely suited to mages' needs, the loot of vanguard leaders -- even compelling lore awaits! A time for Dereth's heroes to both be tested well and to discover much. . .