[A letter intercepted from a transport raven]

In the outer edges of Peron, a man sits quietly. He detaches a small rolled parchment from the still twitching leg of a large raven and reads, intent on deciphering the small elysiac script.

"To High Priest Gareth ap Carteret,
Lord of Summerhold,
Peron

As was requested of me when I set out some months ago, I find it necessary to inform Summerhold and the priesthood of the events currently happening. I fear they may have a severe impact on us, and the home lands especially.

My last letter, detailing the false priestess we uncovered, seems to have been incomplete. In our further wanderings to find Ezra's cure, we've uncovered further evidence of what must be a well established cult of the First. We traveled to Thaumhame, the mage academy in Terrandin, hoping to find someone knowledgeable on fate-steel; while one of our party was at first successful, the man was slain before we could discern any real solution.

This event, coupled with finding undead lurking in the school's walls, convinced us to look after a teacher that night, one "Coleworth". We caught him engaged in various dark practices, culminating in a brief encounter with an hydra seemingly created from corpses by the man. Pelor's light quickly dispelled the beast; I'll never understand why necromancers would practice their blasphemous arts in a city boasting its own temple of Pelor. The man was quickly brought down, but managed to escape our interrogation by creating a planar gate. Our resident mage, the godtouched Taran, confirmed that it was most likely an entry point into the realm of Chaos itself. I can only hope that this man has met some fitting end for a worshiper of the unformed darkness.

The conclusions I have drawn from this are, however, worrying to me. While a much more advanced breed, the hydra creature seemed frighteningly familiar in its way. The shambling creatures that crawl out of the Fein have a very similar aura of corruption to them. It hasn't been unusual in past years to stumble upon some half-melded chimeric abomination, but the prevailing thought that the more primitive intelligences, or a few hedge-necromancers, were responsible no longer seems as trustworthy as before. I strongly urge that the guard of Stronghold be on high alert; while these things have the capacity for fearsome strength and arcane magic, the brilliance of Pelor has, thus far, reduced them to nothing but clean ash. We can hope that the First's creatures do not learn too well from their mistakes, but cannot plan on it; of course, I will send any further sightings as they may come.

We should be in Thaumheim for several more days on personal business. Our next berth looks to be the city of Bastion. I will look for word from Summerhold regarding these issues.

On a better note, I recommend highly that the priesthood look into an armoring process known, to the layman, as "flow". In essence, the armor is contained in an amulet, and released to cover the bearer completely in hardly more than the blink of an eye. Too many lives have been lost waiting for an army to be supplemented by our men due to the necessary time of putting on one's armor, not to mention the taxation of the horses' strength carrying our men at a full gallop.

All glory to the Light,
-Rhys ap Cadfan"

A cold light sputters out on the man's table, leaving him to shadows and cold. Beneath the stone floor of his sparse room, there come sounds, a cacophony of scraping and mutterings, choppings and screams.

The man stands, and his eyes shine like a beast's in the waning moonlight. With a sharp grin, he stalks his way to the laboratory below to make use of his new knowledge.