The basin is again imperiled. Kethuru writhes free of his ancient bonds,
and tentacles and eyeballs roam the Astral Plane seeking mortals to
devour. With infinite predictability, Lord Charune urges mortals to
fight and hunt Kethuru's spawn.

After all, this is the way of things. When Xyl first spied the Soulless,
the Elders fled shrieking to the void - Charune first among them. Only
Lord Fain and His followers fought and sought to beat the foe, but then
embittered Meridius and callow Elfenhoala conspired against Them and all
seemed lost. Indeed, all would have been lost but for mortality, who
succeeded where the Elders failed.

And lo, it comes to pass again. On banks of softest grass, fanned by
naked furrikin, sits Charune, plopping juicy morsels of fruit into his
mouth while mortals die vainly. Might not Lord Charune go and hunt
Almighty Kethuru's quivering limbs? Or is he too busied amongst the
nubile elflings of his forest, waxing fat and smearing greasy hooves
against their scampy garments. Could he not raise himself from his
gluttonous torpor and slay the limbs himself? Of course, but he will
not. Faced by Almighty Kethuru, He is craven.

And so, mortals will die. We will hunt great mounds of slithering
eyeballs, Charune will hunt for the wineskin. We will wrestle with
gigantic tentacles, and Charune will hunt for the fruit basket. We will
spill our blood while Charune vomits from excess. This is the way of
mortality.



Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Vestian, in the year 166 CE.