"Wolfstone´s Journal - Calling All Heroes" by Timothy Pontious

It started out in a nondescript inn near the harbor district of Point Merit - just an average midsummer evening. There was nothing that would have singled out this evening; the ale, bread, beef, and cards were the same as always. Even the salty breeze had the usually fishy taste. I had no inkling that the evening would turn inside out, or that it would be the hinge of my career.

That feeling evaporated when the doors to the Red Turtle Inn burst open as a bard strode purposefully into the common room. So sudden was his entry, and so confident and stern was his gait that conversations quieted. His face was flushed with barely-contained fire as he grabbed a chair to aid his leap to a table-top where he stood in the midst of the room.

His office was evident, as he wore sumptuous robes (though travel-stained) and by his instrument strung carefully across his shoulder. The patrons of the inn began to applaud, thinking they were in for a concert, until it was obvious that he was not there for revelry. He motioned dramatically for quiet and attention to his words.

"Men and women of Port Merit, a fell day has dawned indeed;
The risk of it is all you've loved and your land's title deed.
For some Evil has found our homeland and upheaved the night,
Then cast it headlong toward us, with all its bloody might!

For something is amiss from Eaglebrook to the Foal Valley fields
To arms ye sons of Tirra, before the day sun yields!

I have heard the gates of Iron Deep the Pale Folk did defend,
As the dawn of eternal night determined to make their end.
When legions of skeleton warriors, hungered by an evil fire,
Pulled down brave warriors from their wall in treachery conspired.

The nomads of the Winter Plains no longer have their homes,
Their songs for now unsung.
Those plains trod under by an army of undead bones,
That has put them on the run!

For something is amiss from Anvil Hills to Trinsta's Cleft.
To arms ye sons of Tirra, ere your kinsmen be bereft!

And not only from the West is the peril great,
As I surmise you have not heard?
Perhaps you know the herdsmen's fate?
Of the monsters they have endured?

Have you noticed any of the King's Rangers today?
All away to Eaglebrook, the Cleft and the Highlands.
And why do they urgently scout so far away?
There is Evil afoot, and these are no mere brigands!

So get off your sotted stools, ye sons of Alliance arise!
Bows and swords and axes take, and bring your skill to bear;
Because our cause of light and life is despised,
And an evil day is near.

Ye heroes, sons and daughters, my truth you've just now heard.
Find your courage now, I beg! These things are true, my word.
For something is amiss, Tirra's Teeth and far beyond.
To arms ye sons of Tirra, lest the Evil bids us gone!

The bard paused for only a short moment before he jumped down from the table and strode back to the door - and into the night. The urgency of his oratory had temporarily cut through the haze of ale and smoke, leaving many there stunned. There was a bit of applause from one drunken corner and some giggling from another, and soon the room had reverted to its familiar routine of ale, beef, and cards. After all, how seriously can you take a bard who does not even give his name?

But if you had been there and you were a careful observer, such as myself, you would have noted that several of the younger men and women (and some who had seen several more winters) paid for their uneaten dinner and quietly left the inn. Their purposeful moves and hushed expressions told of a resolve to aid Tirra in any way they could.

This is why, after I finished my ale, that I joined them.