From the Journals of Angarth Bladedancer, Wolf-Warrior of the Anstruther
Clan

Tuesday, 3rd of November, in the Year 3174

The forest was covered in a thick fog, giving the illusion of
walking on clouds. A steady chorus of insects serenaded us as we traveled
beneath the huge oak trees in a southwesterly direction. The druid in our
company, Morrel Direstorm, led us to a small wood elf village where we were
able to refresh our provisions and continue on our journey. Not far from
the hamlet we encountered a lone orc centurion. The beast was adorned in
the trappings of the Crushbone orcs, with a sickly, gray hide and yellow
tusks protruding from its misshapen maw. We followed the creature, trailing
it to its camp situated at the bottom of a hill. The encampment consisted
of three small huts surrounding a huge campfire. The huts were made of
tanned skins stretched taut over hickory poles with primitive designs drawn
on the surface of the skins.
The orc we followed stopped to talk to one of the orcs by the
campfire then retreated into a hut. Morrel informed us that the orc was the
oracle, considered the wise leader of the camp. Having a high hatred for
the foul beasts, we started formulating a plan to remove the blight from the
land. I proceeded to enter the camp and take out the leader, when the
largest orc I have ever seen came rushing from the center tent! The beast
was just a few inches shorter than my 7-foot height, but twice the girth.
With a flurry of swings and bashes, the legionnaire kept me busy trying to
dodge, parry and attack. Luckily the other orcs in the camp did not have
the gumption to join the fray. With the druid healing and the wizard,
Maurek Maelstrom, igniting the orc with lightning and fire, it finally
succumbed to death. In my travels in all of Norrath, I have not found a
stronger orc than this legionnaire. Even the powerful Shralok orcs of High
Hold pale in comparison. Fatigued from the battle, we moved to the south
away from the camp to recuperate.
We followed the line of hills to the west, passing by a few vacated
camps. At one point we passed by a structure of stones that had fallen in
disrepair. Morrel informed us that it was a gathering place for what the
wood-folk call fae drakes, related to the pixies and brownies of Lesser
Faydark. They were not malicious to us, so after a brief rest and vigilance
over the 'butterflies' (that is what they reminded me of) we continued on
our journey.
As we continued traveling westward, the forest became unnaturally
quiescent. No sound. No wind. From what we could tell, not a living
entity stirred in this part of the forest. Unsettling? Yes. Oppressive?
Very. An ill omen of what was to come? Perhaps. But we are hardened
adventurers. Brave. Daring. And foolish.
We found a trail that lead southward through the hills. As we
followed the roughly hewn path, the stagnation increased, almost like moving
through the fetid swamp of Innothule. There was no water, or mud bogs, just
the stench of rotted vegetation and decay. And the air was thick with the
cloying smell of death. The trail continued to the southwest, each step
taking us closer to whatever was causing the decadence. There was a point
that we crossed when the ground was suddenly covered in a fine mist, so
thick that it seemed like snow. We stopped at this point and moved
backwards, and the mist just as suddenly disappeared. Something was
definitely wrong here, and we were determined to find out what. We entered
the mists...

Ahead, built into the side of a towering mountain, stood a massive
edifice. The path we followed led into a small courtyard with a pool in the
center. A turret stood on a hill to the right of the path, standing like a
huge, stone guardian watching over the entrance to its master's domain.
Just as we reached the base of the tower, a hideous scream filled the air.
A dark elf adorned in plate armor came running toward us! Atop his head
rested a helm shaped in the form of a demon, with horns protruding from the
crown and jagged teeth just above the mouth. The dark elf spoke in a voice
that seemed like it emitted from within a sepulcher, and his breath smelled
of decay and rot.
"Welcome to Mistmoore. I am the harbinger of your death!"
I brought my swords up in front of me, trying to deflect the blows
of the harbinger. The speed of the demon was phenomenal, his dirk and
rapier darting between my defenses and scoring several severe blows. The
wizard stood back and unleashed a lightning bolt, the hot energy coursing
over the harbinger at the same time the druid cast his spell.
With a demoniac laugh, the dark elf continued his onslaught,
unaffected by the magical attack. Morrel moved back a few steps and healed
me, but the wounds the black fiend inflicted on my person were far more
deadly than the druids' power could overcome. I slowly retreated, keeping
the harbingers attention to me while my comrades fled the mist. At my first
opportunity, I turn and followed my friends to safety. Oddly enough, the
harbinger did not follow us from the mist. Perhaps the dark elf gained his
power from the mist. Perhaps he was bound to the mists in a way we did not
understand. I believe he was fettered to the mists by the vileness of his
own heart and his veneration to the God of Hate.
We tarried at the edge of the mists until my wounds were made whole
and the two spellcasters had finished meditating. We were determined to
investigate the courtyard that we glimpsed from the trail, to at least gain
some knowledge of the area so that we might come back when we were more
powerful and greater in numbers. By the time we recuperated, the sun was
sinking below the mountains, leaving the region in ever-shifting shadows.
We gathered our belongings and entered the mists once again.

With sunlight streaming through the mountains the courtyard had
looked foreboding to say the least. With darkness descending, the courtyard
transformed into something more horrific, something directly manifested from
the insane mind of Cazic-Thule himself. The mist had thinned somewhat with
night approaching. The first thing I noticed were the dead. Corpses were
strewn everywhere, covering the ground like misshapen lumps of earth. Some
had been dead for some time, naked from the scavengers except for a few
pieces of rotted clothing. Others had been slain recently; their eyes still
wide in terror, blood seeping from their many wounds. Some I recognized -
Aramis, Garan, Mahlyn, Morstangar. Others were as strange to me as the
land I now found myself. There were wolves lying dead next to humans and
dwarfs and elves. Morrel informed us in a strangled voice that they were
druids in the guise of wolves. The dissonance was the most disturbing,
however. Screams of pain and torture filled the night air. Sounds of battle
could be heard coming from a trail leading up the mountain. Then silence.
We stood there for a few moments, listening to the dead, eyes wide
open for any danger lurking in the darkness. A faint din broke the silence.
It sounded like running footsteps that grew louder and louder with each
passing moment. The three of us were turning in circles, to see where the
noise was coming from. Then I heard the shout.
"Run!"
Coming down the trail was a lone paladin, his silver armor covered
in dents and blood. Trailing behind him were creatures so unspeakable I
shutter just remembering their ghastly visages and malformed bodies. Some
were dark elves dressed in armor and wearing the same demon-skull the
harbinger wore. Some were much worse.
We turned and started running up the trail, leaving swirling eddies
of mist in our wake. I heard the crumble of armor on stone and turned to
look. The paladin had fallen, his gore-splattered helmet slowly rocking
back and forth. I took a step forward, my heart telling me to help the poor
fellow. But my mind stopped me. Perched on the back of the fallen paladin
is a werewolf, its mangy coat glistening with the blood of the hero. I look
into the eyes of the beast and it smiles menacingly. It smiles! Something
drops from the open maw. The arm of the paladin! I quickly turned and ran
just as the salivating beast leaped toward me. Ahead I saw where the mist
ended and started running faster. A vicious blow sent me reeling through
the air, striking the ground hard. Dazed, I felt something at my shoulder
pulling at me. I turned around and brought my dirk out, ready to thrust it
in the chest of the foul beast. But it wasn't there. Morrel is standing
over me, his spells sending healing warmth through my body. The ground is
clear of the mists, and it seems the beast stopped at the edge. We did not
enter the mists again.