The Great Offensive: When Oloth’s Shadows Dance o’er White Harbor

Whilst the docks of White Harbor did bleed ‘neath Oloth’s blows and the swarms of the Hive did darken the sky, here stand the news from the front, carried by thy faithful Eleawen Galadriel, where even shadows do tremble with truth.

This morn, as the salted wind of White Harbor did stain itself with the foam of waves and the blood of first battles, a tidings did sweep through the docks like a blade in the night: the forces of Oloth had struck. The defences of Port Elysium, so proudly raised, did crumble ‘neath the assault. « The walls did hold for moons past… yet who may withstand a black tide? », a soldier did whisper to me, his eyes as empty as the plundered warehouses. Yet, White Harbor hath not fallen. The narrow streets and the hearts of Port Elysium’s defenders did stand firm. « Aye, we did retreat… but like a crab: sideways, the better to strike », an archer did chuckle, bending his bow. The docks, lost at dawn, were retaken ere twilight by a united host of the Pact of Defence, and the banners of Port Elysium do fly anew — soiled, yet unbroken.

Yet Erevan, he doth know that the true menace doth not always come from swords. « Swarms… black swarms like a moonless night », a scout did gasp, his skin slick with cold sweat. Winged creatures, monstrous and fell, did descend upon the defence lines. « They cry not, they bargain not… they devour », a mage did add, clutching his grimoire as a child would a doll. « And none know from whence they came, save that they be arkhloons… » « Not yet », I did whisper, jotting this in mine notebook. For though the Drows did seize the night to cast their shadow o’er the lands of the Lost Forest and claim the Arche, the true threat doth linger, and the war seemeth but the cruelest of distractions whilst our world doth still endure their onslaught. Indeed, another rock from the Hive hath fallen, and some do whisper that ‘tis from thence the winged beasts did spring. Yet none may say for certain.

The war, mine dear readers, is no longer a dance of blades and shields. ‘Tis become a game of shadows where the rules do shift with every turn. And in this game, Erevan doth laugh — for who better than he doth understand that truth doth hide where ‘tis least expected?

When Oloth’s shadows do dance and the Drows stretch their night, remember: even the blackest of nights doth hide a glimmer of cunning. And in that glimmer doth Erevan whisper: « Adapt, or vanish. »