[puffyn]

---- Arcoscephale, Turn 57 ----

We are always fighting these days, and when we are not the wind cuts at us like knives as it howls across the frozen plains. I have not seen the sun in months; and I know that the stormclouds ever at my back are more than an especially harsh winter. But strangely, I find the dark gloom almost... reassuring. It is a constant reminder that it is not just I, but the whole world, that is spiraling into hell.

We were ambushed leaving the Elder Hills, en route to the large city of Upperna, where Limmy was reputed to be securing an outpost so my brave but tired troops could get some rest. The ambush was not large - a dozen ghouls, and we slew them all - but it came on the end of five days' hard march. Scouts had a large force of R'lyehans nearby, intent on retaking Upperna, and we were flying across the plains to head them off. Perhaps a third of my soldiers nursed serious wounds when we arrived at the city.

A light snow was falling, of course, but I barely noticed it. The city of Upperna smoked slightly from many smoldering fires. It switched hands several times during the Vanheim-Man war, then fell to R'lyeh, before Limmy convinced them to join our side. The old fool had clearly remembered my culinary tastes, for the farmers had all brought great quantities of butter along with their normal offering of food. Our great feast, which would have been the first proper meal in days, was cut short by the sighting of dark shapes advancing on the horizon. We grimly reformed our lines.

The wind picked up and blew flurries through the ranks, and I struggled to watch the approach of dozens of tall sea-colored shapes. As they got close, I realized that they were far taller than normal men, taller even than Rod and Todd. And then they began to scream. Blood ran out of the ears and noses of those unfortunate to be targeted, but there was nowhere on the field -- perhaps nowhere in the city -- that you could escape the sound, like the crashing of giant waves and the scream of wounded horses confined in the tiny space inside your head. The mystics and Golanish shamans were hit particularly hard; the fiends knew exactly who to target. Not far from me Tolma, a sorceress from the distant swamps, fell screaming in terror as her brains oozed out of her skull, and stared sightless at the flakes that began to cover her body.

Had there also been R'lyehan soldiers armed with spear and sword, the battle might have been lost; but most of their troops relied on that terrible scream. I felt great pride when not a single hypaspist or vinogher faltered in the charge across the plains, though some fell, skulls bleeding, before they reached the foe. The Illithids were cowards: it took only a short while for Tempest and the nascent blizzard to convince them to flee. I ran across the field with the men, intent on striking them down before the next volley of noise could split my skull, but they melted off the field before I could engage more than one. Their magician and priest were quickly killed; the leader of their ordinary troops surrendered. I do not trust him, and have placed guards with him at all time. And... I cannot prove it, but I am sure that it is his presence which caused all our precious butter to go sour.

It has been seven days since then, and my head is still ringing. I discovered an odd mark on my chest, after the battle: a jagged blue star, directly over my chest. I had not received a scratch in the battle, so I asked Andromache about it over dinner, but she ran off with a slight scream, and grabbed Balachandra. "This is not good, my friend," he said. "You have been marked." For what, I could have asked, but preferred not to know. We finished our butterless bread and soup in silence.