WAR comes to Achaea, and already the land quakes under the thunderous roars of battle. The month of Daedalan, seven hundred and forty five years after the fall of Seleucar, saw a well-honed, disciplined legion of the Dawn approach the fog-wreathed western isle.

Among the Dawnspear's forces, the figures of Xaden, Jayden, Atalkez, Frederich, Ankhareoutef, Avianca, Alaskar, and Torinn could be heard, hurriedly sharpening blades and readying themselves to engage as still others joined their swelling throng.

Heralded by the mellifluous tones of the Orphean Serenade, Dawnlord Farrah Roualt stood proudly at the head of her gathered army, every soldier among them eager to begin.

Charging with a resolute battle cry, the legions of Targossas flowed across the Isle like a great wave of righteous fury, armed with singular purpose: to fell the foul daemonic hordes and claim first victory.

A cacophony of bells tolled an ominous portent through the city of Mhaldor, waking many from their sleep as cries of "invaders in the homeland!" rang out amid desperate calls for any able man, woman, or child to join the defence.

With Lord Marshal Nyderrasethi Moonwolf at its head, and under the eye of the infamous Tyrannus, Proficy, the unholy arm of the Lord of Evil mobilised, gathering powerful daemonic magics about themselves as they began the march to meet their lifelong foes. Among them stood Herose, Melodie, Aegoth, Cooper, Herenicus, Kiet, Zackery, Titonus, Seortiae and still others, each bristling with anticipation.

Barely a glance was exchanged between the Dawnlord and the Lord Marshal as each commanded their forces into the fray. In an instant, the streets of Evil were awash with the sound of clashing blades, uttered curses, and great terrible explosions that shook the very foundations of the island with their ferocity.

Death's hammer fell in droves betwixt the opposing armies as each pushed their strength to the limits, sending life after life after life unto the halls of Ugrach with nary a passing thought, so consumed were they with bloodlust and battle fury.

The streets of Mhaldor seethed beneath the rivulets of blood that flooded them like a nest of sanguine vipers. Inspired by the sight of their Master's home in turmoil, the iniquitous host pressed on with redoubled fervour, felling one, then another, then another. As the sun died on the horizon, so too did the last remaining soldiers of the army of light lay broken on the basalt stone, their death knell an anguished cry that sent a jubilant surge of victory through the foul cabal. Mhaldor had won the day.

But many more will follow.

Penned by My hand on the 14th of Aeguary, in the year 745 AF.