Editing Announcements - 2008/05 - Introductions (section)

== Rollout Article ==

{{Turbine 2005
 |  Link = <nowiki>http://ac.turbine.com/?page_id=582</nowiki>
 | Title = Rollout Article - May
 |  Text =
Lord Rytheran sat in his most recently constructed sanctum, his journal open before him to a blank page.  The proud Lord of Menilesh, once the most favored noble of the Eternal Court of Dericost, slouched in a most undignified fashion in his hard stone throne.  All around him, his servants silently carried on their tasks, engaged in research and minor magical experiments, while he himself brooded over the empty journal, staring at the white parchment with empty eyes.  He thought about mistakes and miscalculations that dated back millennia – to memories that seemed more like dreams to him now, perhaps stories that he had once been told.  He thought about the very real problems those mistakes had created for him now, in an age he could never have foreseen and in a situation he never wanted to be a part of.
<br><br>His thoughts were interrupted by his Steward, who entered the room, dodged past a few scurrying acolytes, and took up a position just to his side, obviously waiting to be acknowledged and unwilling to speak or touch his master in order to receive such acknowledgement.
<br><br>Rytheran let him stand there for a few moments before he turned to look at the Steward.  He then noticed the rolled-up parchment in the Steward's hand, and asked him with a flat voice, "What news do you bring?"
<br><br>The Steward bowed deeply, almost abjectly, and presented the letter.  "A thousand pardons for interrupting your, ah, contemplation, my lord.  This missive was brought by… a mortal.  An Isparian."
<br><br>Rytheran's interest piqued, as much from interest as irritation.  It bothered his ancient pride to even have to treat with the lesser races that had stumbled into a land his people once claimed for their own.  Still…
<br><br>"What sort of Isparian?" he asked.  "One of the little slave-queen's servants?  The witch's?  The assassin's?  Some other pawn of the Yalain?"
<br><br>"From the messenger's dress and… methods of ingress, I believe this missive comes from the assassin.  The seal would seem to indicate that as well."
<br><br>Rytheran took the letter and looked at the seal.  The deep red wax indeed bore a familiar sigil.  He straightened up in his seat and raised his head to look around the room and announced, "I will be alone now."  With little delay and in almost total silence, the room full of servants and acolytes set down what they were doing and shuffled dutifully from the chamber, shepherded out by the ever-servile Steward.  The Steward himself was the last to leave, and closed the door softly behind him.
<br><br>Sighing with all the weariness of a hundred dusty centuries, Rytheran broke the seal and looked at the letter.  He sneered to see that the text was in the primitive characters of the Isparian alphabet, and knew this to be a deliberate insult.  He held the parchment in his right hand while absent-mindedly tapping an ancient, half-forgotten song with the fingers of his left hand.  Gradually, his fingers stopped tapping, and clenched into a fist.  When he got to the end of the letter and the sign-off from his correspondent, he raised his fist and slammed it down onto the granite surface of his desktop.
<br><br>The whole table shuddered from the force of the blow.  Cracks spread out from his fist in a spiderweb pattern.  A nearby candlestick swayed, and an ancient vase fell from its mount and shattered on the stone floor.  Rytheran stood up from his throne, balled up the letter, and threw it into a corner of the room.
<br><br>There was the sound of running footsteps from outside.  The door opened slowly as the Steward hesitantly poked his head back into the room, expecting to have to duck a magical bolt, or at least a thrown lamp.  He was relieved to find his master merely pacing the room in agitation.  "Is all well, my lord?  Is there something you would have of me?"
<br><br>Rytheran stopped pacing and turned to address his Steward with a calm voice.  "Open the pathway to Bur.  Bring me a scribe and a messenger.  An expendable messenger.  When they see what I have to say, when they find out what has happened to their followers on this world, those treacherous old crones will undoubtedly want to sacrifice someone."
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