Lords, Ladies and assembled commons. Please take your seats and prepare to bear witness to the traffic of a tale of days past. I make no apology for the words I am forced to utter and the emotions that they shall rend from you. I, Timual Spellsong, am now but a feeble spirit but these are powerful events and the emotions and have spanned centuries.

So without further adieu… our tale.

They were trying times. The first day of the Scourge had just begun. The ever present Horrors were growing in numbers. Word had come from the Theran ambassador of worse to come and the Citizens were in a panic. The General populace were looking to their leaders to save them and it was to this task that Lord and Lady deGuile applied themselves.

For weeks the community was battered by the unnatural creatures from astral space and the beasts of our world they enslaved and corrupted. Lord deGuile fought alongside the soldiers and farmers alike, while back at the estate his wife explored every avenue that her magics might offer to alleviate the predicament. As days dragged on it became obvious the creatures could not be held at bay much longer. Force of arms would be insufficient to repel the extradimensional invaders. While Lord deGuile vowed his bloodline to protect the people always, his wife stumbled upon the most terrible of options. She would have gladly sold her soul to keep her people safe, but the price was much higher.

Within a week of escalating assaults, she has explored and dismissed scores of alternatives until only one option remained. It was with heavy heart she secluded herself in the tower and began her terrible preparations. For hours she toiled at the macabre task alone. It was well after midnight when she emerged, her face streaked with tears. Her weary heart could wring no more from long dry eyes. And into her own quarters she crept as silent as a shadow. Only briefly she paused to gaze at her husband's sleeping form. A knot of guilt rose in her throat, but her eyes could not bring themselves to wet.

Some say that night Lord deGuile slept peacefully. Others that his dreams were plagued by terrors and foretelling. Still others say he cowered in his bed unable either to face or prevent his wife's desperate task.

That same hour the Questor, Neally, was roused from his respite- 'twas said by Minbruje himself - and commanded to wait. Lady Claire stole into the nursery and to the moonlit crib of her infant son she strode. Immediately she removed him from his cradle, she began to gently rock him and whisper the sweet nothings that delight madmen and children alike. Once more she bent and retrieved his blanket lest he cry and force her husband into wakefulness. Lady deGuile could not decide whether his continued silence was a boon or a curse, for events set in motion could not be stayed by her own hand.

As she retraced the stairs to the tower, elsewhere, Questor Neally was commanded to make preparations for a journey. Once behind the heavy oaken door the details of what transpired are clouded, some things are clear. That night Lord deGuile lost his only heir and Minbruje delivered unto his Questor his destination, our fair town.

This brief passage, tragic and terrible, doesn't conclude our tale. Far more agony is in store for our as yet un-united trio.

As the days passed so did the miles. On foot the Questor travelled the 6-day route and his mind raced ahead of him, to the day of his arrival. On this day he was met, on the castle threshold, by the lord and lady of the manor. Bedecked in all their finery, their gay clothes belied the emotions betrayed by their faces. The week's passage had taken its toll. Lord deGuile spoke first, his usual booming voice much quietened, like distant thunder. "Greetings honoured Questor. Be welcome to my house. Treat it as your own. We are the ones you seek, we have done wrong." Before he could phrase a reply Lady deGuile spoke, her voice uncharacteristically husky from sobbing. "The error is mine alone and none other shall bear my burden. I am prepared to hear and submit to your judgement."

Questor Neally immediately requisitioned the great hall and began to hear evidence. People came and spoke on the Lady's behalf for three days and not a bad word was uttered. It was only by her own tongue that she was damned. "I have slain mine own son, with my hand I did extinguish his life. Even if my actions had succeeded, they don't mitigate my guilt…." Proud and tall she stood to hear the Questor's reply.

"Many voices have I heard, but in only the last do I place weight. Despite the apparent abandonment of Lady Claire deGuile's normal demeanour, she has taken the life of an innocent. No circumstances can mitigate this act. The sentence is death."

Serenely the damned maid kissed her husband and then the Questor. Despite the silence no one heard her quiet whisper of thanks to the Questor. She knelt to receive his blow. And with his axe in hand and a tear in his eye Questor Neally struck cleanly and executed his sentence.

Lord deGuile a man of his word and insurmountable honour insisted Questor Neally remain as his guest, and against all odds they became comrades and fast friends.

From that point the Horrors redoubled their efforts and Questor Neally gladly leant his arm. Eleven months later while dragging the mortally wounded Neally from the field of battle, Lord deGuile, last of his line, was struck down. Some say he died the previous year with his wife and son, honour alone animating his body. Without their guidance the town was overrun some two weeks later.

And so ends our tragic tale, and my morbid part. I now am free to take my leave. I hope you have found my tale to your pleasure. My time here is up, I bid you fare thee well.