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The Banshees' Cry

The banshee’s wail echoed through the Valley of Wrong, reverberating off the mountainside. The women and men of Edinburgh looked up from their work and shuddered—someone great would be passing. Small children wailed and ran to hide their faces in their mothers’ skirts. Patrons at the Whispering Pines Tavern lifted their tankards in a toast to whoever’s end the banshee’s keening foretold.

An answering cry went up from Satamarin. The Undead cackled; more food and this would be the passing of a great one. Yet even their dark hearts felt troubled though they knew not why. They gathered along the road to await the coiste-bodhar, the immense black coach sent to carry the dead.

Across the facets came more wails of death. A banshee’s cry echoed off the walls of the Mountains of Britain, past the Brazen Monkey Tavern, the farm of Beetchel Kire. From Necropolis yet another banshee took up her sisters’ eerie song of death, while from the leafy enclosure of the Glades the sad keening shook the brave folk of Avalon. In his high castle, even the soul of Lord Britain quailed. A chorus of banshees signified the passing of a luminary of the highest rank.

People huddled together seeking comfort and reassurance, seeking news. A flock of black ravens swarmed throughout the land bringing the fell news. Seer Imladris was dead. All the seers were gone—laid low by the gods themselves. The counselors were disbanded. They would tread the realm of Sosaria no more. Wails of grief filled the air and the high pitched keening of women. Strong men crumpled, overcome with grief. Shock and disbelief were mirrored on every face. The people of the land gathered together, seeking comfort where none could be found. They gathered at the Counselor’s Guild Hall in Britain in a candlelight vigil to honor the passing of so many of honor and greatness. A gray pall settled across the land from which it may never recover. The coiste-badhar rumbled through Britainnia and all bowed their heads as it passed—high and low, evil and good—so many lost. The future looms bleak and drained of all its color.