Perchance thou hast not perceived the tale of yestermoon concerning a mysterious hooded figure descending upon camp Hærken. If so, let us remind ye of it now, for it is an auspicious moment indeed!
The finale of our sojourn at the fabled fields of Bloodstock Open Air: to wit, an epic battle 'twixt Saxon and Norman.
Dearest Comrades, The Eve of Bealltainn once again draweth nigh. Nigh on ten moons hath waned since many among ye received a parchment sealed by our own hand. It is with glad tidings that we now proclaim the ethereal edition of the same, so that our tales may be more easily told, farther and wider than afore. Forsooth, Procul Clamorem Nostrum Audies - Afar Thou Shalt Hear Our Cries!
Yon emissary approacheth & a murmer rouseth the camp;
But lo! What tidings doth he bear?
Hærk! good comrades, heed our call And lysten our laye of woe A hole! a hollow! hath come to be Atop our drummer's throne!
Wæs hæl stout comrades!
An age hath pass’d, ‘tis true, since we address’d ye last! But thou shalt tarry for tidings no longer…