I am Thurik Orinbald, Lamplighter of Mordentshire and this is an urgent letter to whoever may find it. I and my companions Ava Shade and Mo the Goathearder, have been dispatched to Hadley, and are now accompanied by Sophia Shade and Artemis Garret, in order to investigate an unusual disease referred to as “Dark Adaptation”. This is, in essence, a psychic or mental attack that causes its sufferers to experience an image of shadows and is usually fatal within a matter of days, as it consumes the soul of the afflicted. In our investigations we have discovered the source; The Soul Sphere, an arcane construct made by Grey Ravenshaw nearly a century past (the current date is 758 by Mordent reckoning, December 14th). Upon the death of his last scion, Scarlet Ravenshaw, the sphere was activated; its purpose, to generate sufficient lifeforce, by consuming the minds of the living, to resurrect Grey Ravenshaw, a vengeful and mad sorcerer. The only means of ending this supernatural plague is to destroy the Soul Sphere by means told to us by Grey himself, whom we discovered in his crypt, within the great hill of Hadley near the old mines, whilst still in the process of becoming whole. The means being the blood of a dead “Dark Lord”. We were informed by a Vistani witch that while one such force exists, in Hadley proper, she could not be certain where. However, she stated that within the territories of the Westermans, a Dark Lord ruled. We have traveled here in the hopes of finding this evil, whom we believe to be Lord Durven Westerman. The evidence to whit is that the villagers of his manor state that he has never been killed, even though he has been apparently wounded fatally several times. Lord Westerman has threatened to kill us, however, we have managed to negotiate a dismissal instead, forcing us to leave his domain. The ancient forest is infested by dogmen known as “Nolls”; they are ruthless and barbaric. If you find this letter some or all of us have perished, or I have been careless with my property. May the Lady be with us, and if you are an enemy, piss on you for I am out of ink. Thurik.