FictionalAccount's Journal: BloodMoon rising

Here.

BloodMoon grasped the package firmly in his hands. It was his! Finally, through the bogs of Glumding, towards the Mountains of Ill and across the River of Evil he had fought his way at each step of the long journey.

The blood of his enemies was washed from his hands by his tears for fallen comrades. The Circle of Eight had started the journey, and now only he remains. Just as the mystic from Laf'haven had predicted.

But here was The Game! The Game to end evil and restore the balance of power across all of Balmovia. And he had done it! The fools back in his tavern...had it been only six months since he was there? So much had happened then. His mind idly drifted back to thoughts of home - roasted meats sizzling next to mugs of foamy ale...

Focus BloodMoon1! he scolded himself. He was too close to fail now. He lifted the package, felt its heft, its weight, and smiled to himself.

Something caught his eye. A glint in the Game's shiny gilded cover.

He gasped.

Sixt glamdrings? SIXTY GLAMDRINGS! How could it be? Impossible! After all this time, this heartache, only to fail now. Fate was a cruel mistress indeed. He briefly considered...no. NO. That was not an option. He had sworn an oath long ago over his father's grave. It might as well have been 1 million glamdrings. The Game that could save the lives of all who walked the earth would have to be his another way.

But how? He couldn't fathom. But there was one who could. The one eyed mystic of Kul'ding'dam'dang. The wise one would know. The wise one would have to know. He would find the mystic and ask him the way. It was his - the world's - only chance.

BloodMoon1 set off into the darkness, his resolve growing stronger with each step.