The following is a dramatised record of events within the Glomdoring Forest Commune, concerning the resurgence of Manteekan, the Nightmare at the bidding of the Goddess Viravain. All dialogue was voiced or willed as written, with naught absent save for slight mundanities and those utterings not crucial to that which unfolded.

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"Greetings, Glomdoring."

Her thoughts pierced the aetherwaves on tides of the lengthening night, settling in the minds of those who tend the Glomdoring - it was the Goddess Viravain, Lady of the Thorns, that spoke thusly to Her Forest and its people.

"The Wyrd has fed well," She continued. "The very marrow of the Traitor has fed the soil, His blood, the trees He damaged. Even Mother Night has taken her share of the feast."

Many shifted, many stirred, but all remained silent in wake of this awaited revelation. Until one did finally speak: Daganev Treeripper, Master Chief and first among the Ebonguard. "How will this glorious news become manifest?" he asked, clearly speaking for most inhabitants of the Wyrden Wood.

"Not on solid feet again, I daresay. There are no feet left."

Though none beheld Her dark amusement in the physical sense, it was understood. Like the shears or nimble fingers that clip the blossoms of Her black roses, the words were swift and without pity.

Again spoke the Chief, again a question posed, "There is nothing left of the traitor?" I feared, perhaps as others, for I did not wish utter doom upon the Traitor Manteekan, of the Sixth. Bound as He was in the Ethereal Glomdoring, entombed in ice and shade and thorn, it was not destruction that we of the Forest had hoped for... but redemption.

For His error and His assaults upon the Wyrd and its heart, we did not owe to Him death. Nor was it promised by Lady Viravain and Lord Nocht, who together trapped Him so. No, that would not do...They aimed to remake Him, to infuse Him with all the glory of the Wyrd that They, that -we- as Their faithful, knew would bring prosperous advantage to the Forest.

"I wouldn't say that," said the Lady, dispelling my fears as I waited still for more tidings. As we all waited. "He is a God," She said plainly, continuing on with Her darkest humour, "and Gods are irksomely difficult to entirely murder."

A third voice joined the two upon the commune's aether, that of one called Athree, a practitioner of the Nekotai's deadly arts. "A ghost of the Traitor?" he asked. "Is it possible?"

With guile and with assuredness only She could master, the Goddess responded, "Through the glory of the Wyrd, anything is possible."

"I did warn Him not to meddle with the Forest," She added, ominous yet poetically so.

The Lady bid Her faithful to gather at the Master Ravenwood, where already many lingered as they are wont to do. I myself arrived as requested, and before me - before the gathered crowd of Glomdoring's children - the Lady Herself was in wait, painted so beautifully in the shadows of both Her own make and of Her Forest's canopy.

Many were there: Brennan Stormcrow, ever the watchful (if not slightly rotted) sentinel beside the Ravenwood, and too the faithful guards of the commune. Of my fellow Portal-sent I noted Calesta, druid of the Blacktalon and Chancellor of House Ysav'rai, Athree, aforenamed of the Nekotai, and the Master Chief also aforenamed.

As the following events unfolded, more were to join this gathering. Came next Tylwyth of the Blacktalon, and after he the Princess of Darkness and Scythe of the Lady, Celina Nightshade. Though I seemed to arrive in the midst of shared words, a culmination of grating whispers did reach my ears as the ethereal energies of my transport withered.

"Wyrd..."

Addressing the whispers, addressing the very font of these happenings, Lady Viravain said, "Behold your ghost, Athree. A mere shadow of His former arrogance...albeit a potent shadow."

She stroked Her scythe, as She often did, and as if drawn into being by Her words, the apparition of what once was whole as the God Manteekan manifested. Just at the edge of perception He lingered, no more than two icy orbs suspended in the endless dark of the Forest.

"So, Manteekan," the Lady began, hand still upon Her scythe's edge. "I did warn You, did I not? Nothing may overcome the glory of the Wyrd." Her hand moved now to Her neckline, and with such pretty disdain the Goddess looked about.

The whispers rose again, gaining some strength:

"Glory. Your Wyrd, Viravain, contains much of this. And the Elders through the Elixir powerful. It is unfortunate They have not all been touched by Your Wyrd."

She basked not in smugness, but was sharp with the words to follow. "You have assailed it and paid dearly, Manteekan. If only You had grasped such a thing before You drank of the Elixir." Still with Her hand lifted in mock offense, She added, "They shall drink of the Wyrd's glory soon enough."

The Lady paused. She inhaled. She took in the scent of roses, of moss and decay and all that the Forest Without Mercy - Her Forest - would offer.

"When the roots of the Glomdoring spread across the Basin, and the First World," She finished. The oft repeated crooning 'Glory be to Glomdoring!' echoed from many, the finality of Her promise rousing those mortals assembled as witness to it.

"I foresee only greatness with Your Wyrd, Viravain," responded those sweetened whispers of the God, the Terror who once threatened to unmake the Forest now assembled around Him as spiritual kin. "Foolish was I to resist it, yet now that I have given in to it fully, I see. I see Your Wyrd."

Brushing spidery fingers through Her locks, the Goddess mused, "Naturally...and Lisaera doubted Me!" She laughed then, a sound of terrible beauty that sent crows flying from their perches above and a shiver through my veins. "May black roses eat Her eyes..."

The presence of Manteekan mused as well, regarding His dark fae - the redcaps, the barghests, slaugh and so many others, "It is no wonder My children have flourished in this Wyrden Forest. It is no wonder they had the power to resist even My beckon."

The looming beauty of Mother Night over the Forest, over the Basin at large, grew heavy - the Glomdoring shuddered, grew silent and still with portent, even as Viravain spoke. "The stroke of midnight..." She began, addressing the apparition of the God. "You will swear Your being to the Wyrd."

Colder still She continued, "You will offer what remains of You to the Wyrd, and You will serve...or the Wyrd shall consume You. There is no other choice. I will bind You by the ancient oaths."

"All that remains of Me shall be bound as My physical form has been, never to leave Your Wyrd," the whispers of Manteekan, the Terror, the Nightmare, swore. "Our motives, Our goals, shall be as one."

"So be it," Viravain responded.

And so it was.