[ratqueen]

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So has Man convened once more to discuss the fate of their continent.

The march upon the Gutter has been called off, yet the preparations of the people
do not cease. It begins as a rumor, muttered amongst the top of command's chain
and trickling down to the very citizenry of each nation below. Then it is confirmed
to be fact: the armies that are being whipped into shape, they will not be marching
northward across water-logged sands after all, but sands shall be along the way.

For they are set to storm the beaches just shy of Gluttony's Maw.
To loop around and strike darkness at its most insatiable core.

Fear is struck into the hearts of many by the sole idea; they flutter and palpitate at
the news. Striking Lyseroth's own domain, a place of vile Sin where no good fortunes
may be found. The risk need not be stated, after all. Yet others still amongst the
armies are emboldened by the idea: it is a spark, at last setting alight a fuse of
change and serving as a minor salve to their worried and heavy heads.

No longer will the forces which muster strength be left to fester like a puss-filled wound
on the ankle of Meranthe. They are clear of purpose and confident in their pursuit of their
objective: to rend the infernal organ housed within. For the hour has struck where
all must be set aside so that the heart of the issue may be dealt with.

Or perhaps more aptly, the stomach of it.

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(EST timezone)