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[Initially comprised of the immaculate calligraphy typical of the Grand Library’s studious scribes, the post’s legibility soon declines into the erratic and shaky, its ink smudged over and over.]

The week commenced with a flurry of activity in the city of Enorian – or perhaps Esterport? – as Admiral Toilan issued a warrant for a notorious corsair: Tynar Osury, the Emerald Tyrant of a past age, released from the Demon Blade to terrorise the seas once again. His most infamous deeds so far in the modern age include the grand heist of twenty million gold from the coffers of Duiran, and commandeering Enorian’s flagship, the Windbreaker.

[A large blot of ink obscures the next few words, as if the quill rested there for a long time.]

What followed these events is the revelation of the Crimson Coast, a den of smugglers and pirates that had hitherto gone unnoticed by the general population. Attention then turned northward, where the Theocracy of Spinesreach initiated a grand experiment involving…[the sentence trails off, and the rest of the paragraph seems to be illegible – as if redacted by amnesia and manic scribbling]

As the extraction neared its completion, a sudden assault by unknown forces interrupted the delicate protocol. Though the Grand Library regrettably lost all record or report of the finer details, several scholars are fairly certain that the assailants were Duirani. This untimely interference created a lapse in containment protocol, allowing a sliver of the terrifying entity to slip free and infect all present with a mysterious mental condition that left their thoughts foggy and their memories mothbitten.

The virus propagated with terrifying speed throughout the entire continent, transmitting itself through telepathic communications… we think, anyways?

Ugh, this is hopeless. None of the Althasai disciplines are helping me!

Scribe, do not post this. We’ll try again later…

Why are you still writing that down?!

Stop!

Stop writing.

Seriously, stop, you’re wasting ink and you know what Herolt does to those who waste his supplies – he [another large blot of ink obscures whatever terrible fate lies in store for any scholars that dares waste ink].

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 5th of Chakros, in the year 15 AC.