---Dry and clear-- that's how I remember the air of Ro's Oasis that morn-- a far cry from our home in the Northlands. Speaking to my brothers we agreed; today we slay giants. The Northmen have lived in the shadow of giants for centuries, with tales of the last of Norrath's true titans held up in Permafrost Keep-- only a few hundred poles from Halas. You recall the tales even now, don't you brother... the icy depths have become the den of the former terrors of Norrath casting a warriness that looms over the heads of all Halasians. Of all clans of the North, only MacLear had been entrusted with the awesome responsibility of thwarting all threats to Halas and the whole of Northmen alike. Laird Tormod put forth the notion that the best way to fight the Ice Giants of the Keep was to have our younger family practice on their cousins to the South, the Sand Giants. There was no mistaking the giddy grin of our clan that day, young lad, as our hands have gone too long without the dirt of the Combines on them. As Laird Tormod put it, "You need to taste death occasionally." Our Laird had sworn, however, that he would never leave the northlands again, even to help the clan learn.
---As I'm sure you will recall from your prior readings in this Tome the Keep of Permafrost had been stirring from it's century-long slumber. First came the coil of the three resurrected ancient heroes of the Darkpaws, lead by Kraddig the cannibal.


This attack was merely a diversion, Tormod teaches us, to allow the Goblin lackeys of Vox to leave their Keep and investigate the Northmen safely for the first time in over a thousand moons. Not long after this, Laird Tormod decided he would never leave the North vulnerable. With that he had me, Nosferum Jeight-Lajer, watch over our family abroad.
---Brother Balgair lead the expedition into the Sands of Ro, deep into the heart... the Oasis. Here the cousins of the Titans, the Sand Giants, roamed free. Our objective: to cleave a decisive blow to the growth of these giants. Noble Shatara even returned from her joureys abroad for this event. Noble Sallian also appeared, to watch over his younger kin in case the giants bested us. With Balgair at point, Noble Awen bolted into the wild, tracking for our prey. Not that it required the legendary prowess of our Rangers to identify foot prints five hands in length-- they are visible all across the dunes-- it was more tradition. While standing in wait, the unmistakable grunt of men in metal garb sweltering in the heat of the South seethed. There is little as distressing as the overwhelming smell of Ale and sweat. Yes, brother Tabot brought a small collection of Ales and Beers in his pack, passing it around freely to brother and sister alike. While in mid-swig we heard the call of Awen cross the dunes, "Incoming !" The demeanor grew dim rather quickly, now. It was time to stand up and be counted. The call of MacLear was evident from the day you swore feilty, lad-- "I will bleed for Halas, and die for MacLear."
---Awen's feet had not failed him as he ran back to us with a crazed smile on his face. He ran right to my face and, between heave and breath, announced "Look what I got !" Looking beyond him, my eyes began to focus on the predator turned prey. Standing fifty hands in height and, perhaps, thirty hands in girth and two rather large hands clenched in fury as he swept to our ranks. The first blow struck Awen, and fell back to let us surround the beast. I believe the huge fool hadn't guessed he would run into such a trap... perhaps fifteen blades tearing his shins to shreds, or feeling the blows of my bare hand or even the excruciating singe of our Shamans.


Brother Abdazen's light show did impress even me, as his magics finished the first victim. Poor brothers Dragall, Himmel and Joeker had quite a time freeing themselves from under the oppressing weight of the fallen foe. This was simply the first of six giants that would fall that day, as pull after pull, we bested the beasts.


---We learned two things: first, that Sand Giants are not wealthy; second, that they are weak cousins to the awesome Ice Giants. Our Rangers grew bored of the triviality, so they called out, "Spectre?" Now, as deep a vendetta as I have for the undead, the Spectres exemplified the more horrible of their kind. In spite of this, we needed a foe that could beat us... and this was our best chance for that in this dry hell. I had looked into the eyes of our puller six times with the giants, and they never seemed overly worried. To look into the eyes of our lure this time, however, was to gaze into a pool of horror. He was not luring as much as he was fleeing. Our brother returned to our ranks, face aflush. We waited, but no spectre in sight. The elder of the clan knew, however, that the dead was still in chase. Spectres, as most abominations, walk on legless air. Slowly, but deliberately he finally crested the dune, spells ablaze. Brothers, no longer of their own accord, found themselves forced to cower and back off. Our Shamans, wise in their ways, held our morale and broke the unholy bind on our minds and repelled the magic fear. Nothing pisses off a Northman more than cowardice. Any beast that would magically force them to flee would realize the consequences as the might of brother and sister alike. Curses flew in your rough Northern tongue to match each blow. My bare hands opened and bled as they met home time and time again. In the flury, I could see the bronzed arms of my kin light up in magical pain with each cleave and crush.
As sure as you read this, though, the abomination did rest. The ghast that has worn this visage was freed, it seemed, as all was left was a blackened rag and a bronze Scythe-- little trophy for such a horrible fiend. Just to finish off the night, however, we did nest another Spectre. Ha ha ! We had fulfilled one of our oaths; to bleed for Halas. While none of us died that day-- Nadgwik had not been there-- we did face death unflinchingly. As we crest each hill of our short lives, brothers and sisters let us act with passion and grace. Remember what you learn each day: that alone we are heroes, but together we are clan. Sew the day, kin, for these are the seeds we must remember when the Six Hammers come to rustle our bed. When the final sleep comes, we have nothing more than each other and these moments.
Spectamur Agendo, kin.

For Halas ! For MacLear !