When the next session arrived, no longer were you facing the shattered remains of your hallowed terrene; you were facing the disappointed gaze of The Scribe.

All of you pleaded over your misfortune, but he did not allow it to go far. Your world was a gift, and it was squandered. There was no replacement to be had. He had refused to intervene on the assumption that, eventually, a cease-fire would be reached. Clearly, he had been mistaken.

Dread hanged over your heads, heavy and gut-churning. United in your fear, you wondered if you had, at last, made your final mistake.