Alt: The Pie Shoppe, Windurst

The Hideous Truth Behind The Demon Attacks!
Is Anyone Safe?

As anyone will tell you, these are trying times. Our cities stand besieged, our very existence threatened by forces too numerous to mention! In these darkest of days, we cling to each other, craving the comfort and love provided by our families and friends. But Dear Readers, there is a threat far greater than that which assails our walls and besieges our outposts, one against which all contemporary tactics are meaningless! Even now, they creep into our cities, our homes; they eat our food and share our wine, all the while plotting our destruction. Dear Readers, there may even be one in your house at this very moment! A creature so hideous, so grotesque, that their very name has only been whispered in the shadows, and those who see the truth are derided as madmen, or worse, they simply "vanish," only to be replaced by a caricature, a shell of their former selves! I speak, of course, of the demondopplegangerbot.

Dear Readers, this may be hard for you to accept. I know that even now you may be scoffing at my words, laughing in disbelief. You may even be about to throw your paper down, to storm back to the newsstand and demand your money back. But Dear Readers, I beg you, the information I am about to transcribe may be vital to the future not only of yourself, but of your loved ones and our very nation! The danger to myself is incalculable. Many men have been silenced for revealing far less than what I am about to. But I do this because I must, because it is my duty as a Windurstian, and because if I do not, if I stay silent, then they may have already won.

What is a demondopplegangerbot, I hear you ask yourselves. What is this creature so foul that brave men will dare not speak its name? They are a copy, a hideous amalgamation of man and demon, birthed in the foul demon breeding lairs of Castle Zvahl (for a full expose on the sordid secrets behind the demon mating orgies, complete with full color pictophographs, see page 24), and trained with only one purpose in mind: our complete destruction. They are the shadow that lurks deep in the heart of us all, rising to the surface, following their prey (for prey we are, Dear Readers), until such time as they are able to strike! To put it in layman's terms, gentle Readers, they are a form of demon capable of transmogrifying their flesh until they take the shape of a person so precise as to be undetectable even to their closest kin. They stalk their prey, sometimes for days, even weeks, waiting for the time to strike! And once they have eliminated the target, they assume his place, his role, his very life, learning all they can of us, and reporting back to their dark Masters in the North.

Surely not, you cry out in horror! Surely there can be no such beast! But I tell you, kind Readers, it is only too true. I shudder to set my pen to paper, to give voice to the thoughts which have so lately assaulted my intellect, but Dear Readers, you must be told the truth. Already they have infiltrated the highest sections of our society. I fear if I do not speak now, soon, it may be too late.

Hearken back, oh Readers, to the siege of Selbina. Recall, if you will, the mysterious attackers who so successfully captured the city, and the descriptions which came flowing out after the battle was over. In the words of Bastok's own President Sha'arhe, "mercenaries, non-human combatants. Automatons of some sort. They're all dead now." Automatons? I hardly need remind you, gentle Readers, that the advances Windurst has made cardian technology are second to none, and yet no Cardian would be capable of such feats as these mysterious, non-human mercenaries! And all of them, dead? The demondopplegangerbot moves slowly, devouring one person at a time, and from there building a foothold to enslave the next - but to replace an entire city at one time, what a tempting prize might that have been? An entire city from which to gain a foothold into the kingdoms of Quon; a port city, at that, one in which many hundreds of travelers pass through daily. What a victory for the Shadow Lord, if what I fear has come to pass!

There is a chance, good Readers, that what I am writing now is merely conjecture. A chance that the forces of Bastok and San d'Oria acted swiftly enough to prevent the horror that even now plays out behind my eyes. But, gentle Readers, only a fool would bank on such a hope in these dark days. We must consider Selbina, for now, to be lost.

Aha! And what comes next, I hear you ask. Having taken Selbina, what fresh hell would the demondopplegangerbots now unleash upon us? Consider the events immediately following the "victory" at Selbina (a victory indeed, for those on the side of wrongdoing!). Consider the horde of visitors, soldiers, doctors, tradesmen, and politicians who now descend upon this once quiet town. Consider also the eyes of the inhabitants of Selbina, how they stare at these new faces, these new lives, with avaricious, unblinking hunger! Consider how those eyes must linger, like those of a tiger spotting a lamb, upon the person who now gathers in front of them to speak: none other than the President of Bastok himself, No'en Sha'arhe! What a prize for them, good Readers! Selbina would be but a bauble compared to that which control of the Presidency would give them. But how to make the switch? How, when he is surrounded at all times of the day and night by guards, aides, advisors, hangers-on? A simple plan, oh Readers, which hinges on only one thing: an assassin's bolt. For what better place to make the swap than in the sickroom, where all those "non-essential" may be swept aside, like chafe from the wheat, until only their victim remains? You can scare imagine my distress, Dear Readers, when I realized what must have occurred. Think well upon the last moments of President Sha'arhe, for in the end, this is the true face of the demondopplegangerbot.

And so the swap is made. Bastok is poised to fall. But the demons greed and avarice will not allow them to stop there. No, with the fall of President Sha'arhe, a door has been opened to them, a door into the most inner heart not only of Bastok, but of all three nations. Think well, oh Readers, upon the letters which have only just been printed. Until seeing those, I did not realize how far the infection had spread. Now it is all too clear to me what must have occurred. Upon his "recuperation," the President sets forth to San d'Oria on a political mission. Political indeed, for it carries the seeds of that nations destruction in its breast! He meets with the Queen, the Royalais Sabbiel d'Oraguille, who has met him several times previously. She notices his strange behavior - perhaps the strain of such a public farce has caught up with the demondopplegangerbot. He speaks of things he ought not; he craves the cold embrace of his mother land, the Northlands; he declares he does not care at all for Bastok! What further proof, gentle Readers, could anyone ask for as to the veracity of my claims? But I digress. He has been indiscreet; the prey's suspicions are raised. He finds himself locked away, with no way of reaching the one who must be his ultimate prize - the Queen herself. In desperation, he falls back upon his old trick; he pretends to be ill, hoping that in the silence of the sickroom, another swap may yet be made, another ruler felled by his design. And yet even this fails him, the Queen suspects, she keeps her distance. What now is he to try? Is he to abandon his prize when he is so close to achieving it? Oh gentle Readers, if only the minds of the wicked could be thus swayed! The strength of the demondopplegangerbot lies not in his body, but in his intellect, and here he shows himself the equal of any human. He summons his brethren, the cold soldiers of Xarcabard, to come to his aid! During the confusion of battle, the destruction of the mighty Chateau of d'Oraguille, the switch is made. Another nation is fallen.

To where does the trail now lead, Dear Readers? Upon which doorstep is this blight now laid? I beg you, for those of a weak constitution, read no further, for the assertions which are to follow may rattle the heart of even the most sturdy man! The trail, oh Readers, leads here, to our very doorstep! Even now the reeking monsters may be in place, ready to assume control at the first hint of opportunity. Consider the fracas which occurred but a few days before. The creature resembling President Sha'arhe, attacked while in the company of the Grand Chamberlain of San d'Oria? Attacked by whom, gentle Readers? "Armed Elvaan of unknown origin..." Is such to be believed? Or is this not simply another scheme, such as has served the beasts well these past few months? A chance to replace not only Grand Chamberlain Monveaux, but also those closest to the "President," and most likely to cause alarm at his mannerisms? For his poor aide, I am afraid that there is nothing more that we can do. But for those who remain yet free, there is much! Do not give in to fear, Dear Readers, for I tell you now that the flame of hope is still kindled! We must place our trust in those who remain; in Grand Chamberlain Monveaux, our own Ministers Mekhulo and Valkyr-Renhara, and leader of the Senate Eli Fordham. We must place the trust of the nations in them, for I fear that now they may be our only hope.

And what can you do, gentle Readers? What steps can you take to protect yourself and your loved ones? What should you do if you suspect that someone you know has been taken, and what signs are there of the switch? Look for any sudden changes in your friends and family, any new habits, nervous tics, or strange patterns of speech that were not there before. Look also for any sudden changes in diet, most especially a sudden aversion to salt and other seasonings or desire for undercooked or raw foods. Demondopplegangerbots have several strange habits which are unique to their kind, making them easy to recognize if you know what you are looking for. They are not ambi-turners; all demondopplegangerbots share a crippling inability to turn to the left. They are also psychologically incapable of singing off-key. But perhaps most telling of all, all demondopplegangerbots have a third nipple hidden somewhere upon their body - a common rule of thumb when faced with someone whom you suspect to be one of the beasts is, "Two good, three bad." A demondopplegangerbot is physically weak, able to be subdued by anyone with even slight combat training when caught by themselves. However I urge you, dear Readers, not to attempt to capture anyone whom you suspect of being a demondopplegangerbot by yourself! If you suspect that someone may be an impostor, first attempt to ascertain for yourself whether this is the case or not, perhaps by suggesting they join you in a rousing sing-a-long or game of strip dice. If you are successful, then it's time to move on to the next step: get them accused of a crime so that they will be forced into jail. I know this may seem extreme, gentle Readers, but it is the only way to ensure that the beast will remain locked up until such time as the authorities are prepared to accept and deal with the truth of their existence. Under all circumstances do not attempt to eliminate them yourself! Demondopplegangerbots are cunning, able to penetrate our society with ease. You can never tell just how many may be surrounding you, ready to strike at the slightest hint that you know something about their mission. If you *are* cornered by one of them, know their weaknesses: they are allergic to the color yellow, become uncomfortable in temperatures over eighty degrees, and hate the sound of chipmunks. I know that these may not seem of any use to you right now, Dear Readers, but someday, the color shirt you wear may be a matter of life and death for you and those around you. Most importantly of all, good Readers: you must never give up hope. There are those out there who share your struggle, and though the path ahead of us is fraught with danger, I now believe that it is one which, together, we can overcome.

Until then, Dear Readers, stay safe.