It is a moonless night.
I sit in my room, upon a stooped, wiry armchair, its leather upholstery thin and tattered. Before me is a wobbly wooden table, upon which rests a well worn laptop. An unobstructed window to my side allows cool gales to freely enter the room, bringing with them the sounds and smells of the wooded ravine in the distance. I gaze briefly towards that window, noting the deep darkness that seems to blanket everything outside, in a landscape bereft of a moon's light.
The pale glow of the monitor sitting before me is all that suffices for illumination, coloring the spartan furnishings of my room with a lifeless blue. These feeble highlights are all that preserve my surrounding clutter from fading into shadowy nothingness.
The idle patter of my keyboard plays harmony to a gamut of muted beats, rhythms of life that only emerge with the decrescendo of humanity's symphony.
I find myself absentmindedly sipping at a cup of flat, tasteless coffee, full of the morning's bitter dregs, watery and without savor. It keeps me on the edge of wakefulness, and steels my nerves against reluctance at the task before me.
Long have I deliberated upon the what I am about to do, fearful of the consequences of meddling with such fell forces. Yet in the cover of darkness, and in the absence of company, I muster the will to carry on.
It is a ritual known by many names, and in as many tongues.
The druids of B'logg'spotte, however, know what I am about to undertake as "First Post".