Same people.
Different idiots.
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Blaedy met Stitches as one ought to meet a giant corpse: by asking who made him and whether the maker wore a particular political badge. From there, Duskwood unfolded into three or four separate catastrophes wearing the same damp cloak.
Arrowyy produced a fishing chart to challenge the alleged Scourge advance. It was, infuriatingly, useful. I had to pull the northern plague business back out of the forest and admit Duskwood has assembled its horrors locally: graveyard tradesmen, ambitious necromancers, Karazhan’s bad weather, and a cursed relic that calls wolves from another continent.
Blaedy finally reduced the whole district to permanent Halloween with poor zoning. This is not wrong. It is merely the sort of conclusion that makes historians drink before correcting the footnotes.