[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/y0hV0LX.jpg?1[/img]
[h3]Prologue[/h3][/center]
Night falls over Belencrest.

The trek from the Captain's office back to the barracks is short and pleasant. A cool breeze wafts down the city streets, carrying with it the scents of the city, for better or worse. Pale moonlight drapes across the shingled rooftops, pooling into the cobblestone streets, luminous silver mixing with the faint, blue light of glowing totems held high on iron posts. The magistrate had commissioned their installation at intervals all along the main street. That was six months ago, but it was still a marvelous sight. Like ghostly sapphires floating in the air. Though the streets were illuminated and safer than they had ever been, most of the people of Belencrest remained indoors at this hour, just as they have always done. The only sign of them was the orange lamp light winking out of the windows. Your walk back to your quarters is uninterrupted by anyone save a few louts on a stone stoop laughing too loudly.

You’ve just been given orders by your captain to escort the recently arrived caravan to Paolou, a city famed for its beautiful beaches, delicious spices, and beautiful people. By caravan the journey would be eight, perhaps nine days from here. A man by the name of Gaivus Hemming is paying for the trip, a man whom you and twenty-three other guardsmen are to meet tomorrow morning by the city gates. By all accounts, this should be an easy job. Bandits were not only rare in the area, but disorganized. Two dozen members of the White Guard would surely be too costly of a challenge for any prowling for vulnerable prey. 

An easy job.

Just then, rough hands grab you from behind, pinning your arms behind you as a coarse sack is pulled over your head. The hands guide you forcefully along a short distance, the cobblestone underfoot giving way to the unpaved alley floor. The faint moonlight you can see through the loose stitching slips away into utter darkness. Then, over the scuffle of boots and breath, you hear the shift and squeak of an opening door. Dull, orange light blooms from the darkness as the sound of voices and music spill out into the alley. Something shoves you forward as the sack is pulled roughly from your head. Immediately a press of bodies surrounds you, stinking of sweat and ale. Torchlight flares brightly along the wall in rough, iron sconces, illuminating dozens of smiling, familiar faces. 

The White Guard.

In an instant, someone grabs your hand and places in your grasp a tall mug of ale, shouting "Drink up, soldier!" as cool froth spills over your fingers. The room explodes with cheers and laughter as your fellows clap you on the back and crack their mugs against yours. "To your good health, mate! Safe journeys, good fortunes, dull arrows." 

You quickly recognize where you are. This is the back room in Finnic's pub, a popular haunt of the Guard. Finnic's wasn't the nicest place in the city. Not even close. It was old, ugly, and the food was nearly always bad, but the ale was decent and the owner had offered a small discount to guardsmen after the greyskins disappeared. By now the staff had become family. The brew-master Orvil manned the bar while his wife, Talia, and twins, Vinia and Anja, managed most of the cooking and cleaning. Along the walls were colorful tapestries depicting traditional aspects of rural life, sewn by a rather untalented local artist. While some guardsmen joked that these portrayals were leaving out the exciting bits, like drunk fathers chasing their children with pitchforks or adulterous liaisons in barn lofts, others found comfort in the utter banality of it. Thus it had become something of a sacred place to the Guard. A place of drink, laughter, and memory. 

"Sorry, seems like a rough bit of treatment to me, but the lads tell me it's a tradition," says lieutenant Ignim Thorpe, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

"Well, to be true, this the first time we've done the bag bit," pipes in Reau Belleno, her green-gold eyes flashing with mischief. "Normally there's a formal asking. But this commission is absolutely cushy. Tonight is bound to be the only excitement they're to see over the next few weeks." 

"But... Barkin, you invited me," says the giant aaula, Burata Oong, his deep voice incredulous. "Why not bag me?"

"'Cause you weigh fifty stones, Oong," spits Hogart Barkin, a grin splitting his pock-marked face. "A bit of fun ain't worth gettin' yourself crushed over." With that he punches Oong the side with a laugh, and the massive aaula giggles in reply. 

Everyone is smiling, laughing, drinking, remembering. 

"Raise your ales, guardsmen," yelled lieutenant Thorpe. "And drink deep. To the Guard; to our fellows; to those before us, to those with us; brothers, sisters; blood, bone and steel. When we meet again, may it be above the ground."