[color=808080]Brittle winds are foaming swiftly at the mouth of the north, mists are falling like curtains to a theater stage, and only the keenest of eyes can reach more than a few meters ahead of their owner. The trees seem to be closing around the roads, their branches reaching for the nearest cousin, entangling and entrapping as the days pass. Some orange flames will still burn strong, but others shall dwindle, diminish and die as the cold rakes it plow across the land.

It is the eleventh day of Neth and the rivers are freezing over, supplies are at the cruel annual low and everything with a beating heart is getting desperate. Behind barricades and crumbling walls are the remaining humans, some larger groups than others, but all inevitably shrinking in number: slipping down the steep slope of attrition. Some fighters, remnants of old warriors, makeshift militia or just those brave enough - stand guard in the glare of the steel sun and in the soft poison that is the twilight. 

Then there are those that were once men and women, those who fell to their darkest desires and could not recover. They hide away in the woods behind sharp spikes and standing logs, drooling over their stolen goods, feasting on their hunted flesh. Weak men, perhaps strong in body, but feeble in spirit, they cannot be trusted in anything but evil acts. Bandits, thugs and outlaws, blindly fighting against their own blood, not pausing long enough to realize the real enemy.

The Grey Tide is trickling out to sea, back to the foul cove in which it was born. Their numbers were once unimaginable, uncountable hordes that marched over their victims, ripping flesh and stealing screams. Now, though, they have been driven back off the beaches of Fallion's homes and into the wilderness. Occasionally mobs will crash against walls and combat will ensue, but defenses are holding for most, hope is lighting the way. 

Whispers of a darker scourge are upon the lips of a few, a second wave is nigh they say, rumors of abused corpses and dark magic are abundant in the back alleys at nightfall. Whether there is a truth in this, or maybe the necromancers are loosing their grip, no one truly knows for sure. All that you know is the air in your lungs and the ground beneath your feet, and even that will wither in time.[/color]