[hr][quote=Lord Commander Omrion Sooth, July 8th, 314 AMB]"Atop the mountain we strode victorious and high spirited; we were fools to think a single mountain of the dead would be enough to defeat them."[/quote][hr]
[i][b][h3]Village of Auguston[/h3][color=silver][u]March 3rd, 299 AMB[/u][/color][/b][/i]

Another bright, sunny day in the lovely village of Auguston was just cut short. Everyone who lived in the village had come to fear the sound of the air raid siren, for they knew what it meant. Fear had not always been the first thing on the villagers minds however and many of them revelled in their cherished memories as they buried the dead. Memories of beautiful springtime parties with plenty of food, drink and fun for everyone to partake in. The reason for this fear held a name that, to the unacquainted, seemed overly dramatic or maybe even a little superstitious. Although many of the villagers dared not speak the creatures' name, there were still a few brave souls who didn't mind risking a jinx. As the first sentry atop the decrepit, makeshift palisade spotted a dark figure upon the horizon, he made the dreaded name ring in the ears of everyone it reached. The Reapers had come again.

As the red and dark purple blood mixed and soaked into the pounded dirt, the screams of the dying faded. The last handful of fighters began again the process of burning the corpses, the blood and even half the wall. If it was tainted, it had to burn. Across the village, past the abandoned blocks of burned out buildings and gravestones, lay a small inn. The inn carried a name from a happier time, "The Lazy Dragon" stood triumphantly upon the sign at the entrance. The Adventurer's Guild had long since given authority to the owner of the tavern and abandoned the inn to its own devices. The village had never been a hotspot of activity for adventurers since The Line was only twenty miles to the north. With everyone passing the village up to head to the Line, the inn section had fallen into disuse and rarely held anyone at all. The winter had decimated the garrison at Fort Moonblade which defended the valley through which you had to pass to enter or exit the Plaguelands. The tavern held most of the remaining fighters and workers who stayed behind to try and hold against the tide.

In this tavern, a small step would take you up to a slightly elevated level which held a fairly large, and rarely used, private room. A curtain seperated it from the rest of the tavern and tucked away inside was a cloaked figure sitting at the head of a fairly large table. Outside of the curtain sat a small sign that read "Adventurer's Guild" on it. As the figure waited patiently, he took small sips of weak mead from a mug under his blacked out hood. The runes on his gauntlets had a faint glow about them as he moved them about, and even to the most educated, they seemed to exude an aura of mysterious power.