All of you saw the tattered banner. Strained to make out the faded words on the once golden parchment,rotted with years of age. Turning around you were met with the sight of an old Carriage, a cloaked man sitting in the front of it. The horse that was carrying the husk of a ride was bone thin, and looked to be seconds away from deaths door at any moment. The man in the front introduced himself as Roake, and beckoned you into the cart. You know not what compelled you to step into the cramped space, nor what force closed the door behind you. But here you are, as the carriage sets an unknown path you face the unknown strangers sitting in the cart with you, each holding the same banner you read in their hands.