Prologue for February 2026

On the outskirts of the town of Altrion, a thin man in alchemically stained clothing writes in a journal. He writes down mixtures, experimental notes, and hypotheses he wishes to test. Moreover, he looks to his coin purse, rereads the notes on his stock, and accounts the prices he currently has set. Another book sits at the edge of the desk, along with a map of the town of Travance.  

Deep in a snowy mountain village, a hulking figure sits at an anvil. They admire a small dagger that shimmers with a light purple energy, and as they hold the blade up to their ear, they smile as faint whispers and screams emanate from their craft. Surrounding them, groups of figures that shamble and clank with distinct metallic tones wait patiently for orders.

On a creaking wagon travelling past Abergavenney, armor-clad passengers look to each other as they begin leaving the town. Their blades and armor stained with blood, tinged with dark residue, and radiating a power only they themselves truly understand. The tallest of them counts copious amounts of silver that pile in a pouch, and with a knowing look to their companions, he packs it away and prepares to fill it more.  

A lone campsite sits in an open plain, where Nordejar pass drinks and food during their brief respite. One of them forgoes the merriment of the evening to sharpen their axe. For them, there will be plenty of time to celebrate once their goal is complete. With a drag of their whetstone they look to their father, who is leading a toast to the rest of their group before taking a large swig of his mead. There was no doubt of their loyalty before, but they reassure themselves that they will prove their worth soon. A large ship docks into Leighyre for the night, and an elven man speaks to a dockhand to haggle over docking prices. Although a reasonable price is first introduced, the elf angrily talks down to the dockhand and attempts to convey the importance of their cargo. Defeated and intimidated, the dockhand begrudgingly accepts half of their original offer, and leaves the well-dressed elf to mutter to themselves. As he makes his other rounds, he wonders why the younger elf was so pressed to negotiate himself instead of the captain, who apparently chose to not leave the ship.

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A lone guard stationed just before the rift reads over multiple reports, her eyes tired and demeanor grim. She sorts the reports by crime; theft, missing persons, murder; all of which reach a height that surpass what a normal week entails. Wracking their brain for reasons, the guard’s thoughts keep wandering to their home in Fyrithil, their spouse and daughter waiting for her return. Her mind goes back and forth rapidly from the analysis of this drastic spike in crime and the anxious worry of her family.

Caught in her thoughts, she fails to notice the lone figure behind her, dagger aimed perfectly at the back of her throat.