Captain Oswin Breitenbach looked out across the bleak landscape that surrounded the high-walled town of Upper Felde. To the south, Lower Felde was a ghostly ruin. From atop the parapet, he could make out a handful of Ghouls chewing on the remains of some long-dead villager. Plumes of smoke rose from the hills beyond the village. His scouts had informed him that a band of northmen had made camp there, and were making preparations to attack the empty town that now sheltered Captain Breitenbach and his detachment of soldiers.

The door to the parapet opened behind him, and the Captain turned to see two of his men dragging what appeared to be a beggar between them.

“Lord Gisbert Jaeger, sir. We found him hiding in the wine cellar with some of the other nobles.”

“Ah,” said the Captain with a condescending tone as he looked over the thin-limbed nobleman now clad in filthy rags. “So there are survivors after all. Good.”

Gisbert fell to his bony knees and pawed at Breitenbach’s leg. “Please, sir, have mercy! We have not eaten in five days! The creatures of this evil land encircle us like buzzards, and we have not the means to defend ourselves.”

Breitenbach kicked the pathetic nobleman onto his back. “You have not eaten because you sacrificed the lives of your peasants to a cult of madmen! Yes, I know your tale - you sold the lives of the villagers in Lower Felde, allowing them to be subjected to horrific plagues in exchange for the promise of eternal youth. If you did not have information that I need, I would hang you from your own walls!”

The sound of shouting from below interrupted the conversation. The watchmen on northern wall were pointing out across the flat, featureless lands to the north. There, a band of Trolls lumbered toward the town, great spiked clubs in their hands.

Brietenbach pounded his fist on the stone wall. “Damn the fates! We are assailed from all directions! Put this man in a cell, then prepare our defenses!”