As morning frost clings to the bark and branches of trees, the sun rises in the Kingdom of Arlo, dawning on the first day of winter. Autumn has officially ended, and many people have begun their dutiful preparations for the coming cold.

It is the year 177, a time of relative political peace, and the royal family sits happily on the throne. King Yule Gaier and his wife, Queen Salistre, have recently welcomed their fourth child--and first daughter--into the world, Princess Lynellyn Gaier. The tensions with Hathburia have not reached a fever pitch for nearly two years, so this is what many had begun to refer to as an age of "exploration and adventure."

All--it seems--is right with the world. However, that may be a bit "sunny skies and puppies" regarding the calamity that would soon begin. Certain individuals of the world are rife with a hunger for power. Soon, all of the kingdom--even the whole of Regaia--will feel the tremendous might of what happens when great powers collide.

We move now to the bustling towns of Kess, set along either side of a narrower section of the Fury River in an area known as "The Trench." On one side, you have East Kess, and the other West Kess, though both sections are largely the same save for their access to outside sources. Granted, West Kess is notably the home of the "Double Baked Mince Pie," a detail that East Kess disputes, oftentimes coming to bruised brows and shattered egos during an argument. Other than that, the two locations are unified in their lack of notable innovations in the realm. The collective "towns of Kess" are used outside of their municipalities. Still, if anyone inside the villages made that distinction, they'd be in store for an unfortunate case of the "uh-ohs."

The twin towns are located just two days' walk (or one-and-a-half if you run a little) southwest of the famous Machus City. However, this is many years before it will be destroyed by the greatest force to ever crash upon its sapphire walls. At the moment, it stands as a testament of gross kingdom wealth and garish disregard for safety codes.

East and West Kess are also several days east of Ruegr, the independent drakefolk city that has remained vigilant against the "monsters of the deep" ever since their first conflict centuries ago. Kess is muddy, and it is wet. Tremendous portions of it flood every year during the heavy storms of late summer, forcing the more tenacious members of the area to capitalize on their lucrative tourist boating surcharges. The rough and tumble folk who dwell in these towns have grown accustomed to such an environment, and those closest to the Fury have built their houses and businesses up on high beams and stilts. Uphill from the river, the townspeople have less to worry about flash floods, but much of the aesthetic has remained because far-be-it from them to have to feel left out.

Kess is the last of communities along the great coursing river before reaching Umbera to the north. As such, it is either a beginning point or ending point for most folk in the Trench, depending on which regional authority you are fleeing from. West Kess is also only a few short hours from the ancient Taruk Ruins, a place where many would-be explorers and treasure-seekers have spent many countless hours, weeks, months, years, and even decades combing through, trying to unearth its secrets. However, no one has stumbled on to anything. Ever.

Though, it does not deter anyone from trying.

In East Kess, there is a leaky-and-musty tavern of ill repute, even by Kessian standards. It is the Rat King, and if the ale was ever not-watered down and overpriced, there'd likely be a riot. In fact, it was the exact launching point of several inebriated and uproarious rampages throughout the many years it has existed--and rebuilt.

The structure itself is set up very near the docks on the confusingly-monikered western edge of East Kess, balancing precariously--it would appear to some--on four spindly stilts. The tavern inside is cramped, though Phosh, the proprietor, would describe it as "cozy" to anyone who makes the mistake of entering. There's a small fireplace along one wall, hardly ever lit on account of the business's overall and general dampness. Eight large tables fit to seat six to a side are wedged against one another in the tight space. The bar is delightfully made up of what might appear to be several rigged-together dressers, desks, and one up-ended wardrobe. The swill behind the counter is disgustingly flavored and brackish, though the regulars seem to love it.

Manning the bar is none other than Phosh Maelstrom himself. A self-described former adventurer, he is a grizzled and toothless little oak root of a human, slapping drinks into steins with his gnarled fingers overpowered with arthritis. Only one eye seems open, the other eternally stunted in a scowl, or perhaps it is a withered-old wink.

At that very moment, his good eye was focused on one of the few occupants of his haggard hovel—a stranger.

He is an older human man with gray and white hair that has been cut very raggedly, perhaps by his own hands. His thick black eyebrows rest over dark and intense beady eyes that seem to hold all the presence of a farmer who suspects his prized sheep may have been sneaking out at night to get drunk. He has sprouted a thick and bushy handlebar under a crooked nose and mustache the same color as the hair on his head. His torso is wrapped in a massacred pile of oiled leather pretending to be armor, with thick wool clothing underneath. A large pack and various straps and belts hang loosely around him or are fastened tightly about his waist. He's lean but toned, his skin tanned from exposure to the sun.

As the stranger enters, the belts' buckles rattle, and he scowls at the three other individuals inside the establishment. At first, he says nothing--merely glowering, but after a moment, he finally speaks.

"Where the hell is Frey?"

Phosh shakes his head. This stranger would be none other than Atticus Grell, the heeler-dog of Archgeneral Bulwark. The proprietor knows he can't eject this man like he could a regular patron or even ask him to lower his voice, as, despite his poorly put-together appearance and personal station, he was simply too high of a Level. So, Phosh simply resigns himself to rubbing down a few dirty tankards with an equally-soiled rag and keeps one eye--you can probably guess which--on the happenings.

A squirrelly elf, likely just past adolescence from the look of him and probably not older than a hundred summers, shakily stands, and Phosh sighs. He knew he should have given the weak-bellied lickspittle a little bit stronger of a draught.

"He's… not here," the elf says, brushing bone-yellow hair out of his face but not meeting his superior's gaze. "Sir."

Grell's scowl deepens like the fissure of freshly cracked rock, and his neck turns purple with rage.

"I can see that, Kent! Do I look like I've gone blind in the last six hours?! Have my eyes been replaced with puddings, you fat sod!? I asked where he was, not whether he'd arrived yet!"

The elf trembles, nodding in panic.

"I--er--I don't know, Sir. He was behind me when we left the Inn, but--"

"If he doesn't show up before she does, I will beat him to death with your legs. Understand me?"

The elf called Kent nods again, his eyes never leaving the knotty wood of the tavern floor.

"I'm here, Sir Grell. Please, don't frighten the children. They can't bear your blustery spittle."

A slim shape slips down from the rafters, and Phosh does a double-take. He is usually aware of anything happening within the confines of his establishment. Still, this man had just appeared practically out of thin air. His red hair sweeps to his shoulders, and a smirk is plastered on a handsome face.

Too handsome, Phosh thinks. That's got to be an enchantment of some kind.

The purple of Grell's neck somehow turns deeper, and he seems ready to explode with the force of his anger.

"You stupid--"

At that moment, the tavern door swings open again, and silence strikes the insides like a dagger. Phosh looks up to see a woman stepping through the doorway.

She's striking, he notices, with a voluminous gathering of curls framing her face. Her movements are graceful, and though she appears human, something about her unsettles Phosh to his core.

Ah, he thinks. One of those'ns.

"I hope you weren't waiting long," she says, her voice light and pleasant, but Phosh senses an undercurrent of malice and danger in her tone. Whoever she was, or rather, whatever she was, she was powerful. Phosh himself judges Grell to be Level 50, or near enough to it, but this woman has the Archgeneral's lapdog kneeling like a commoner.

Phosh realizes quite suddenly that the rest of the tavern is on a knee as well, and though he didn't feel the same compulsion, their reaction makes him second guess himself. He starts to prostrate himself, but the woman raises her hand.

"Up, all of you. We don't have time for this, I won't be here long, and I don't want to spend what little time I have basked in your minute respect--charming though it may be."

Phosh sighs happily, easing himself up from a half-cocked position, his knees creaking in response. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to get back up had he made it all the way to the floorboards.

"M-madam," Grell fumbles, his earlier ferocity culled to that of a mewling kitten. "You look marvelous. Thank you for coming--"

"What did I just say?" The woman demands, turning severe eyes on Grell. "Groveling wastes time. Save your genuflections for later, where I cannot see it."

Grell nods, though he looks like he thinks himself soon a corpse.

"Now," the woman says, moving to the center of the tavern. "I won't spare any more delays. Are you prepared?"

Grell nods again.

"Truly, Madam, we have assembled a stout group of--"

"Perfect," she interrupts, but she's not looking at Grell. Phosh notices her gaze lingers on the red-haired man who'd just leaped down from the ceiling.

"You," the woman says to him, the one called Frey. "You're an attractive specimen. Are you all flash, or can you do what needs to be done?"

The man, seemingly undeterred by the woman's frightful presence, looks deep into her eyes with a wide smile.

"I am twice as capable as I am fetching," he says. "And as you can see, I'm extremely fetching."

The woman doesn't react to this but looks over the rest of the room.

"That will do, then," she says. "You leave now. If you are quick, you can get to the central chamber of the Ruins by morning. I will await you at the exit once you have emerged."

She turns to Grell.

"Do not fail me," she says simply. "Or the unyielding shame you will endure shall feel only as a speck of irritation next to the pain I will unleash upon you."

"Yes, Madam," Grell says.

"Is he part of this?" The woman asks, gesturing to Phosh, and the proprietor suddenly feels a dark lance of anxiety. He'd expected to remain inconsequential to the goings-on, as would befit many a tavern-owner before him. Dealings in the shadows of a pub were not uncommon, and this would not have been the first time he'd been privy to such events. Though, there was an unspoken rule that tenders were sworn to silence in the wake of such drama. Phosh has a bad feeling.

"No, Madam," Grell says, his eyes flashing to Phosh. "Just the owner of the establishment. We chose this location because of its privacy. He won't say anything, 'tis their way."

"Nonsense," the woman says, sweeping out of the door. "Kill him."

Phosh feels the darkness close in on him as the woman leaves his tavern. He'd been so quiet, and he truly wouldn't have said a word. But, any hope he has of escaping with his life fades the moment Grell's eyes find him again--two hardened flints of pure obedience.

"Frey," Grell says simply.

Phosh looks at the red-haired man, but he isn’t in his seat. He is standing in front of him, the handle of a knife in his hand, and the blade…

Phosh slumps as his lifeless body slides away from the weapon, and Frey, still smiling, wipes the blood from the blade with his shirt sleeve.

"Done," he says.

"Alright, you unseemly curs," Grell says seriously, his former stature returning in the leave of the woman. "Time to go. Things in this world are about to get very interesting. If you have any Skill Points to use, I'd allocate them now. You're going to need them."

With that, the group files out of the Rat King, aiming their sights to the west, where a curious event is soon to take place.