The bard sings of faraway lands as the dancers from the Southern Islands dance in their unique, sensual way, almost akin to making love standing rather than a true dance.

…and yet it all seems so shallow, almost as it was nothing more than an illusion about to be blow away by a cold wind, a brief respite in the harshness of life about to be brought down by the inevitability of fate.

These dark thoughts swirl in your mind as you grip the cup full of red wine brought to you as present by the fat traders from the West. Dark thoughts that refuse to dissipate no matter how much you try to throw yourself in the spirit of the party.

Time passes, until your thoughts are interrupted by the loud opening of the doors that lead to the throne room, followed by quick steps as a weary messenger steps in front of the throne, almost collapsing to the ground as he tries desperately to deliver his message.

The letter begins with these fateful lines:

>“My Liege, it was as we feared: the Western lands burn with the fires of war even as the seers scream of a winter like none we have ever seen. The Forts at the eastern border of the Golden Empire are under siege even as the civil war rages on. The Shadow Council of Ibb has ordered the borders closed as darkness approaches, and we have lost any contact with the islands to the South. What is your command, my liege?”

As your fingers tremble due to the powerful emotions these words have summoned, silence falls upon the crows as everyone awaits with bathed breath their Liege’s command.