Our story begins in a tavern in the city of Pania. A tall, metal man in a red suit is sitting at a table, a few various uniformed men standing before him. Outside, armed men patrol the streets, and many windows are shuttered. Pania is one of the last remaining ports in Avonmora that has yet to fall under Dreadbolt's tyrannical rule, or be overrun by his demonic soldiers. The air smells of gunpowder and blood, and the sky is tinged with an ugly reddish gray haze produced by the fires that rage all across the continents and islands. Supplies dwindle, as trade routes are no longer safe. Thankfully, Pania's warehouse were full, and bountiful with food, drink, and so on. Rumors abound in the walled city that the odd mages in the tavern are recruiting for an expedition north, into the empire there. The man at the table speaks, his voice carrying across the sparsely populated tavern rather easily.
Last call for volunteers! The expedition leaves tomorrow, and there is much preparation to be done.