For some time Evenhold has been wracked by strong tremors. Much of the town is in shambles and the ground itself has split apart in many places. This would be bad enough but worse has followed.
In places the giant cracks have crossed burial gardens, releasing the dead from their eternal sleep. These animated dead attack all living things as though they are driven by some singleness of purpose unfathomable to human intellect. Since they are already dead, they resist the attempts of the populace to repel them.
The Elders of Evenhold have spent the last week in plotting the stars, reading runes, consulting oracles, and examining animal entrails. The result of these endeavors is to be announced today.
A beaten and weary throng has formed in the main plaza facing the massive Temple of Alaxar, the Sun God. A hush enfolds the masses clinging forlornly to their dying hopes. The still within the plaza is so complete that the sound of combat can be heard dimly from the direction of the Phracian Fields, a burial garden at least half a league east of the plaza.
The down-turned heads fail to note the gaunt form of Pindar Rambis, High Priest of Alaxar, standing at the balustrade, but the resonant thunder of his voice jerks them to rapt attention:
"Mighty Phrax, God of the Underworld, Shepherd of the Flocks of the Dead, is angered. Some Evil of this Plane seeks to usurp His power. This Evil must be sought out and destroyed before the Wrath of Phrax engulfs us all. He has loosed the Dead Legions to kill indiscriminately until He has regained what is His — the Reservoir of His Power and the Bulwark of His Strength — the legendary Shroud of Phrax!"
"Time is of the essence as the Dead Legions will not wait. The longer we delay in finding and returning the Shroud, the greater will be the carnage. The other gods will not interfere to save us against one of their own. We must save ourselves!"
Rambis turns painfully and shuffles slowly into the temple while the crowd begins to disperse. Before the plaza clears, another mighty tremor rocks the city followed by the sound of collapsing buildings all over town. The Vintners' Guild at the Esplanade corner topples over and buries scores of people.
In the midst of this pandemonium, a cry rises above all, "The Dead Legions! The Dead Legions are coming!" The confusion in the plaza turns into panic as people stream in all directions — except east, the direction of the Phracian Fields — to escape a terrible fate at the hands of the armies of the Dead. You are left alone to your fate.
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