Augh decided to take matters into his own hand. Quietly, in the night, he ended Melisande’s struggle with his knife. In that bitter moment, an evil spirit passed from her into him. He was overwhelmed with visions.
News of the murder woke the entire longhouse. The loggers, exhausted and near to panic, fought and argued, shouting at the PCs and watching the walls, waiting for some kind of retribution. Equally torn were the players, bickering and shoving over the controversy. The fights did not cease until Augh was ejected from the camp, forced to sleep outside until the caravan was ready to move in the morning.
The next day, the uneasy adventurers rode south with the heavy wagons. The bags under their eyes could not hide the suspicious glances. They spent so much time watching each other, they almost missed the raiders.
Wild whoops and screeching war cries rang through the trees, with a dozen savages bandits following. The wagons had little worth stealing, yet the bandits fought to the death, mad-eyed suicidal.
The battle was bitter and brutal, blood staining the snow bright red under the shining sun. Finally, the last of them fell silent and the caravan, wounded and weary, rolled forth.
Many strange sights waited along the trek south. Holes in the ground as if twenty-foot giants simply woke, stood, and walked away. Camp fires stinging the sky like threads on a loom, far to the east. A scared family, running on foot, desperate to escape the terrors of the tundra. A regiment of ghosts, lead by a faceless girl, dissolving under the pious faith of two humble priests.
After a long day’s travel, the players made it back to Northallow, but it seems they’ve brought something sinister with them. A malovent force has settled like a storm-cloud over the city. The residents have been mulling over prophecies and locking their doors at night. Can their gods protect them from the impending doom?