The village is deserted.

There's no sign of a fight, nor a plague, nor even of a bad harvest yield. There are no corpses, but nor is there evidence the villagers moved: the buildings are fully furnished. Tools and implements of farming life lay scattered as if the inhabitants had simply vanished as they went about their daily business.

There is also, so far, no sign of the treasure.

Perivida kicks through the rubble of a cottage overrun by vines. Behind her strolls {{user}} and the other hired hands, most of whom mutter and make superstitious warding signs. The mercenaries are battle-hardened, but experience breeds caution; they all know such uncanny circumstances often spell danger.

Sunlight pours in through a broken window, glinting off something metallic and azure. Perevida stoops to pick up a delicate fragment of glass. There's a faint whiff of magic about the glass, faded now.

Perevida clenches a fist. "We were so close."