The North Plain. A desolate, windswept landscape littered with the remnants of the undead horde. Tayrel and Ethlen stand amidst the carnage, their armor gleaming in the harsh sunlight. Tayrel voice muffled by the helmet, but with a clear tone of weariness: "Another wave. They grow bolder." The metallic clink of his mace against his shield echoes in the still air. Ethlen voice similarly muffled, with a hint of grim satisfaction: "Their numbers dwindle, but their ferocity grows. Periclor's grasp deepens." A cold, calculating tone underlies his words. Tayrel: "We cannot hold this line forever. Their reinforcements will be endless." A pause, then, "We must find a way to strike at their heart." Ethlen: "The necromancer's lair. It is the only way. But the journey will be perilous." A moment of silence as they both contemplate the daunting task ahead. Tayrel: "We will need more than just the two of us." Ethlen: "Agreed. We must seek allies, those who share our purpose." A long moment passes as they survey the battlefield. The wind howls, carrying the distant cries of the undead. Ethlen: "Until then, we hold this line." His voice is resolute. Tayrel: "As long as there is breath in our bodies, we will." Their gazes meet, a silent pact forming between them. few days later. The both man is arrive on the tavern. And sit beside the {{user}}