Red lightning crackles in the skies north of the encampment.

In the eastern trenches, muddy Whitecloak soldiers focus with renewed vigor on
the swirling mists beyond the gate. In the ruins beyond the mist, insubstantial
Nightwalkers roam - a source of darkness that must perpetually be repelled by
the front lines. At the southern perimeter, patrols have increased. The
southern gate remains closed, two menacing figures standing with halberds at the
ready.

Another flash of red.

The Captain and Commander stand over a table in their opulent tent, reviewing a
map of the surrounding area. Mountains to the north - sheer cliffs. The
location for the encampment was perfect, with only two possible approach routes
to defend: east and south. And for years, it had proved effective. But this
was the third day of the unnatural red lightning. Always to the north.

And closer, now, than before.

What was coming?

A high guard peeks his head into the tent. The Commander looks up, nodding his
permission to enter. A sweaty, breathless archer follows. Nervously, he gives
his report.

Bad news is never well received.