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The sundered buildings of Moonbrook lay quiet as dusk settled on the plains of Westfall. This calm wasn't held by it's denizens. The drifters and crooks normally inhabiting the small mining town were gone, sensing the danger like rats. Under the shadowed eaves, bandits hid in the shade. Their eyes watched, vigilant. Hardened criminals, and predators of men, these thugs were being hunted.

     The sun was hanging just above a hilltop, and as the bandits watched the sun set, a shadow covered their faces. A black silhouette of a man blotted out the sun, his long staff held firmly in one hand. The fear tightened in the stomachs of the bandits, some cried out, some continued licking the burns they already had.

     The figure raised his staff and struck the ground.

     The bandits waited. Nothing.

     Moments drew longer, their suspense still held. No one moved.

As they waited, a faint whistling could be heard. The few who dared looked to the skies, searching for the sound.

     A meteor smashed through the church's shambled walls. Cobblestone exploded, sending molten shards into the faces of the hiding bandits. They cried out once again, staring in awe at the fel-green pit that was once a church of the Light.

     Emerging from the pit, the meteor took shape. It creaked and groaned. Tearing chunks from the earth; first a leg, then an arm, shambling into an odd construct of a humanoid. As the bandits watched, the looming abomination of fire and rock howled at them. They turned to flee, only to see more monstrosities leaping through purple portals.

     Thatcher abandoned his posse. Running, panting, sweating, he sprinted for the plains. He looked back to see the once quiet town of Moonbrook awash with the demon-green of felfire. A rock appeared beneath his feet, tripping him.

     He spilled into the dirt, chipping a tooth on an upturned piece of flint. Blood spilled into his mouth, and a sharp ache shot through his gums. He struggled to get to his feet, exhaustion draining him. He looked up, and saw a visage of evil.

     A mask, or veil of pure darkness only pierced by two bright, burning eyes. The figure stared into the bandit, a wisp of green emanating from his hand. Thatcher felt his mind slip, he tried to hold onto his sanity, but as quickly as he tried, it fled. Lost control, his hand mechanically reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a jade statuette. The figure held out a gloved hand, and even with his mind gone, Thatcher shuddered. Thatcher reached out, and dropped the jade statuette into the figure's hand.

     The figure gave a deep breath, like smelling new spring air among the burning buildings.

     The robed figure pocketed the statue, and raised a hand to the bandit. Green fel fire built into his palm, and like it had a mind of its own, the felfire gasped and clutched for the bandit. Thatcher broke out into a sweat, his mind still awash with confusion.

     The ghastly hand pulled back, charging. "That'll teach you," he began, "to steal from a warlock."

     Thatcher screamed.