The cold wind blows from the west, bringing another cold and rainy night, an entourage of Achellan Nomads is traveling towards Inasmouth for the festival of 150 years of independence of the Kingdom of Igallyn. Merchants are bringing spices and trinkets to sell, a band of minstrels practices their songs and warriors are training for the tournaments. As the sun goes down a weak rain starts to pour, the entourage stops and starts to make camp, a good amount of barracks can be seen, at the middle of the camp an improvised tavern is mounted, most of the travelers gathers at the fire, the ale is poured and the meat is served while the minstrels sing and laugh. On one of the tables, two poets are talking, one of them holds an old book, the cover is made of red velvet and it's embroidered with golden symbols. - "This, haha, this is going to make me rich i tell ye, i've won this fucker from an adventurer in a game of dice. See? This is the symbol of the five, surprisingly old." says one of the poets.
The night goes by, most of the people go back to their barracks, a couple of minstrels and warriors are still drinking some mead, the poets are still talking and the tavern is ready to close, suddenly a chilly wind invades the tavern, bringing with it a terrible smell of blood, the fire turns blue and the water turns black, the alemaid drops a cup of mead as a strong wind gale tears the tavern apart, the sight is terrible, the whole camp is butchered and at it's middle five ghostly entities can be seen, the survivors are frozen in panic, instantly one of the shadows appear near the poet, - "The fi...ve..." murmurs one of the patrons, while the rest of the survivors fall dead in the blink of an eye. The shadow takes the book and leaves... only the gust of wind can be heard now.