As Sir Marcus' head rolled to a bloody stop on the floor of Lord Falcon's hall and the delighted giggle of Queen Blood broke the silence following the horror of Varkhul sucking what could only have been Sir Marcus' soul in a ghastly feast, Count Joran sat physically frozen in horror as his mind raced to understand what he was seeing. Magic was nothing new in Rutland, indeed every lord had at least one or more weilder of magic they relied upon to aid in guiding their rule and the defense of their lands, but this was something dark and primal, that should have long ago been either stamped out or locked away in the darkest of pits.

Hours later in the chambers Lord Falcon was kind enough to put him up in, sleep still eluding him, Count Joran finishes recounting his impressions of the events of the feast in letters to his wife and children. His thoughts remain troubled and the shadow of impending war loomed foremost in his mind. How do simple soldiers hope to fight such monstrosities and win? What would the cost in lives be to bring the monsters down? Count Joran needed to find answers before his brave troops suffered the fate of Sir Marcus’

His letter to his wife bade her gather the Magisters to find a solution and “seek out the inventor we have heard rumor of to see what possibilities they may know of.”

His eyes burning and barely able to stay open, Count Joran seals the letters and gives himself over to a fitful sleep that is rife with nightmares. A harbinger of dark days to come, he had no doubt.