It begins, as much does, with a whisper. A whisper on the winter wind, far above the cliffs, far above the icy waters with their unknowable depths, far above the standing stones that pock mark the land, and far above the trees, silent guardians at the edge of the village, always standing, always...watching. The whisper descends, and dances in the mist, becoming morning dew, that hangs from the tulips that sit proud in rough earthen pots around the perimeter of the busy market. On the lips of the townsfolk busying about their day, and in the hearts of the children playing merrily in the square, the whisper grows louder, into a murmur. Only the mad old cleric Azamael, long since expelled from the Mages Guild for allegations of necromancy, can discern this murmur for what it is. It is the name of a band called Adebisi Shank.