A treachery of old threatens, a keening whisper that flickers at the edge of true hearing. Like some strange willowisp, it's curious and familiar, of the time of the Lich King. Many more souls had regained some semblance of a life, but now...something threatens it...

We need aid! Abominations have reaped our patrols, dragging them screaming into the old catacombs. Strange lights and witchy whispers frighten our men and gryphons, a sure sign.

The Marshal sent word to the Argents, but they have yet to arrive. We are doomed.

The last of our draughts have done little to safeguard the wildlife. I tasked the patrols to bring any kills from hunting by the apothecary before slaughtering. A mark on the last haunch looked like a bite, but the width far more humanoid than wolf.

"Good eve, fair traveler. You seem in need of transportation. The winds cut cold, the night deepens as if the stars have all fallen. Oh worry not, for my carriage ever has room for one more."