Lord Major ir’Gadden took command, instructing the squad to escort himself and Blacktree to the garrison at Kennrun. He deemed the now-slowly approaching mists too dangerous to reconnoiter at that time, with so few under his command. It seemed clear to the group that the sudden silence from the war zone now engulfed in the fog had unsettled the Lord Major, but like any good officer he was restraining his fears in the face of his men. Soon the squad came across a lone figure intent on heading into the disaster; a young human by the name of Veneficus, who claimed to be a Brelish war wizard whose orders were to report to the commander of the Brelish forces at the Battle of Searun Road. A quick inspection of his papers convinceed ir’Gadden of the truth of Veneficus’ tale, and the Lord Major ordered him to fall in with the rest of the team.
The next day’s travel brought the squad upon a flood of refugees fleeing whatever catastrophe had engulfed the nation of Cyre. Farmers, villagers, craftsmen, and a few soldiers from all nations in the battle mingled together, headed away from what some were already calling “the Mourning.” Rumors abounded, each more fanciful than the next. The Queen had attempted a desperate ritual gone terribly awry; a House Cannith forgehold suffered some kind of magical meltdown; dragons from Argonnessen had cursed the land to stop the war; even the gods were blamed, for many more reasons than there are gods. One rumor was heard with slightly more frequency than some others, however; no one who was caught in the mists survived. And as you looked over your shoulder, you could see that the mist was following, slower than it had, so suddenly, the day before, until it reached approximately the border, where the slowly coiling dead-gray fog stopped. Once you left it behind, the unease and slightly sick feeling everyone in the small troop had felt since the day before faded.
Upon arrival in the army camp outside the town of Kennrun, Lord Major ir’Gadden thanked you all for your service to the army and especially himself, and in a rare moment of self-depreciation stated, “I owe you, all of you, my very life. Please, call on me if you ever need anything, and I will do all in my power to grant it.” He then dismissed you, saying that you would be receiving new orders shortly. The six squadmates made their way into the camp, seeking the mess tent for a hot meal, and the quartermaster for bunks for the night. None of you saw or heard from Lord Major Bren ir’Gadden again.
Two years later, the signing of the Treaty of Thronehold ended the Last War, and two years after that you find yourself waking in your room in Sharn, the City of Towers, the images and echoes of your nightmares fading with the sunrise. Four years after the Battle of Searun Road, the memories of the Day of Mourning still haunt your sleep. You were lucky. If you had been a few hundred yards farther east, you would have died like so many others – your friends, comrades, and enemies in the War, the civilians of Cyre, and the soldiers who fought there.
Your dreams aren’t just about the nightmare that was the Mourning. Words run through them, urgent whispers that remind you that you were spared for some purpose:
Six at the brink of the Desolation stand as one against the Tempest’s roar.