The moon is lovely tonight.

As you near the capitol of the Duchy, you breathe a sigh of relief – the journey has been an arduous one through the wilds, as the farther away from the safe streets of Evendarr you have traveled, more wild and treacherous the terrain has become. You think back on the events of the last few weeks with wonder – you have seen so many strange things on this journey! Even at the very start Ravenholt has been a place of strange magics. When you entered the borders of the Duchy you had to pass through the strange shimmering field known locally as the "Magic Border": a by-product of some strange magical cataclysm, the field is rumored to destroy magical creatures and items which attempt to pass through it. Wistfully you remember the magical item you sold to the overly-eager merchants which have set up shop along the border – but better to have gained gold for it than watch it crumble to dust when it encountered the magical field.

From there things only became stranger: throughout your journey, you have seen creatures dart through the forest around you whose names you have only read about in your Bestiaries. Lizard-men, with scales and claws glittering in the sun; a pack of Goblins, tearing apart the carcass of some unfortunate deer; a Hill Troll, hulking through the forest. Two days ago you saw a tiny Fairy flutter by, carrying an acorn nearly too heavy for it to lift, and last night you started out of slumber with the impression you had been being watched, and the fleeting memory of a silvery horse with an iridescent horn.

Aside from a close encounter with an Brigand or two (ruefully you rub the bump on the back of your skull, grateful once more that they did not find your prized spellbook worth taking), your adventure has been a safe one, but you are still eager to see the inside of a tavern before you rest tonight. The night air is cool and pleasant, and the moon is full and illuminates the path before you as if it were midday. Your step has become lighter as you near the city, as fleeting images of steaming roasts, chilled wine and saucy bar-help dance in your mind.

It suddenly becomes apparent to you that the forest surrounding the path has become quiet – too quiet. The night-birds and crickets have gone completely silent, and the sound of your heartbeat is now very loud. A ghostly cloud drifts across the moon just as the wind changes, bringing with it the heavy stench of decay and dust. Bile rising in your throat, you whirl to your left, spell-energy flaring in your hand, and stare uncomprehendingly at the two softly glowing red lights floating in the darkness. You mind searches for a name: Will-O-The-Wisp? Giggleblitz? One of the Fae-Folk playing some twisted game?

The clouds overhead part to reveal a creature plucked from your darkest nightmares: dimly you realize that it once had the form of a man, but the ravages of rot, decay, and foul magics have warped it beyond all recognition of its former life. Its armor is scarred and pitted, and its heavy sword is spattered with fresh blood. Decaying flesh has pulled away from bone in several places, and green-slicked muscles peek through leathery skin as it slowly advances upon you. Another name, from an older, darker Bestiary surfaces in your terror-addled mind:

Death Knight.

Its decaying facial muscles twitch and contract into a terrible parody of a grin, revealing bare bone and blackened teeth, and in a voice like ice it speaks...

"Welcome...to Ravenholt..."