Sitting at a table in the quaintest of taverns is a group of old heroes. They do not bare the look of those that have seen long military campaigns and disturbing rituals. They are simply a trio, sitting and drinking the loatheful food made by an overeager wife helping her husband make a business.

The most grandiose of these three was the large man in his fifties in armor that shone gold. The dark steel of the suit had the signs of battle on it and was the only part of the armor that didn't shine. He had banners all over his suit showing many designs of a sun all made of a bright orange. On his back he had a large broadsword with a blade as wide as five inches and with a cross-guard that had the largest sun of them all. For a man with such bright colors upon him he didn't have the cheery look acquainted with his coloring. He instead shared the look of many people of the land, cold, discouraged, and as detatched as possible.

The women to his left bore the leathers of tropy a hunter would wear. By her side was a large white wolf, the wolf was as old as the women herself and it layed down on the ground in laziness. On her back was a handmade bow and many arrows. She had braided hair that was greying at almost every corner. On her face were the scars of many fights and she held herself with the courage of many fights won. Any questions asked were answered with quick responses and the respect she demanded through sheer looks was given. The brawn of her physique was outmatched by the silent dexterity that she walked around with. Her face gave neither a look of happy nor sad, just that of existence.

The final member of this makeshift crew was a man in a long cloak. His face was gaunt, he had long skinny hands and looked like he walked out of a novel to scare chldren. The way in which he carried himself was with a hunched back and slow limp. On his head was a crown of black jaded rocks that dug into his head. His drink was all that he had touched while he left the desolate meal he was given to its own devices. No armor protected his body and he wore simple peasant clothing under the cloak. When the man in the golden armor finally breaks their silence he listens without looking back at the man.

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With no humor in his voice the man named Galavander says, "So shall we leave this distraught village finally and grab a contract." 

The woman, Armelia, speaks bluntly, "And miss all the fun this place has to offer. Now who would want to leave?"

"Yes of course, we could tip cows or drink dusty ale" Zandef, the lean man speaks.

"Yes of course" Galavander and Armelia say together.

"Or we could take that tomb contract and get the supplies to brave the snow" The sun covered man says as though this was not the only viable course of action.

"Yes of course" The other two say in their own moment of unity.

"Shall we go deal with that annoying shopkeep then" Armelia asks rhetorically.

"If we must" Galavander says with held back anger.

Zandef speaks up "If he tries to say bring up that first contract again I will not be in control of my actions when he speaks" 

Armelia already up replies, "We did almost burn down his family home"

"Let us leave first and then we can talk about what we will do to him" Speaks Galavander

Zandef begins to sit up, "If we must"

As the group steps out into the snowy landscape they prepare to head to the shop of Geraullt. When they walk out they leave assuming that this will be a normal job, they were wrong. This simple contract will lead to many risks, rewards, and a very, very perilous journey. And at the end, the world will either be safer or something worse. For the sake of a people who long for hope, they better succeed.