It was during the worst blizzard of the season, on the harsh unforgiving frigid peaks of the Plythor Mountains that Grand Commander Hyrian Markelath shattered the frontlines. It was there, pelted by the unrelenting and seemingly never-ending snowfall, that the commander and his men tore their blades through body after body, staining the once blemishless white snow crimson and littering the mountainside with steaming cooling corpses. Like a ruptured artery, he and his men burst forth from the narrow mountain path, down into the warmer temperate valley of Plythor.

The snow was gone now, and before them stretched the fertile green fields of the region surrounded by its mountain walls. Above them the sky was now clear and a brilliant blue, the snow-filled gray clouds isolated to the cruel mountaintops. It was here, standing in the irrefutable light of day that the enemy finally broke, seeing they were beaten, and turned tail, fleeing as fast as their legs could carry them to the nearby town. It was the greatest victory the Royal Army had achieved in the entire campaign. Hyrian and his men roared in triumph, not a dry blade or inch of unstained armor among them. They had finally escaped the dark misery of the mountains and still, they thirsted for more.  

More death. 

More blood. 

More slaughter.

They craved retribution for the months of agony they had endured in the mountains.

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Hyrian felt that desire more clearly than anything he had felt before. The lust for carnage set his veins aflame. He needed more bodies for his blade. More corpses to compile the stairway of his ever-ascending military career. More violence to vent the personal rage against these traitors he had been suppressing for so long.

Rational thought had left the entire army at this point. All were riding the high of this unexpected victory. All wanted to see just how much further they could push the enemy back. And though none would admit it, all wanted to push the line as far away from the mountains upon which they had anguished behind them. None wanted to spend another night in the dark cold and cruel caves, huddled around a fire, fearing a night attack or worse: that one careless soldier would not tend to the flames and doom them all to a slow and helpless death as they slept unaware of their doomed fates.

They needed to take the town. They needed the security of walls and real beds. They deserved it after all they had been put through. At least that is what they told themselves. 

Meadowsbrook would be taken. The town could be seen in the direction the retreating soldiers were running. Hyrian knew they and the town's forces would not be enough to stop his army. His men would make quick work of them. Then, once all the fighting has ended, they all could finally get a well-deserved rest and celebrate their victory. If they waited or delayed, they might reinforce the town or send for help. They could not let this advantage slip from their grasp. They would not.

As Hyrian gave the order to his men to push on to the village, he firmly believed this was the right course of action.

And so began the Massacre at Meadowsbrook.