It was in the cold of winter in the even colder mountains of Izregarth. Alastor marched on, each step heavier than the last. His comrades of the twenty-first regiment shared his sentiments of a warm fire and a long nap. They were coming back to Alanar from quelling a rebellion in the neighboring country Shuel Bella. A long, harsh journey across 150 leagues of winter land. Just as we were coming through the valley pass of Droeden. We had already lost three patrols. To what, we don't know, the unbearable cold, barbaric natives, some say monsters of gargantuan proportion hunted in these mountains. Each step was perilous, for falling.down in the snow could get you wet. And getting wet in these conditions was a death sentence. Tensions were high and morale was low. And the unbearable cold, the threat of a slow painful death was always their minds. But we kept on marching, driven on for fear of being left behind to rot in that forsaken, frozen wasteland. Through the narrow valley. Vaguely, in the back my mind, I realized this was the perfect place for an ambush...