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December 782.
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On the western edge of the Scar of Withering, an elven village.
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At this time of year, the flowers and grasses in the mountains wither and the leaves fall, but this place is still lush.
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But amidst the green, there is also a hint of deathly stillness, as if the plants were not alive but rather plastic models covered in dust.
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The heavy snow whirls about, covering the grayness.
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The sound of horse hooves grows from a distant echo to a nearby clatter, and then a mud wall is trampled flat by a towering four-legged beast.
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Pairs of leather boots kick up splashes of gray-black mud and swiftly occupy the entire village.
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"No survivors in squad one."
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"None in squad two either."
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"Squad three..."
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...
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Astonishingly, not a single living person remains in the village, not even any corpses, let alone supplies.
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```
