The bloodied tracks of Man, Elf and Half-elf stretched for several miles along the snow-laden causeway that began from the dark wood along the southern lowlands all the way to the sprawling farmsteads of Outentown. By dawn, the unsteady footsteps were none to be seen, covered in fresh rapid snowfall, but the scent of evil that trailed in their wake was a stench that could not keep away the horrors that would come to lurk in the deepest corners of their souls where the mind was wont to forget.
For now they carried a prize wrenched from the claws of a beast; the abomination that made earth and rock and land and sky sick with its taint - the depraved oppression of many an enslaved bugbear and then now, the ultimate sacrifice of one of their own: a certain tribe of Hobgoblin bearing a sigil like that of an inverted figure of '4'. Yes... Maglibuyet was pleased this day, until they came.
From its carcass they stole the ancient blade, triumphant was their return, but a somber one, for such a prize was coveted by others who knew its value - of its many, many purposes.
And now... a fever runs through her. The girl they call Aleira, who only by Ilmater's grace survived. Others, who left to tend to their wounds, would fare better in the days to come, but a growing sense of unease permeates this difficult victory.
It will be a red moon that rises over the land when Maglibuyet has His revenge.