A wizened old crone sits at her desk, surrounded by bowls and flasks of various potions. Focused over a scrying orb, eyes glazed with deep magicks, the Crone sits agape. Horrified of what she sees, and falls from her chair. Panicked, she races through the Cloister. Making her way to the bells, she screams “Evil! A terrible Evil approaches!” Together, her and her sisters throw themselves at the bells, ringing and ringing so every end of the Cloister would know danger was afoot. They did their duty, sending word far and wide. Signal fires were lit, magic messages sent, and gods- So many gods- were called upon for safety. Wardens, Sailors, Greenskeepers, Mayors, Governors, even the less savory types received warnings they couldn't make sense of. Why would the Cloister make moves to protect South Sea Pirates or the Orcish tribes of the plain? What could the Duergar possibly have to fear so far underground and so far from civilizations? They were advising the Dragons to protect themselves! Surely it was a false alarm, a mistake to alert so many people. There was no mistake. Adventurers were sent wide, instructed to drum up every able bodied would-be fighter. They went to warring lands and commanded peace- if only for a few days. Something was coming. Coming for us all. Right Beneath Our feet.