A Black Dog howls in the distance, the murky shades and slums of Nox’ soul. A longing for release, to let slip the dogs of war, to be unfettered and free. To bathe in blood, conduct symphonies of screams, drink in lurid moonlight, terror writ across the faces of those before him. Those falling before him, pulpy sheaves of unripe wheat to his cruel scythe. Trails of gore stain his sight, and feed the slavering beast within…
Nox flexes his muscles on the side of the road, rubbing the ache of a bumpy ride in confined quarters from his back and legs. He’s knows he’s been dreaming again, takes a swig of wine to wash the road dust from his mouth, wishing it were hot and viscous like the blood of his recently ephemeral victims.
Turning his head and surveying his surroundings, he takes in his companions, unwilling to remember their names: Crunch the half-ogre. Pipsqueak his child-like charge. Slurk… no. Not this one. This one is not even a Slurk. This one is Sketch. Just why are they gathered here, outside of an unknown town, diverted from a task set by a baroness?