So it begins. Orolon village, outside of the Galan capital city of Zenewark has had many misfortunes in recent times. From the edge of town, it seems to be a quiet enough place, considering how tiny it was. There were only around nine prominent buildings along the main road. Out of those, only four had specific signs to mark their occupation. The first being the Inn, along the road there was a tavern, tailor, and a general supplies store. It was dark, with only a sliver of sunlight still over the horizon. The day was ending, and several of the shops were closing down. 

Among them, only the inn and the tavern were still open, and lit quite well. Smoke bellowed from their chimneys as dinner was cooked for their tennants and patrons. As peaceful as it seemed, there was a blaring noise from the tavern. It seemed that an old man shouted from his seat, obviously not happy with one of the younger customers sitting across from him. He spoke of a scroll, one that was especially precious to him, and he had searched for his entire life. 

"You young bastards would never understand! You will never know what true power really is! If you ever even tripped over this scroll, you'd just as soon wiped your bums with it! Because you're all a bunch of cretins!" The old man shouted, pointing an accusing finger.

"Ey! Anyone ever tell ye pointin' fingers ain't nice ye old sack!?" The young man stood up from his seat, his other three friends also no longer in good humor of the old man. "Might I have to teach ye a lesson, ye old gas bag?!"

It was obvious that he was ready to draw his large dagger, waving it in the air in a very threatening manner.