Staind in dark ichor, the blade Reverie barely caught the light as it was pointed at the door. There was a fierce look on the face of the elf holding it. His eyes flicked between each of the people standing in the door. "Get inside," he growled in the human tongue. Behind him crowded a mix of townsfolk and the surviving guards. The sound of hammering rang around the small Inn, drowning out the sobs and groans of the survivors. Those in the best condition continued boarding up the windows. One other guard, his boiled leather armour tattered and torn, stood at the door with Draedamyr. "Can't let in any more," the veteran guard grunted. He ushered the last of them inside and waved over someone with a hammer. It had started an hour ago. The odd mists had crawled across the landscape and enveloped the town. The most superstitious had started praying. The pragmatic has passed it off as strange weather. Draedamyr, sensing a shift in the magic, had collected his belongings to flee the town. The beasts had emerged from the mists before he could leave. The farmers in the fields had been the first to die. The townsfolk had tried to defend the boundary of the settlement, but there hadn't been enough of them. They had never been organised enough to repel such an attack and stone walls only protected one half of the town. The things attacking the town hadn't been organised either. Draedamyr had come with a group of guards and some survivors to the towns largest inn. It had food, water and old stone walls nearly a yard thick. As they went to board up the door, Draedamyr couldn't help but feel that they were only delaying the inevitable.