An unseasonably warm autumn sun shines cheerily overhead as a newfound band of comrades ascends the hill known as Bryson's Look. As the hill crests, the thick groves of silver maple and boxelder give way to vine-grasped piles of stones, overgrown outlines of foundations, and the furtive hint of walls and arches. Once, long ago, these ruins were known as Chordile Keep. Now, only the croak of a raven serves as a memorial to those days long past.

The two-mile trek from Brindenford has been uneventful, even pleasant. It's a welcome respite for dry mouths and pounding heads, the reminder of too many glasses of wine and cups of ale downed the night before at the Lost Shepherd. It's hard even to remember the promises of camraderie and brotherhood, of wealth and glories waiting to be won. But promises they were, and so six figures stand on the hilltop, ready to entrust one another with their lives, though they barely know each other.

In the center of the hilltop lies the entrance to the dungeon itself...little more than a twenty foot wide pit with an exposed stone stair that leads down into darkness. This band is clearly not the first to have braved the perils below, as the entrance has been kept clear of overgrowth.

The stairway down beckons. Who stands ready to answer the call?