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Hurried steps echo down a dank, musty corridor. A hooded figure rushes past darkened doorways and heavy chamber doors, reaching the entrance to a wide tower with a spiral staircase winding upwards. Reaching the parapet, he peers into the deepening gloom. Two riders were approaching, and the wind began to howl.
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(Interior, a small chamber, dimly lit by torchlight. A timeworn circular stone table sits in the center of the room; around it are arranged five ornately carved chairs. Two of the chairs are empty; in the other three sit indistinct figures. One of the figures begins to speak; his voice sounds distant and wet, as if it was coming from the bottom of a well.)
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“A new age is upon us. The forces of the East are stirring once again after eons of silence. I fear that the floodwaters of war are rising; and that if we do not act now we will be powerless to stem the tide.”

“But what can we do?” Replied a voice that seemed to change and bend as it left the speaker.

“We must return to the world of the living.”

“Very well,” said the third figure, in tones like the pillars of an ancient temple, “let us choose our party.”
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