A soldier blew three short blasts on a trumpet as General Rathwynn climbed the stairs to the top of the gallows in the fort’s common area. “People of Morgansfort,” he began, “there shall be no town crier this day. Farmer Jobiab road hard during the night to report a mob of goblins attacked and killed the empire’s newsman as he traveled down the old road from Slateholm.” Gasps were heard from the crowd. He continued, “Jobiab’s young son said the goblins were led by an elf in a scarlet cloak. The agent’s body was stripped of all possessions and left in a pool of blood in the middle of the road.”
“These are hard times. Evil hangs over us like a dark cloud. My oracles say a murderous rain will fall soon, and the best protection we have is virtue. All my life, the old road has been safe except for the rare robbing of bandits. If foul demihumans openly murder our citizens on the road, our supplies will be limited to those coming by boat. Prepare yourselves.”
“We are strong. We have heroes among us. Mere weeks ago, Tianarth’s raiders presented the head of a necromancer who profaned all existence by bringing the dead back to walk among us. Every day I am told of new, unspeakable horrors that must be put down. And the oracles continue to warn of an impending attack by orcs. We will survive. We will rid ourselves of this scourge.”
“Until then, report any suspicious activity. Keep to your houses at night and do not travel far from the fort. That is all.”