Consciousness creeps in with confusion and contempt. The poignant tang of dirt-mingled vomit and ale are overwhelming and your head throbs with every heartbeat. The earth beneath you is cold and rocky — an indifferent, albeit familiar, companion.
You push yourself to your feet and through squinted eyes come to a horrible realization that dwarfs your current condition. Draffs. You’re in Draffs. You would never come to this gods-forsaken village of idiots and mouth-breathers. Why are you here and what in the humping hobgoblin happened last night?
You’re less than surprised to discover that you’re next to the tavern on the south end of the village. The shield-shaped wooden sign bears a faded red D that marks the infamous Deviant Drake’s Draught Haus.
You hear the jingly clop-clop of battle-dressed horses approaching to the north. You turn to see a group of three human soldiers clad in gleaming chain mail atop huge warhorses.