Ashrin Desria couldn’t help but grin to himself. The small village of Brightwild of the Lucis Empire had an excellent harvest this year; it was quite obvious to one who turned their ear to the wind. The sounds of celebration during the annual harvest festival were all one could hear.

Ashrin listened on with glee as he headed toward the local tavern, just after finishing his shift on the watch. He was looking forward to sitting with his buddies, fellow townsfolk, and enjoying some broth. He was sure there would be much singing and joking around before turning in for the night, returning to his wife to enjoy the night yet some more in his own fashion.

The thirty-seven year old man stepped into the tavern, bringing about a cheer from the rest of the people. He had been encouraged many times to run for mayor of the village, he would definitely win if he did considering all those whom admired him, but he always refused, saying he preferred his life as it was: simple. Several rounds were offered up to him as soon as the cheer died down, and who was he to refuse free broth?

The hours passed by unnoticed as many a song echoed throughout the streets from the tavern. The place was crowded with people, almost the entire population of the village and then some, and nearly everyone there had some alcohol warming their blood. Tales were weaved and people laughed, music played and people danced. This was definitely one of the greatest harvest festivals in Ashrin’s memory.

A few hours after midnight, the door to the tavern burst open. Everyone turned and cheered as the man Ashrin recognized as the local baker, Teldal Opandor, entered the building. The cheering was so loud no one could hear what Teldal was shouting. Ashrin saw that the look on the baker’s face was not one of celebratory glee, but rather one of alarm. He quickly quieted everyone down, taking the front of the crowd.

“What is it, Teldal?” he said, becoming the voice of authority for the drunken mass behind him, one of the only few with enough sense left to realize something was amiss.

“An army, crossing the fields! Twelve scores at least!” the baker cried, and even the drunkards knew that this was a serious matter. An eerie silence fell over the tavern as they all waited for Ashrin to take charge.

“Surely they’d have no reason to attack here! We’re only a village!” Ashrin blinked in disbelieve. However his point became void as several cries echoed through the village. Over the rooftops, a few streets down, Ashrin saw the first flickering of flame.

And then the stars rained down.

Flaming arrows pelted the wooden thatch-work houses. Several buildings quickly went up in flame, while others were moist enough to resist the burn. Ashrin rushed from the tavern and into the streets, ignoring the arrow that landed with a thump in the dirt a few feet away from him.

An explosion roared over the cries of villagers, and Ashrin heard someone call something about mages. After pinching himself once, he decided this was real, and turned toward the drunks in the bar.

“They offer no talk! Run home to your families, gather them and flee, quickly! There isn’t much time!” He was no leader, he simply wished to get as many people out of the village as he could before it became an inferno. Drunks scattered left and right from the bar, and Ashrin was quick to join them, hurrying to his own home.

When he got there, he stopped in his tracks, terror spreading over his face. His had been one of the houses that burst into flame immediately. It was completely engulfed in fire, some of the thatching on the roof collapsing inward. Even in his impaired state of mind, he feared, realizing that no human could survive in there.

And yet, taking a deep breath, he ran head first toward the burning door. Calling his wife’s name, over and over, until finally he gave in. The smoke got to him first, filling his lungs until his body burnt more from the lack of oxygen than from the flames as they began to cover him. He stumbled through the wreckage, until finally he found the body of his wife, and that’s where he collapsed. Ashrin and Kendra Desria were the forty fifth and forty seventh to die in the attack.

Brightwild was a small farming community, built of wood and hay with only a little bit of stone in their structures. It was almost completely burnt down before the footmen arrived, in a complete circle around the village to prevent anyone from escaping. Those that didn’t die were taken prisoner.

The army itself wore the colors and banners of the nearby Clarus Empire.