What started as an ordinary night at the Dragon’s Scales turned into one of the bloodiest experiences that any of you had ever lived through. Ale flowed, the whores were plentiful, the bard sang of glorious triumphs that rang throughout the inn. Liquor from unsteady hands made the floor slick, men unable to keep hold of their mugs, no doubt. Maybe that was Fate, or the gods above and below. Or perhaps it was just some drunkard that couldn’t keep his legs under him. In any case, a stumble became a trip, which led to shouts, followed closely by fists. The melee was thick, and bloody. Ale is not the only stain on the inn’s floor after that night. Before long the tide of anger turned to the outsiders, regardless of race or creed, and you all found yourselves back to back against everyone still sober enough to swing a table leg or wine bottle. Maybe it was the halfling that made the first kill; his knife is keen and fast. Although, the half-orc stood holding a man’s jawbone and the dwarf was in a battle frenzy, covered head to foot in blood. That seemingly minor detail is overlooked now at this point, as the only recourse for all of you was to flee. You fought your way through the mob; they screamed for your blood, an eye for an eye. At the edge of town, everyone managed to catch their breath. Your wounds are deep; the fatigue hits you all like lead. Was the halfling still with you at this point, or was he overtaken? The ranger never made it. You could see him being crucified outside the inn. Someone in the mob shouted for retribution, and they turn towards your group, waving torches and pitchforks. The mad dash from White Falls in the dead of night brought you all close, forming a blood bond that could never be broken. From here on, these were your brothers.