Later that day within the confines of the headquarters of the Quarterstone Guard a routine meeting droned on. Periodic reports from each of the Guard Captains were covered briefly. The readiness evaluations for different posts and rounds had been discussed. Dozens of other minor details were busy finding their place in the final hour of this weekly gathering, all under the watchful eye and keen ear of the Champion Master. Halfway through a thoroughly bureaucratic report regarding the potential rearrangement of arms caches around Quarterstone, the Master’s aide Jarras Gillen entered the chamber and handed a note to the man seated at the head of the table.

For a man accustomed to the burdens of command, Merced Armadin seemed to pause an unnaturally long period of time after reading the note handed to him. This unusual pause caused a slight mutter amongst the Captains gathered in the council chambers. The week had been quiet in Quarterstone, and his reaction seemed to offer the promise (or perhaps threat) that this was about to change. The Champion Master of the Quarterstone Guard for once took no apparent notice of this breach of discipline. Finally, when the volume of the muttering had raised enough to almost become tangible, he lifted his head to look at those assembled. The unmistakable steely glint in his gaze was enough to silence them all within moments.

“I am sorry for the interruption,” Armadin said, his voice betraying only a slight tension. “I’m afraid the rest of the open matters must be discussed at a later time,” he continued. “You are all to return to your posts immediately. I want all your watch sections drilled and full inspections conducted over the coming days. We will reconvene tomorrow.” Seeing the obvious confusion on the faces of his officers, Armadin felt a touch of uncertainty, though he quickly mustered the will to bark out a short “Dismissed!”

Making their way outside in an orderly fashion, the whispers which threatened to resume were cautiously suppressed by the Captains. Though these events were strange, none amongst them wished to test the patience of the Champion Master. As the last of the men departed, Armadin called for his aide. Within a few seconds, Jarras strode purposefully into the room. Politely he stopped a couple of meters away from the council table and asked, “My Lord?”

“Please send my ‘visitor’ in, Jarras,” the warrior requested. “I’d like to know what’s so important.” Nodding quickly, the man moved back to the doors and returned to the neighboring waiting room. Armadin stood and paced towards the hearth at the opposite end of the great table, lost in thought. The noise of the doors being swept closed brought him out of his reverie. He turned at once, but instead of an agent bearing news of Pale activity or Brotherhood raids, he came face to face with a ghost from the past.