After waking from a night spent with the Nomads, the party decided to follow their only lead concerning the attempted reclamation of the Northern Plains. They followed directions received from some hungover Nomads at breakfast and found themselves marching towards the edge of camp. As they walked the tents became older and more tattered, soon they were more patches than anything else. past the last of the tents, a quarter mile down the trail was a single tent.
Sun-bleached from years without maintenance and barely held together by course thread and scraps of fabric, the tent was hardly considered livable. The breeze ruffled the tent flap open allowing anyone to see into the unorganized hovel. Inside was a single man sprawled face down on the cot with several large empty bottles strewn around him on the floor. There was no color left in his skin and did not seem to be breathing.
The Cleric and the paladin worked feverishly to save the pathetic fellow. A few well cast healing spells left him revived from the brink of death. After his recovery he answered some questions about the Reclamation.
They had left in a group 200 strong. For the first few days the plains seemed as peaceful as the golden years. The herds stretched for miles across the horizon and the brisk air was countered by the bright sunshine. About a week into the mission the group faced attacked from fierce twisted beasts. They fed into caves in the mountains only to face starvation. In a last ditch effort to save their lives and return home the group rode at breakneck pace for the boarder. Soon a shadow enveloped them from overhead. When the man reached the other side of the boarder he finally turned around to see that none of his comrades had crossed with him. only three horses, one of them dragging a disembodied leg caught in the stirrups.
With that the group left to go North. Because nothing is more inviting than the slaughter of 199 men by an unknown enemy.