The road to Ravenhollow had been quiet for three days — too quiet, Big signed as they crested the last ridge and saw why. The watchtower that was meant to mark the village’s edge stood roofless, its stones scorched black and its banner long since burned to ash.
They found the first sign of trouble half a mile out: a supply cart, wheels still spinning, abandoned mid-journey. No bodies. No blood. Just silence, and the smell of something old waking up underneath the hill.
(This is placeholder text — replace each post with the story your generation script produces from your session transcript.)