Broken hearts still beat
Dead men standing on the ground above the grave
Though we fall, never admit defeat
Broken hearts still beat
A shattered cycle won't repeat
Some things fade, some you save
Broken hearts still beat
Dead men standing on the ground above the grave
The latest assignment has a small group of the Regiment assigned to act as scouts and, if necessary, as the vanguard of a strike force. It's a dark job, the kind that most soldiers would hesitate to do. There's a reason it got sent to the damned.
The town of Washaway, in Lastwall, sits on a small river. The river is why it was founded - there's enough of a current to turn a mill, and the ground around it is fertile enough to gather a harvest. For Lastwall, that's high praise. And so Washaway was founded, a long time ago, as a small farming community. It's grown a little since then. Not much.
And now it's silent. Conflicting reports come out of the place, suggesting everything from an invasion of monsters all the way to treachery and betrayal by the villagers. One thing everyone agrees on is that something bad has happened there, something very bad indeed. And so, the Forsaken got called in. The orders are simple: find out what happened, and do the needful thing.
A small group. Some new, the broken-sun tattoo on their faces still fresh; others worn-in veterans who have been in the Regiment for a while now. It hardly matters. There's a camaraderie among the dead, regardless of their time in that position.