The four were all conscripted into the Baroese war machine and spent the last few months fighting in a battle along the eastern border of the empire that waged on into the evening. Their leader did not expect such an organized uprising from a group of peasants-turned-warriors in this land known as Besht. But then noone expected a pack of wolves to descend onto the battle field from out of nowhere! Fog drifted into the moor, the four you fled the scene, as they were all near death. Many of their companions fell, though they could hear others still fighting in the distance as they crawled off into the moss floor of the Darkmoor. They awoke between two rocks on a low hill as a flock of ravens paced the stones, awaiting their deaths. The distant howling of triumphant canines urged them to sit up.
Lucky for them, they were not dead, but they were covered in their own moist blood. Among the four, none carried an adequate weapon, especially in a time of war. However, each had a dagger in their tattered boots. Their standard-issue armor, though chainmail, was in shoddy shape, and never quite fit right anyway, and they almost feel as if ditching it would be better in the long run. But for now they were concerned with the immediate future!
It was late autumn, and the leaves had fallen off the few trees that dotted the depressed landscape. They knew that marching over the Darkmoor was a terrible idea, but unforunately they weren't in any position to give orders. Squinting over the pain, they could make out the smoky chimney of a lone hovel. As they shivered in the dewy air, they cursed having left their backpacks in the bivouac in haste, but then realize they would likely be dead now if not their better judgement. Luckily, the less lawful of them grabbed a pouch full of coins off one of their superiors just before fleeing, so they have something to go on, though they hadn't had a chance to count it yet. It's doubtful they would be able to eat what inside the pouch, so the need for locating food loomed even closer than the foggy clouds.
Standing, they shooed away the ravens, who relocated to a nearby tree, nearly completely filling the dozen branches with their gazing presence. The four limped up against a large stone and took stock of the new day. Those direct shots to their hips with maces the night before may've broken something. They were definitely at least bruised from the waist down, and had substantial cuts from the waist up. The cadences of the night's battle still rung in their ears. As they held their heads and bent over to take a breath, they noticed there was one remaining pike on the ground between the four, though none of them could remember who carried it this far from the field of battle. With an empty belly growling, they considered their options.
If they would try to locate their companions, they may have become lost in the moor, or hunted down by the wolves from the night before. Also, their appointed leaders might not have taken kindly to their timely departure. Besides, maybe the four were finally free from the months of conscription! They had been told that they weren't too far from the westernmost Besht outpost. If they were to go native, they might find food and shelter there.
METAGAME: This is whare the campaign begins. In game terms, the characters are level 2, halfway to level 3. If they keep fighting like this, they'll all gain fighter as their next level. They currently have 1d4 hit points remaining. All their gear is low-grade, standard-issue stuff, and comes down to:
EACH:
* busted up chainmail
* dagger
* boots
* worn down belt
* pouch of coins
ALSO:
* 1 pike among the four PCs
