The Citadel of Modhelm is plagued by strange rumors. The ground shakes from time to time in the farmlands, or so they say. Beings made of rock and flame who stink of brimstone walk tiramod on two legs or six, bringing their encampments and equipment along, or so they say. A voice, grim and deep and ancient, speaks to those who slumber, and says the time of man has reached its end...or so they say. Modhelm waits, and worries.