Sleep came easy to the group and as they slept a clearly vivid dream came to each of them, not the same dream, but close.
St. Cuthbert's Fist was walking from the monastery into town after a long day of training. Clouds were coming but the rain would be a welcome companion on this lonely walk.
The rain as it started falling while Harold Mastif was stumbling drunk down an alley still swearing at the barkeep who had just thrown him out of his favorite tavern.
Vikas, had just finished his evening lessons with the high priest. He left just as the rain began to pick up melting the snow he was trudging through.
Adelaster had just left her room on the outskirts of the academy campus heading to night classes the rain was coming down in earnest now.
There was a hint of a bloodlike smell to the rain and the slightest hissing sound. One grew more and more pungent until it burnt the nostrils, the other drowned out all other sounds as though it were tens of thousands of locust rather than raindrops. Then there was a visual change the rain was blood, the puddles were pools of blood that were transforming, dozens of puddles boiling, steaming and becoming gnolls, bugbears, trolls, ogres and wickedly dressed men with dark scowls and hollow eyes.
They ran each ran with no understanding of what was transpiring, just ran from these denizens of falling blood the din of laughter and howls behind them just heightened their fear. Seeking shelter they each tried doors as they reached them but as they knocked or grasped or tried to bash, blood seeped from the pores of the wooden planks turning them away. At last they saw a tiny tavern with a weather worn sign depicting what could be a decaying citadel high upon a mountain top. They ran faster using all their remaining energy and a step away from the door they tripped.