JherseyJumig
Sadera is dying, held only by the sparks of past generations. Plague and death round every corner of Falmart, too many mobs and too little power to stop them. Their vassals defect to the enemy, their holdings rebel and bite the hand that feeds them. The Apostles, heralds of the gods themselves, run themselves ragged trying to solve the Players' mess.
A siren's call on a towering hill, backgrounded by mountains aplenty. A rally screech and a bellow of unending hunger. The marching of thousands of undead boots. The world had ended once when the Players breached it's defenses, and it shall end again with a Gate.
(Two-shot)