Hundreds of wooden cottages stood in tight rows across the vast expanse of the Highland, each surrounded by blooming tulips. Unfortunately, what was once a rare and beautiful sea of flowers had now been trampled into ruin.
Yada was an ordinary little village. Thanks to its proximity to Kolon, where its farmers sold the tulips they grew, life was relatively good. At the very least, they had enough food to eat and clothes to wear. The village had over a thousand residents and a militia of a dozen or so men to guard against bandits and thieves.
But now, these militiamen were all bound hand and foot, huddled like lambs in the village square.
Next to them, several bonfires blazed. Iron pots, scavenged from the farmers' homes, were propped over the flames, their water boiling. Hundreds of ugly, four-foot-tall dwarfs with dark red skin and a pair of ox horns danced excitedly around the fires, chattering away in some unintelligible gibberish.
