Ailithorn was a young elf scholar recently relocated to the port city of ElooByad. Amidst the bustle of human traders, elven artists, Kuhmian whalers, and halfling wanderers, Ailithorn made a fair living as a translator and minor sage. He spent his mornings in his tiny shop reading treatises on magical grammar. He spent his evenings down by the wharfs watching the ships sail in from the gathering mists. He contemplated a life of adventure from afar, finding the idea desirable but the practicalities a bit too inconvenient. Overall, he was content.

One evening he was approached by three rough men seeking to hire a spellcaster for a little more "hands-on" work than simple item identification:

Ailithorn took the job. Armed with his bow and elven longsword, and accompanied by his weasel familiar Nivalis, he entered the ancient burial catacombs in the hills above ElooByad. He made his way past scythe and pitfall traps, past restless undead and disturbingly large centipedes. Eventually, he found Hodgekins's hideout, though it was not much more than a bedroll and the ashes of a small cookfire in one of the smaller tomb chambers. Hodgekins was already dead though, apparently killed in battle with "Ol' Frank", whose body lay a few feet away.

Ailithorn gathered the trinkets he'd been sent to retrieve--a purse of coins and minor gems, a small ivory statue, a fine longsword. But while searching the tomb for any overlooked items, he noticed a small alcove in the wall, its tiny stone door slightly ajar. The dust within was disturbed, as if perhaps Hodgekins had already found what lay within, but left it behind: a small tarnished metal cube, about hand's-breadth wide. An interesting novelty, Ailithorn pocketed it on the way out of the room.

A couple hours later, back in his tiny shop, he examined the little box again. It had a very faint magical aura, as if it had once felt powerful magic years ago. It was made of tarnished copper, though the bottom was marked with a silver seal. Something had once been inscribed there, but it had long ago been defaced to the point of illegibility. Each of the other five sides of the cube contained a small inset disc. Each disc rotated in turn under Ailithorn's thumb.

Suddenly the top of the box sprang open with a click, loud in the quiet shop. On the heels of the sound, terror and dread certainty filled Ailithorn. This was a mistake. Even as he made to fling the box away, to turn, to flee, it was too late: a shadow--a ripple in fabric of the world itself--rose out of the box and rushed into Ailithorn. He tried to scream, but he didn't have time.