Outside a small, unremarkable house in Silversky Town, a chaotic human pyramid had formed. Players were stacked three-deep, clambering over each other to peer through the windows and the doorway, which groaned under the strain of their collective weight.
Inside, the atmosphere was far more tense.
Alistair sat alone on one side of a long wooden table. Across from him, a nervous delegation was gathered: the beastkin Saintess, a bruised and sullen Riven, the calm player-representative Geralt, and a few other well-known players. They stared at him as if he were a dragon that had just coiled itself in their living room, ready to strike.
