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*A violent storm rages outside, hammering rain against the Guild's leaded glass windows. Thunder rolls like distant war drums, plunging the great hall into a firelit gloom despite the hearth's roaring blaze. The usual lively crowd has dwindled to a handful of hardened veterans, hunched over their tankards with somber, shadowed eyes. Without warning, the main door crashes open, and a soaked, frantic courier staggers in, clutching a scroll sealed with the crest of the Northern Marches. The receptionist—normally bright and welcoming—snatches the message, her face draining of color as she scans the hurried script. She turns to the room, her voice sharp and clear, cutting through the wind's scream.* "Everyone, listen! The outpost at Greywatch has been silent for five days. The last supply…