Once there was a peaceful town of Bottomburn. It was a place so wonderful it boggled the imagination. (Just TRY to imagine perfection.) The town lay nestled in a group of hills at the foot of the Windpipe Mountains (so named because when the wind blew across them it sounded like flutes playing). Several miles to the south lay the great Mother Ocean (from whence all life sprang). The many lakes and rivers across the land were filled with tasty fish just waiting to be caught and the Emerald Forest, which flanked the hills to the East and West, were rich with wildlife (other than the fairy folk, of course). It was a place where all races were happy, prosperous, and healthy; all the sheep were white and cute, and wild flowers grew in abundance. A perfect set-up for impending doom and destruction if ever I saw one.

Yes, life in Bottomburn was perfect. There was a man for every woman and a beer for every man. What could be better? Then one day, out of the perfect blue skies, came the first sign of trouble. These very strange white envelopes began showing up on people's doorsteps. They were called "Bills" and they demanded the most outrageous sums of money for the basic necessities of life. 20 gp for water from the well. 15 gp for firewood from the forest. 10 gp for the right to raise their own sheep!!! The people of Bottomburn were outraged. They had never heard of Bills - or even money. They had either made, bartered, or traded for their everyday needs. Each and every Bill was signed, "M". Several citizens banded together and approached the Old Boyz Council only to discover that the old members of the council had been replaced by a pouting, moody, group of Mod Boyz - identified only by the initials they wore on their jeans - C. K. The Mod Boyz refused to answer the citizens' questions and instead, sulkily stood in strange poses around the room.

One afternoon, as the town's people pondered over this dilemma, two utes stumbled across an army of orcs carrying off ale from the Dwarven Lager Stronghold. The utes ran back into town with the horrible news. The town militia (with an extra squad of dwarves) was sent out to investigate this menace but nothing was found, not even tracks. The ale however was gone - all ten vats. The dwarves fell over in a catatonic state. The Captain of the Guard, in typical human male fashion, gathered his men and charged off in the direction he thought might be a good place to find the thieves. As they neared the foot of the mountains, a particularly dark cloud boiled into view. Then the skies opened up - a flood of dirty laundry poured from the clouds, pelting the Captain and company and knocking them from their horses. They returned, laundry-whipped, to the town - their heads held low.

The High Priests of Violet Elf have called on the people of Bottomburn to find and stop this "M" and his evil companions, find the rightful council members, and most importantly, find the lost ale.