Here is my first attempt at a snippet.
Forsworn of the Scarlet Liturgy
or: Plot Twist My Players Hated
Victorious. That is the word that has been chanted in your ears the entire night throughout the streets and within the taverns. Glory. Your prize and your right after having saved this two bit town for the third time. When the wererats threatened to overrun the slums, you were there to defend the common people. As demons poured forth from twisted crags in the upper hills, you were there to save the noblity from certain damnation. In the end when all hope had been lost and the Ash King's firey sigil scorched the skies for weeks on end as his Legion of Flame advanced like a slow burning wildfire... you stood against it all. Victorious. You have become the word, it is but a single aspect of your character. Everyone knows your name, it is chanted in the streets long after the sun has set. This, the latest of the numerous parties you have been invited to, has spilt out into the street as should be expected. Every patron wishes to drink to your name. Gold and silver flows as readily as water. All the songs are of joyous celebration, and they are all singing of you.
The sound of silence roars, as it once had on the fields of battle just outside the city walls. It leaves you deaf to the singing, the praise, the joy of the people. You know what is coming, and that you can do nothing to stop it. Heat bursts forth, escaping from every crack and crevice of the cobblestone street. Even the screams of the first dozen or so to fall cannot reach your ears, you hear only silence. It aches. The utter lack leaves your mind grasping. You take your blade in hand, striking at the first Legionnaire you see. Even as the bone armor grows and distorts his skin from the inside, the man's eyes beg you to save him. Fire burst from his mouth as he screams unheard. You give him a good death. The blade in your hand seperates his life from the everburning hellflames of the Ash King. Guards pour into the square, each clasping the glowing amulets around their necks as they mutter prayers to whatever gods they worship. They join the battle, adding their strength to yours. But you know it won't be enough. You don't even bother with why or how. You just fight.
In the distance, at the edge of sight, stands a slender figure atop a low roof overlooking the town square. He watches the battle with some interest, obviously not bothered by it. There is a white mask covering his face, and his hands are decorated with vicious claws. He stands with his elbow resting in his palm, and his free hand taps a claw against his chin every so often. Every time you think of confronting him, the legions press harder and in greater numbers. Just as you become used to fighting the terrible brutes, they are replaced with many smaller and faster ones that you canít seem to pin down. Every time your strategy changes, so does the forces fighting against you. In the end, it is all you can do to hold them back.
The masked stranger raises a single claw from his lower hand, a dark red light growing there until it suddenly unleashes itself on the town square, removing many of the guards and legions from the fight in a single instant. The blast didnít kill those caught within it, it removed from this world them along with any else that was within its grasp. With that act of recklessness, the tide of battle turned against you. The legions press in harder from every point, your forces spread far too thin to deal with the onslaught. Now that the legions easily outnumbered you five to one. Just as it seemed that your night of celebration was to come to a sudden and bloody end, the legions numbers seemed to thin. It wasnít that there were less of them, but rather that they were pulling away. The masked stranger turns away from the battle and simply disappears, but not before saying one thing that you will never forget. "The Ash King lives."