When I approach the sky darkens, the ground cracks, and the air heats up. Minions of Maelforge patrol the grounds, and crates appear, serving as supply drops for the invasion. No one is around to see this with me, and I somehow get it in my head that I can handle this on my own. I run up the steep incline to the rift high above the Silverwood treetops. I throw myself at the goblins, over and over again. I kill a couple of them, then one kills me. Over and over again I respawn and go once more unto the breach. Each time I die a physical part of my soul degrades, falling into greater and greater disrepair. Ninety percent. Eighty percent. My blade, my armor, and my abilities slip accordingly. I need to find a healer, someone to repair my damaged soul. But I persist until, at long last, I manage to defeat the goblins, destroy the crates, and seal the rift. The effective, fervent sword thrusts of a righteous man avails much.