The northern shores of the Upper Norselands, a Frostbornian outpost overlooks the icy seas beyond. Winter’s cold fingers have begun to grip around the North again, as nights grow long and the days grow brief. Snow and ice have started to accrue across the land and even the coast cannot escape its hold. A familiar chill has shown its savage teeth but the people of Frostborne do not fear it. There is little this frozen kingdom has had to fear, though perhaps that would soon change.
Months had passed since the unsettling attack on Pinewood. A band of elves had infiltrated the small city and caused chaos within, claiming lives in the name of “Her Majesty” and other such phrases. When the elves were either killed or driven out, Frostborne had braced itself for all-out war, but nothing had come. Was it all just a ruse? Were they just a mad cult hellbent on ruining nationwide celebrations?
Such questions remained in the heads of all Frostborne’s people for the months following the slaughters. Questions as well as the burning desire for vengeance had plagued their minds, but no answers had come forth. Until this day.
Seated around a blazing campfire for warmth and a meal, a group of guardsmen talk and laugh amongst each other. One of the minifigs, a hooded archer grins cheekily as he speaks to his comrades.
“-And as it turns out, his mother was a pacifass!”
Laughter ensues around the fire and the warriors dig into their meals while some lifted their glasses in approval. They quiet down for a moment or two and ate in relative peaceful silence.
“So,” says an Icebreaker between bites, “have you heard the rumors from the other outposts?”
The men exchange dark looks, the air about them growing sober.
“Aye,” says another warrior. “Ship-sized objects appearin’ and disappearin’ where the sky meets the sea.”
The Norse soldier shakes his head and takes a swig of his drink. “When our longships go out to investigate, there’s ne’er a thing out there.”
“Ghost ships?” The Icebreaker asks, but the other warrior shrugs.
"I know not, but we should steel ourselves I say. We’re in for a hard winter, and who really knows what’s out there?”
The gathered warriors agreed quietly and continued their meal, soon they would be returning to their posts.
Moments later, shouts could be heard from atop the hill. The archers stationed at the tower had the best view of the sea, and they seemed to be frantically yelling at their comrades below. Something was amiss. “To arms!” They shouted.
The warriors at the campfire looked toward the sea and were alarmed at the sight. “Get down!” One of them bellowed, but it was far too late.
*KA-BOOOMM!!*
The campfire exploded as if something struck it, killing the nearby Frostbornians instantly. Fire licked at their limbs as they fell lifelessly to the charred ground.
A pair of sleek red ships breached the shoreline, sails billowing in the wind.
Dozens of minfigs filed out of them, their golden armor gleaming in the dying sunlight. “Move!” One of them shouted as they organized into ranks.
To be continued.
I love the use of the scared face to convey that the hooded archer is eating, too. 
So are these enemies elves?