Macaroth took off his helm and let long silver hair fall out down his back, a saint reborn? The thought entertained him very much, he did take the form of the saint as the monks described him in textures, murals and in their minds. He would be the new patron saint for a oppressed people. He watched as his minions created fortifications 300 yards around the monastery, clearing trees to make room for anything their master desired.

He drew and inspected the old saint's sword, it was a fine weapon a bit worn by age. He chanted under his breath and infused the blade with his essence giving it an otherworldly shine and a slight humming as it was wielded, a dark voice that spoke to mortals and drew them, sucking out their souls slowly without them realizing.

The first of his new recruits arrived the day after he sent out his black monks, a rabble of a dozen bandits all hungry and scrawny, fell to their knees at his feet swearing their allegiance to him, their saint. He had them fed and then had them work on constructing a training area, blacksmith, tannery and a fletcher's hut to outfit them with better weapons and armor.

He spent the time he had overseeing all the work being done with a sinister glint in his eyes. All was going according to plan...

Dungeon: Dungeon heart, pantry and tool shed. Fortifications and necessities being built.
Resources: Abundant food supplies and decent tool and materials supply
Forces:6 Reapers, 10 imps, 12 bandits