The coins felt light today to Norven’s fingers as he felt around in his belt pouch. He would need more adventurers today if he was going to settle his tab this week. Durnan, the human who ran the inn, wouldn’t take an unpaid debt lightly. The retired adventurer seemed to enjoy his money, almost as much as Norven did his.
“Norven, got a pair coming in for ya, by the looks o’ it,” one of Norven’s familiar clients told him from across the next table. The dwarf’s tankard was momentarily lifted towards the door, indicating the two apparent adventurers who had just arrived from outside on Rainrun Street.
“Thanks, I’ll take care of them,” Norven noded in the dwarf’s direction.
“I’m sure ya will,” came the reply as the dwarf settled back into his drink. Continue reading Norven The Bard
Enough gold dust to support a village full of peasants for an entire year fell from Mable’s aging hands to rest like fallen snow upon the closed lid of a crudely carved wooden box. “That should be enough gold,“ she said aloud to no one in particular. The poorly crafted container squatted in the very center of a charred and abused tree trunk.
The witch paid no attention to the various living trees, shrubs, statuary, birds or insects in the garden. The shadow of her tower cast an obtuse shape over almost half of the enclosed space. The peaceful sounds of nature obscured the gentle whispering from Mable as she carefully moved her fingers to cast a spell. A light breeze sent her long, silver hair adrift.
“And now to test it,” Mable declared. She backed away from the stump and picked up a long, slender wooden rod. Eying the box from afar, she estimated the distance to be safe enough. Manipulating the ten-foot long rod to flick open the enchanted box was no easy task, especially for woman who has seen so many seasons come and go. Continue reading Mable, the Sapphirine Witch
The lost have always wandered the mountainside only to be wind up in one of the few scattered villages of the region. The mystery of the men who know neither who they are nor where they come from has brought treasure seekers, sages and heroes to this remote area throughout the past centuries but no answers have been found. Every few years another lost soul appears on the horizon and it is always the same: simple clothes, strange tattoos and faded memories. For the first time in a quarter century, another man with no past finds his way into the tiny town of Brookfield. At the base of the mountain range, the people are rugged and life is simple with the exception of the long-lived mystery of the lost.
The tattoo appeared fresh, it’s strange symbols even glimmered in the light. Yet the skin surrounding it was not tender, a testament to its age. As the Magister Yorith examined the young man’s chest, he gave no care for the discomfort or need for modesty that would normally be afforded to a detainee that was not accused of any crime. Yorith’s somewhat harsh voice as he continued to prod for information belayed his natural curiosity at the sight before him. Continue reading Dethilir: The Lost
Janora Battlesteel is a young dwarf of about half a century in age. A tough barbarian, she’d provide any party with a powerful ally. She is on a quest to find a cure for her people and vengeance against those that may have caused their illness. Few clues are available to start her quest. She has journeyed from home for answers.
The salt from the sea caked her lips and her throat was sorely parched for fresh water, but the rise and drop of the bow against the tides invigorated Janora. The excitement of her first fishing trip on the open sea forced a grin on the young, Dwarven woman’s face.
“It’s a fine kayak, Battlesteel,” Thoril Ogrescrush offered from a few feet port. Janora knew that in his own fashion, that was about the highest compliment she could get from the chieftain’s son. The small tribe of barbarians didn’t survive this harsh, cold environment without being tough physically and emotionally.
“It seems to be holding up well. It survived the squall,” she nodded in agreement. The small watercraft was her first, crafted from a loan tree truck with nothing but simple stone tools and hard labor. It marked her passage from an unskilled child to a full member of the tribe. “The trade went well. It is a fine” the statement hung in the air unfinished as the fleet rounded the sharp stone peninsula that marked the edge of the bay.
The fishing village was quiet, too quiet. There were no cooking fires burning outside. No children played on the beaches, searching for driftwood or shells. Not a soul came to greet the weary travelers as they silently landed their craft. “What could be wrong?” Janora asked but got no reply from the staunch caravan as they cautiously approached the large, wooden common hut in the village’s center.
With inquiring eyes staring at her, the local shaman answered the unasked question as the group entered the sturdy structure. “There is a sickness, “ she said as she gestured around the room. Only a few tribesmen were mobile, helping and caring for the rest. The hut had become an impromptu hospital, the sick and the dying were scattered everywhere, lying on blankets and furs. “A foul wind blew strong for 3 days, carrying an evil magic. I was powerless to stop it.” the healer explained.