Kamard
First Post
Our story begins three days from Thronesdelve, along the broken and rutted cartpath that serves both to mock the word "road" and to be the primary means to reach Archport from that illustrious city.
As you slowly make your way over ancient cobbles and much more recent mud bogs, your thoughts stray to the man for whom you run this errand. Fingolfen, a wizard of good reknown and powerful disposition. You wonder exactly why a party of your demeanour might be better suited to carry this package, when he is said to be able to fly hither and yon, and even to open rips in the universe and step through, reappearing miles away. Why, then, did he hire one of you seemingly at random, on the street, and tell you in no uncertain terms that delivery of this package would "mean that you and whomever you decide to go with will be richly rewarded upon return." Who knows the affairs of the mighty wizards. All you know is that hard coin pressed into your hands along with this strange package was enough to set your feet along the Old Road, toward the filthy burg of Archport. Just for delivering the package, each of your intrepid band made 30 gold, which you well spent before leaving on supplies, food, and repairs to your items. Fangolfen promised another 70 beyond any other rewards that Mingol, the person you are delivering the package to, might grant you.
Of Archport, your band knows much, some having been there a few times. It is a desperate fishing village, huddled over the remains of a great aqueduct that once wormed its way across the countryside to the Imperial City of Hakesbrush. In the falling days of the empire, this aqueduct was torn asunder by petty lords, and a broken ring of fortifications sits haphazardly about Archport as a reminder of uncertain days. The sole arch of the aqueduct sits one hundred feet above the city, and it is in the shadow of this edifice that Mingol, another spellcaster of uncertain descent, resides in his tower of green iron. It is to his tower that your band now travels, bearing a package that Fangolfen has warned you on penalty of death not to open...
The package? It is a stout metal chest, covered in eldritch runes which, when viewed from the corner of your eye, seem to writhe. In the night, there is a faint rustling, and sometimes you think you hear moaning, coming from either within the chest, or from the symbols themselves. Whatever the truth may be, it simply serves to goad you on in your hurry towards Archport.
It is at camp the evening of the third day of the five day journey that we find your characters, huddled off the trail around a fire, on an ancient slab of stone that once served as a way marker in the days of the Empire. Content, fed, and warm, your band has just come into a state of relaxation that they have not felt in the days since leaving Thronesdelve.
Above, the sun is fading, and the half-light of the stars, augmented by the dully glowing cracks in the sky, is augmented by the warm glow of your campfire. It is a fine time for stories, or for sleeping, or for simply staring into the fire for answers that cannot be found in books.
As you slowly make your way over ancient cobbles and much more recent mud bogs, your thoughts stray to the man for whom you run this errand. Fingolfen, a wizard of good reknown and powerful disposition. You wonder exactly why a party of your demeanour might be better suited to carry this package, when he is said to be able to fly hither and yon, and even to open rips in the universe and step through, reappearing miles away. Why, then, did he hire one of you seemingly at random, on the street, and tell you in no uncertain terms that delivery of this package would "mean that you and whomever you decide to go with will be richly rewarded upon return." Who knows the affairs of the mighty wizards. All you know is that hard coin pressed into your hands along with this strange package was enough to set your feet along the Old Road, toward the filthy burg of Archport. Just for delivering the package, each of your intrepid band made 30 gold, which you well spent before leaving on supplies, food, and repairs to your items. Fangolfen promised another 70 beyond any other rewards that Mingol, the person you are delivering the package to, might grant you.
Of Archport, your band knows much, some having been there a few times. It is a desperate fishing village, huddled over the remains of a great aqueduct that once wormed its way across the countryside to the Imperial City of Hakesbrush. In the falling days of the empire, this aqueduct was torn asunder by petty lords, and a broken ring of fortifications sits haphazardly about Archport as a reminder of uncertain days. The sole arch of the aqueduct sits one hundred feet above the city, and it is in the shadow of this edifice that Mingol, another spellcaster of uncertain descent, resides in his tower of green iron. It is to his tower that your band now travels, bearing a package that Fangolfen has warned you on penalty of death not to open...
The package? It is a stout metal chest, covered in eldritch runes which, when viewed from the corner of your eye, seem to writhe. In the night, there is a faint rustling, and sometimes you think you hear moaning, coming from either within the chest, or from the symbols themselves. Whatever the truth may be, it simply serves to goad you on in your hurry towards Archport.
It is at camp the evening of the third day of the five day journey that we find your characters, huddled off the trail around a fire, on an ancient slab of stone that once served as a way marker in the days of the Empire. Content, fed, and warm, your band has just come into a state of relaxation that they have not felt in the days since leaving Thronesdelve.
Above, the sun is fading, and the half-light of the stars, augmented by the dully glowing cracks in the sky, is augmented by the warm glow of your campfire. It is a fine time for stories, or for sleeping, or for simply staring into the fire for answers that cannot be found in books.
