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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Snipehunt" data-source="post: 1109223" data-attributes="member: 13142">The folk of Southern Mordent keep to their own and avoid the dark and powerful forces that infect so much of the land. Small villages dot the coast of this land of swamps, moors, and deep, ancient forests. Superstitious, but not paralyzed by fear, these hardy, practical people live by fishing and trade with their neighbors, as they have for hundreds of years. The traumas and joys, hopes and fears of an ordinary life are more than enough for them. Rumors of hauntings or dark deeds are enough for the Mordentfolk to leave a place be, a strategy that has worked for hundreds of years.But tonight, in the small village of Buldon, doors are barred shut as a strange fog boils seemingly from nowhere. The normal fogs peacefully blanket the village, bringing quiet and solitude with the earthy smell of swamps and bogs. Not this mist, so dense it feels like a clammy hand reaching to caress your face, bringing with it faint noises that sound vaguely like screaming babes, and hints of strange chanting in almost recognizable tongues.The rattling of wooden wheels rustles through the near-quiet town. A dark shape forms in the mist, four black horses pulling an ornate carriage covered in somber black except for gold trim gleaming wetly in the light. The carriage bustles down the only street towards Thristletown, and slowly the noises fade away. The mist fades away as well. The silence seems like a sigh of relief . . .</blockquote>

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