The day had been long with no orders or word from the one known as Lord Shade. The small encampment among the mountains north of Torlynn, a small village with much to say for its farmland but little in any other regard. Vashin Manor stands as a great bump upon the side of the peak with its access to caves and caverns which wind deep through the mountains. Only rock and silver come out by the hands of heavyset Duergar miners. Overseen by Count Vashin himself, a human-looking man with a pale complexion and thinned features, along with his moderators and guards to ensure security and keep the work flowing, the Manor offers much in the way of funding for the efforts of Lord Shade.

Some new arrivals come to the Manor over the course of a few days. Each with their own orders, goals, and purposes either for Lord Shade or their own fruits. Though diversity does not span the cosmic list of sentients, many are present in various forms of commonality; elves, dwarves, orcs...and some mixtures of the undead. None at the Manor question such vile creatures as the walking corpses, and they offer services and act accordingly to the will of Lord Shade. While intelligent and self-driven, some suspect their underlying will is tied to some other force either within or beyond the Manor itself.

Across the landscape of the Manor rests a graveyard, a smithy, and a few houses. One house seems as a store of some kind with general goods such as arrows, simple equipment, sacks of grain and general food. Another seems a storehouse meant for holding goods, perhaps for those about the Manor. Another appears as a more specified intended structure with shields, blades, and armor. Yet another appears as some sort of library with many books, scrolls, and equipment associated with such industries.

Sitting upon a tombstone near a small graveyard riddled with ancestors of Count Vashin rests a palish figure in fine-scale armor grinding stone against the tip of a spear blade. His legs dangle from atop the stone with worn words and dates barely readable upon its surface. His head is hooded and partly covered with strands of black hair dangling from the sides of the inside of the hood. A pipe sticks out from his lips with soft smoke wafting into the air. A satchel of gear rests at the base of the tombstone, nestled close for safekeeping.

As the sun was reaching afternoon, a fine figure of a man, arrived on the back of an wagon. The teamster had hauled ore up to be smelted on the way back it was hauling timbers for bracing the mine shafts. On the top of the logs, rode a man with a couple trunks. He had a nice outfit on, with a black outer cloak lined with purple cloth an inner coat with many pockets

The man climbed down, thanked the driver for the ride. Slipping him a couple copper coins. With the trunks unloaded, the man pulled out a piece of paper sent to him by his former guild Master and friend.

The note read,
“Go to the mining village north of Torlynn.
Asking where you can buy some of this enclosed stone.

Buy some so you can make earrings for your mother.

Greet my sister, Slavi. She can help you with your letters and finding that old book.
Yours,
Uncle George”

Andrew read the message ago translating it in his head:
“Go to the mining village north of Torlynn. This stone is your key to getting the job. The pay will be good and they know of your family situation. There is a woman named Slavi that has supplies and can teach you. I consider her my equal. Your Master.”

“First things first, Uncle,” Andrew said. Finding a bed and a meal for the night. Traveling through the mountains is not, the most comfortable. When his horse was stolen by his loving brother's scouts, Andrew felt sorry for himself. It was by sheer luck that a farmer stopped and helped him. He road from one wagon to another. Some times he would end up sitting for a night or sleeping in a barn. His purse was a little lighter now as he had been spending his money on transport. Well, he had his pack, tools, trunks, and his sword.

He sat on the trunk, looking for the inn or someone to give directions and assistance.

A hulking figure emerged from the treeline, catching the nervous eyes of a few townsfolk who quickly backed away to make room for the imposing creature. Zul shifted her leather pack on her sore shoulders. The silver rings knotted into her thick, black braids clinked together as she moved. Her red eyes surveyed the sparse crowd of servants and workers who were transversing the beaten path from the manor toward the town as the work day ended. The shifting flow of individuals around her was a surprising variety of races. Even more surprising was the odd animated corpse that walked among them, seemingly ignored by those around them. Zul’s face twisted into a sneer. She was never a fan of the undead. Her hands shifted beneath her tattered red cloak to rest on the head of her axes that sat in the metal rings attached to her belt at the hips. The metal gauntlet that covered her left hand pinged sweetly against the cold steel of her weapons.

Ignoring the distasteful presence of the corpses, Zul started her trek up to the manor. Her tired legs protested the slight incline but she ignored them. The sellsword had been traveling ever since that fated night in the tavern. She had been several tankards under the table when approached by a few men who were too well dressed to be regular patrons of such a shady establishment. They sympathized with the plight of a mercenary in times of peace and offered her a way to remedy the situation. The two men quickly interjected that this job was to be discreet as possible and would require only her. Seemed fishy to her but she guessed that any plot to destroy a tentative peace between two houses and spark an all-out war would be on the dubious side of things.

She had left her company, the young mercenary band named the War Hounds, in the capable hands of her second in command. Not that there was much that needed to be managed at the moment. With the steady decline of battles between the two great houses, there were fewer and fewer contracts put out to supplement the armies on either side. Durzul had not seen a proper fight, outside of tavern brawls, in a few months now. Her hands itched to take an axe to an enemy, to feel the roar of warriors flood her ears as they charged. Hopefully, this mission would prove not only to sate her lust for adventure but also return the lands to the turmoil of war.

The wild half-orc reached the peak of her trek and stood before the open manor gates. This was where she had been instructed to meet the rest of those who would be undertaking this task. Zul had scoffed at the thought of having to work with total strangers. Her band of mercenaries was more than capable of dealing with this peace envoy and she had argued this fact to the secritive men that offered her the job. The insisted on the need for a “lighter” touch and Zul was not about to sit there and waste time trying to tell them otherwise. The idea of working with people who may, or may not, have any skill was troubling. She knew the men and women in her band of sellswords. Each worth their weight in battle and then some. She would not know these people she was supposed to travel with. Entering dangerous situations without knowing your allies was a troubling thought but Zul had to admit that the risk was somewhat exhilarating.

She stepped beyond the open gates and stood in a courtyard of sorts. The manor was massive. The grounds were dotted with smaller buildings of various purposes and even a sizeable graveyard on one end. Zul had not been given any details beyond where to arrive, when, and to bring only what she needed for the journey. At the time she had been too drunk to ask. She had gotten here, she was on time, and her pack contained the basics. The problem now was, who was she meant to speak with? As the servants and workers of the manor eased by her, Zul was able to make out the figure of a man seated far off in the graveyard. He did not seem to be in the afternoon rush of the rest but also did not seem promising for information. The mercenary shifted the pack on her shoulders once more and cut directly through the crowd. The flow of people parted for her without hesitation. She headed toward a less populated section of the grounds, coincidently in the direction of the graveyard.

The busy roads of the small village surrounding the manor estate bustle continuously with passing servants and keepers of the grounds. SOme entering the displayed shops distantly placed from one another. Multiple rail tracks run through the grounds bearing the heavy metal carts filled to the brim with rock and silver ore. The carts are pushed along by dark-skinned, stout Duergar accompanied by at least one well-armed guard. The Duergar pay little heed to those around them, maintaining their anti-social natures for the world to see quite clearly.

What passes for an Inn for travelers upon these grounds is kept up for only a few, though most seem to be passing through without hesitation or pause. None within the populace seem phased by the presence of the rotting damned in their near-human forms. Most of such creatures are clothed as living beings with minds and personalities as though nothing of their existence had changed, save for the drive to serve this manor estate. The Inn is quite obvious for those searching; a symbol of a bed is etched upon a wooden sign hanging overhead its doorway. Few pass in and out of the structure save for those who are likely employed within the establishment. Not far off from this building is another with a sign bearing a symbol of a dagger with some hint of fumes rising from the blade. Across the road from this building stands a structure with a pot and sack of grain upon the sign.

The man in the graveyard continues gently stroking the slightly curved edge of his spear while puffing softly upon the tobacco in his pipe. His feet hang a few inches from the tallest blade of grass emitting upward from the soft earth of the dead to whom the headstone belongs. He is quite, making little noise other than the sharpening of his blade. He glances up, noticing the large muscular female heading more in his direction. Whether she seeks to speak with him, he is unable to currently ascertain. Thus, he continues with his quieted efforts upon the headstone.

Andrew managed to lug his gear to the in with help of a undead servant. He pondered if he should give the man, or what was left of the man, a tip or not. He decided to error on the side of giving thanks and saving the coins for the inn.

The inn was, well, rustic. Not many people came to the inn. But it was clean enough compared to the barn he slept in last night. There was a bed, wash basin, clean water, and a fire place. When asking about a key, he was told that his stuff would be safe and there was no need to lock the doors. The town had its own way of dealing with thieves and the tone indicated that if he was a thief, he should refrain from practicing his craft here. Andrew felt little comfort in the assurance.

He took the stone out and asked if anyone was selling stone like it. He got some shrugs at the in and the shop, he politely asked a couple miners who laughed at the worthless junk he was holding, and finally, he went to ask the man sitting on the grave stone.