A tall, cadaverous man in a deep-cowled mantle rode into the nameless village on a silver gelding, the glint from the longsword at his hip and the metallic sheen of his horse's fur drew the peasant eyes from their monotonous daily tasks. He payed no heed to their eyes, nor to the swarm of children gathering at his horse's feet, riding on toward the ramshackle inn situated in the village common. The adventurer mused on the meeting that would take place there, and the adventure that would follow.
Aldwarik, The Mother of Dragons in The North, was as fearsome a beast as could ever be imagined. She was so legendary, it grew difficult to differentiate fact from fiction. It was said her fiery breath could melt entire castles in minutes; her claws could slash through mountains; and her lambent gaze, once fixed on an individual, could turn their flesh to stone. This ungodly man-eating dragon prowled The North from the beginnings of time, it is said, feeding first on The Elder Races, then on The Dwarves of the mountains, eventually growing confident in her awesome power; enough to move into Human lands, freely feeding on their larger populations, with a blatant disregard for their vastly more equipped and experienced armies.
So, on the autumn of 1034, when the news spread that she had been slain, it shook everyone to their core. "It is the Age of Conquest," many said, "Aldwarik has been smited by the modern age!" Others took it as a bad omen, mostly non-Humans, who found the terrible might of Human society to be too much to bear. Still others - the more neutral, material sort, of which Gollad the cadaverous adventurer considered himself a part - considered the immensity of her hoard, and the incredible wealth in gemstones and gold that could be had.
Soon, though, the latter sentiment grew to be the most widely-held, and the entire continent fell into an almighty frenzy the likes of which none had ever seen before.
Adventurers of all races, social castes, and professions began sprouting out of the woodwork, all desperate to lay their hands on the hoard for one reason or another.
It is now the summer of 1042, and none have seen so much as a glint of gold in their search. The North has grown brutal and unforgiving, known for its great population of adventurers, sellswords, and the like; most willing to kill in order to be even half a step closer to The Dragon Hoard. Death rates are high in these lands, and groups form and split on a whim. It is a time filled with uncertainty, where only the most capable can survive.
Gollad snorted at the hastily-erected inn and stables. One good thing that the massive influx of adventurers brought was gold, hungry bellies, and tired steeds. This meant that even the smallest, most underdeveloped of villages always sported one inn or another, ready to take in a wearied killer, feed them, comfort them, and prepare them for another trip out into the mountainous lands that were said to contain The Hoard.
The influx, Gollad thought as a whore waved at him from the second story window, also brought a heightened population to The North. The adventurer wondered how many killer's bastards numbered amongst the mass of children that pressed beneath him, fighting to touch his horse's hind or mane.
Eventually, the children cleared with an enraged shout from the stableboy, who shooed them away with a rake. Gollad tipped the man and gave him his horse, stepping inside the inn.
As expected, the inn was mostly empty, but for a paunchy innkeep who fixed him with a rotten smile. He nodded from beneath his hood, and sat on the bench in the back of the room.
Gollad had sent out many letters the week before to adventurers that he deemed exceedingly useful to him, (your characters) telling them to meet him here in a week from then. He had been scrupulous in the directions, as, he knew the village was far too small to have been mapped. He preferred it unmapped, it meant the meeting of his soon-to-be-fellowship wouldn't be disturbed by any unwanted parties.
He hadn't been scrupulous on the business side of things, however, and preferred to debate numbers and values in person. Gollad had a sword sheathed on his hip, not a quill.
So there he waited, pushing various whores from his lap and calling for gruel and sour ale. His funds had been running dry this past month, and waiting here would deplete them even more. He hoped his party would arrive and form soon.
Aldwarik, The Mother of Dragons in The North, was as fearsome a beast as could ever be imagined. She was so legendary, it grew difficult to differentiate fact from fiction. It was said her fiery breath could melt entire castles in minutes; her claws could slash through mountains; and her lambent gaze, once fixed on an individual, could turn their flesh to stone. This ungodly man-eating dragon prowled The North from the beginnings of time, it is said, feeding first on The Elder Races, then on The Dwarves of the mountains, eventually growing confident in her awesome power; enough to move into Human lands, freely feeding on their larger populations, with a blatant disregard for their vastly more equipped and experienced armies.
So, on the autumn of 1034, when the news spread that she had been slain, it shook everyone to their core. "It is the Age of Conquest," many said, "Aldwarik has been smited by the modern age!" Others took it as a bad omen, mostly non-Humans, who found the terrible might of Human society to be too much to bear. Still others - the more neutral, material sort, of which Gollad the cadaverous adventurer considered himself a part - considered the immensity of her hoard, and the incredible wealth in gemstones and gold that could be had.
Soon, though, the latter sentiment grew to be the most widely-held, and the entire continent fell into an almighty frenzy the likes of which none had ever seen before.
Adventurers of all races, social castes, and professions began sprouting out of the woodwork, all desperate to lay their hands on the hoard for one reason or another.
It is now the summer of 1042, and none have seen so much as a glint of gold in their search. The North has grown brutal and unforgiving, known for its great population of adventurers, sellswords, and the like; most willing to kill in order to be even half a step closer to The Dragon Hoard. Death rates are high in these lands, and groups form and split on a whim. It is a time filled with uncertainty, where only the most capable can survive.
Gollad snorted at the hastily-erected inn and stables. One good thing that the massive influx of adventurers brought was gold, hungry bellies, and tired steeds. This meant that even the smallest, most underdeveloped of villages always sported one inn or another, ready to take in a wearied killer, feed them, comfort them, and prepare them for another trip out into the mountainous lands that were said to contain The Hoard.
The influx, Gollad thought as a whore waved at him from the second story window, also brought a heightened population to The North. The adventurer wondered how many killer's bastards numbered amongst the mass of children that pressed beneath him, fighting to touch his horse's hind or mane.
Eventually, the children cleared with an enraged shout from the stableboy, who shooed them away with a rake. Gollad tipped the man and gave him his horse, stepping inside the inn.
As expected, the inn was mostly empty, but for a paunchy innkeep who fixed him with a rotten smile. He nodded from beneath his hood, and sat on the bench in the back of the room.
Gollad had sent out many letters the week before to adventurers that he deemed exceedingly useful to him, (your characters) telling them to meet him here in a week from then. He had been scrupulous in the directions, as, he knew the village was far too small to have been mapped. He preferred it unmapped, it meant the meeting of his soon-to-be-fellowship wouldn't be disturbed by any unwanted parties.
He hadn't been scrupulous on the business side of things, however, and preferred to debate numbers and values in person. Gollad had a sword sheathed on his hip, not a quill.
So there he waited, pushing various whores from his lap and calling for gruel and sour ale. His funds had been running dry this past month, and waiting here would deplete them even more. He hoped his party would arrive and form soon.