Starting Date and Time: 32nd Day of Saffra, 300 DM, mid-morning
Starting Location: Millmont, tiny village outside Ebonfort rule north of Scream Watch and west of Green Falls in the Chartric Forest
CS URLs: Bula Do'Gash
If anyone had to give the tiny scattered collection of thatch-roofed cottages and log huts a name they would have probably titled it Millmont. The mill-house, attached to the only stone building still standing, was no longer functional. The fragmented and water-blackened remains of the waterwheel still jutted up out of the swift stream like the fractured ribs of some great beast. No one who lived near it was alive when the machine still worked, and so it had seemed to always be that way. The stone miller's cottage served as the town's meeting hall, courthouse, theatre, and church for anyone who still believed in the unbelievable.
There was no real road to Millmont. The people who lived there melted in and out of the woods if they needed to travel, using wilderness lore and game trails. Supplies brought back from Scream Watch or Green Falls, days to the south or east, respectively, were only seasonal excitements or even less often than that. The hamlet, if it could even be called that, had an unstable population. People came and left as they saw fit, and the next season's newcomers built their shacks out of what had been left behind. The people lived on what the land provided; fishing in the river, subsistence farming, and panning.
Only a few residents lingered on through the years, tough and stubborn as barnacles on a jetty as they watched the harsh seasons turn and the strangers drift in and out like a campfire's smoke. Perhaps a half-dozen families at most, barely within sight of each other's houses through the trees. Old Man Djoth was one of these regulars, a tall man who had been formidable as a bear once upon a time. The faint tattoos, green with age now, as well as a strong preference for leather clothing, marked him as a Kvaren, and his graying eyes marked him as unfit for life in a saddle.
It was with a grim expression that Djoth greeted the day, leaning against one of the crude stalls in an open dirt-packed clearing where the minute populace could either come together for what they optimistically called "Market Day" and also where they could set up for holiday celebrations. The sky was overcast but still cast a flutter of reflection off the pitted longsword in the man's hand as he spun it contemplatively. There was no atmosphere for celebration today. The sun was barely up, and the old Screamer should be able to hear the sounds of children playing through the trees, but another child had gone missing in the night.
Starting Location: Millmont, tiny village outside Ebonfort rule north of Scream Watch and west of Green Falls in the Chartric Forest
CS URLs: Bula Do'Gash
If anyone had to give the tiny scattered collection of thatch-roofed cottages and log huts a name they would have probably titled it Millmont. The mill-house, attached to the only stone building still standing, was no longer functional. The fragmented and water-blackened remains of the waterwheel still jutted up out of the swift stream like the fractured ribs of some great beast. No one who lived near it was alive when the machine still worked, and so it had seemed to always be that way. The stone miller's cottage served as the town's meeting hall, courthouse, theatre, and church for anyone who still believed in the unbelievable.
There was no real road to Millmont. The people who lived there melted in and out of the woods if they needed to travel, using wilderness lore and game trails. Supplies brought back from Scream Watch or Green Falls, days to the south or east, respectively, were only seasonal excitements or even less often than that. The hamlet, if it could even be called that, had an unstable population. People came and left as they saw fit, and the next season's newcomers built their shacks out of what had been left behind. The people lived on what the land provided; fishing in the river, subsistence farming, and panning.
Only a few residents lingered on through the years, tough and stubborn as barnacles on a jetty as they watched the harsh seasons turn and the strangers drift in and out like a campfire's smoke. Perhaps a half-dozen families at most, barely within sight of each other's houses through the trees. Old Man Djoth was one of these regulars, a tall man who had been formidable as a bear once upon a time. The faint tattoos, green with age now, as well as a strong preference for leather clothing, marked him as a Kvaren, and his graying eyes marked him as unfit for life in a saddle.
It was with a grim expression that Djoth greeted the day, leaning against one of the crude stalls in an open dirt-packed clearing where the minute populace could either come together for what they optimistically called "Market Day" and also where they could set up for holiday celebrations. The sky was overcast but still cast a flutter of reflection off the pitted longsword in the man's hand as he spun it contemplatively. There was no atmosphere for celebration today. The sun was barely up, and the old Screamer should be able to hear the sounds of children playing through the trees, but another child had gone missing in the night.