Your purchase receives little commentary for Shandrak, something unusual in your experience with dwarven merchants, who always talk too much. However, your life experience with merchants usually involves ones who travel, something rather difficult for a dwarf in the life-stage where petrification begins. Apparently it's hard to speak with a granite tongue. You will probably not remember this, being entirely too busy admiring the way what little light is found in the tangle shines off your new blade. It's an antique of course, a relic of an age far before even your long lifespan. Frankly, it's much more an accessory than an effective weapon, but to your thinking any weapon is mostly an accessory, and you are quite fond of antiquities. You only put your new sword away when arriving in the Fat Bear after a pointed cough from the proprietor reminds you that wielding a drawn blade in a public house is probably unwise. After you put it away their attention ceases, and you are left utterly bothered as you pick at random one of your new scrolls and begin to read. What you take turns out to be some sort of adaptation of the traveling notes of a dwarf named Torrin Shaleborne through the Grand Duchy some 80 years ago. You flip through it, getting the gist of the text via your serviceable, though mediocre dwarven. It's mostly interested in information relevant to trade and hazards to navigation. You still gain a little bit of a picture of the current state of affairs that confirms what you heard from Chandrak Redvine. Since the presumed destruction of Dozal (considering it keeps being referred to as ruins and not the capitol) the Ducal lineage has been extinct, and the various cities of the region have all been left effectively independent and adrift. With the loss of central authority things like the Ducal roads have slowly crumbled and with worse, less safe roads has come less trade and a decline in standard of living, not to mention a great deal of additional barriers as each city has its own laws and tolls. A lot of the journal is about tolls and avoiding them. The section of the travels where Shaleborne travels the section of the Ducal Road that goes through Dozal he mentions that travelers invariably detour off the road and travel around the city's walls rather than take the straight route through Dozal. One line sticks out to you. "Though I had often heard the once proud city described as a ruin, when the road took us to its outskirts I was shocked to find it utterly intact, its portcullis raised and in the distance the fountain court still gleamed golden. When I asked my guide why we did not cut through, and why no one had stripped the gold centuries ago, I was told that ever since the entire city's population had vanished overnight, no one dared to enter the city and no had ever returned from the gates after dark. Though I was somewhat skeptical about the truth behind these stories, I chose to listen to my guide. That is, after all, why one hires a guide." Chandrak Redvine wanted you to join his expedition into that ruined city. You wonder if he will be the first to return. He certainly seemed confident. You also wonder what could empty a city without leaving a mark. You certainly would have left a mark had you ever gone to sack Dozal. You had never really felt like it in the day, it was pretty fortified, and frankly you enjoyed the view of the fountain court. It is at this point in the text that you realize that you are tired, and you roll it back up and head upstairs to your room. Emelda is already asleep on the one bed clutching an axe that you note is nearly as large as her. Declining the bed you imperiously claim as many pillows and blankets as you can and curl up with your rightful plunder and your robes.
You are awoken entirely too early in the morning the next day by your name being called from below. Groggily shuffling out of an empty room you find your entire band already breakfasted and in a lively discussion and gesturing at a rough map of the Morass. You quickly shove some bread into your mouth as you catch up on what you have missed. It seems that Emelda's investigations last night pinpointed several leads of where to look first in the Morass, and there is a debate over what lead is most promising. "You say that a few years ago a wizard moved into the Morass and took over an abandoned watchtower? If there's unusual orc activity it only stands to reason that this Xolair would know about it-or be the cause." argues Agni pointing at the mark represented long abandoned fortifications . "The wizard could be a coincidence. Or he could have died years ago. I say anything orcs ever do needs clay, so we should go to where the clay is." counters Sindri, as he tries to keep Zeno off the map. Emelda sighs and points to an unremarkable stop on the map. "You both have good points, but part of me really wants to return to where I lost my squad. It's been a while, but it can't be that hard to track a giant orc, and whatever is happening I'm sure the giant was part of it." Taking her hand back to steady her massive axe she turns to you. "Glad you could finally join us Wryss. What's your opinion on where to look first?"
[ ] Agree with Agni: Where there's unusual and strange new trouble, there's probably wizards. If whatever is happening isn't Xolair's fault, he probably knows whose fault it is.
[ ] Agree with Sindri. At the source of anything orcish is clay. Follow the rivers, find the clay, find the orcs. Simple but sure to work.
[ ] Agree with Emelda. The best place to begin is, of course, the beginning and this all began because of this giant orc she keeps raving about.
You are Saralash the heat-death, though as of late you have been answering to Wryss, a snow elven mage who brought her skills to the south.
In your natural shape your scales are pale like new fallen snow and your breath a deep blue flame that burns the inverse of heat.
Your assumed shape is lithe and strong, with pale blue skin and cerulean hair . Pointed ears and golden eyes peek out from the dense layer of Ermine furs that shroud you.
You crave novelty but rarely maintain focus for long.
You have a soft spot for scrolls and scholars but seldom finish the tomes you acquire nor the dissertations you contribute to.
Things that are not actively interesting to you barely exist; monuments could be built to the size of your ego.
You are drawn far more to the past than to the present, even the past beyond your long days. Things were happier then and made more sense.
Though you'd never admit it, your heart rots with loneliness. Nothing is your peer, and you may be the last of your kind.
You are traveling with.
Emelda Broadaxe, a stocky woman, and carrier soldier from the fortress town of Banngard. Though she has been released from service after losing his squad in unusual circumstances she still wears the mail and gambeson of the fortress. She wields an axe nearly equal to her size with remarkable ease. Though you've been designated her roommate you haven't interacted that much. You get the impression she thinks you're deeply eccentric, but since she's self-funding this mission she's not looking a free mage in the mouth.
Sindri Riptide, a typically relaxed sea elf, tall and thin with a swimmer's physique and sea-green hair. He is armored in scale mail and wields a collection of coral throwing spears and a clever and dangerous companion in his hunting partner Zeno. Sindri is of the belief that you are an elder fleeing a succession crisis in the Snow Elf principality and is uncomfortably eager to take his elder "cousin" under his wing. You've always found the laid-back friendliness of Sea Elves strange and somewhat uncomfortable.
Agni, a priest of some sort, dressed in simple brown robes. He is neither armed nor armored but seems quite assured of his capability to defend himself. You've hardly exchanged a word with him. You have no idea what God he worships. He doesn't seem to have a problem with you, though you rarely notice the kind of cues that signal passive hostility.
