Prelude to a Curse. Nesme, Hammer 1367 DR
Lurkwood_GM
The Hall of Seven Swords in Memnon is destroyed in the midst of a spellbattle between two archmages when both claim rulership of Tethyr. Neither archmage is slain but their day-long battle forces many to flee the city.
In Assam, Drow attack the city and although they are successfully repelled, heavy losses are taken. Nearby realms prepare for a drow invasion as well.
Rumors fly of treachery and in-fighting in the Orc realms, with a great clash rumored to be coming.
In Nesme…they are building a wall.
The many hammers rose in fell almost in time, shaping the stones to be flat and square. “Bah. None o’ ye are worthy of those hammers”, he grumbles with a good natured crotchety-ness that the listeners were used to and, as he was a drawf, endeared him to them. He was a good soul, deep down, a devote follower of Moradin, and always dropped a few coins into the poor box, despite the well-earned reputation for dwarves to be tight with money.
It was his job to complete the wall. Sure, the leaders of the city had suggested using magic and completing the wall in a few days, “but what do finger-twitching elves know about craftsmanship”, he thought to himself. “No, the longer ways are the better.” So two score men of various races tap at stones until they are in the right shape, and stick them carefully in place. So it had been since the planting was done on the outskirts of the city, and so it will be when the crops are harvested in the fall, and still when the chill comes to the air.
Suddenly, from the nearby tree line, a quintet of Goblins appear, eyeing the workers greedily. The leader gibbers to the other 4 goblins, and weapons are drawn. Stealthily, but quickly, they move towards the builders who, intent on their craft (and facing the wrong way), remain unaware of the danger.
A mere 5 yards from the workers, the Goblins stop for a moment to confer, and are immediately run over by a caravan heading into the city. Hoof after hoof, tire are tire, each seems to unerringly find a bit of goblin to mush into the muddy ground. The caravan doesn’t slow, and heads deeper into the towne, and the driver calls out a greeting to the Dwarf Foreman, who grumbles a terse, but polite, reply. The goblin corpses, sinking into the mud, are hardly noticeable.
And thus the great goblin uprising of Hammer, 1367 DR ended.
That, however, is not our story.
The man is tall and lanky, with pale skin and dark hair. He steps out of the White Stag Inn, and frowns at the sunny sky. He is dressed in a suit of fine linen, dyed a dark grey. He walks through the town, despite the nearly dozen modes of faster travel he has at his disposal. The fine buildings of the “wealthy” part of town eventually give way to the more middle-class section, and then to the poorer one. Walls of stone and mortar are replaced by walls of bloated wood and prayer.
He approaches a nondescript building, pushes open a door, and disappears into the darkness. The sun crawls across the sky, and is closer to setting when the second figure arrives at the same house, the area now filled with long shadows and dark recesses. Dressed in black "adventure wear", the figure searches the myriad of pockets he seems to have, and pulls out a small slip of parchment, reviewing it, then tucking is back away. His eyes dart right, and then left, and he moves, cat-like, to the door. His finger darts out and jostle the door handle, ever so-lightly, before kneeling down and pocking at the lock with a small pick. A *click* later, he opens the door and slips into the darkness.
The scream that follows is barely audible from the street.
[OOC]
Just flavor.