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Description
The village of Baraz'Bar was created by dwarves, and kept well by both elven and human villagers. Gorged out from between three mountain ranges; the village sits low with only three merchant routes connecting it to the outside world; one route by water-way for the delivery of goods, and two hidden passes - one between the gorge, the other passing through the thick of forest from the North-west. Both land routes are rarely used by travelers and soon forgotten. Merchants come once every quarter cycle to purchase the fine iron weapons crafted by the dwarven smiths and quality wooden bows crafted by elven bowyers and fletchers. Leather goods, meat, and seed are purchased from humans.

To the North and stretching West stands the vast Esgal forest, shadowed by an untouched mountain range. To the South-East lies the range of Kazad'A Zharr, the ancient monumental home of the Loxhen Dwarves. To the North-East sits the Ember Gulf - coining its name from the appearance during sunsets. The Gulf provides a means for food and work for the village. The elves and humans work together peacefully, trading with the dwarves in return for their safety, for the dwarves guard the only mountain pass into Baraz'Bar.

Few elves and even fewer humans know and openly practice magic in Baraz’Bar. Knowledge of the arcane is not something many look for in the North. The Southern and Western regions of Tienmure are home to the wisest and those who seek out the arcane. If one truly wants to master the arcane, one must travel past the Seeing Spine, westward across the Black Channel to Destratto, the wizard keep.

However, in Baraz’Bar there was never really any danger from outsiders. The village is locked between mountain ranges and a waterway too small to be advantageous for any invading army. The magic used within the village was primarily used for raising crops
.
Alchemy was the key to the success of the village. Elven Alchemists created potions that helped in growing seed and plants, which helped feed the livestock. Potions helped to invigorate the human farmers to work more hours, even potions to prolong life were made. The elves brought alchemy to Baraz’Bar to teach and enlighten and strengthen the bond between elf and man.

The elves tinkered with their bottles, herbs and salves while the Loxhen Clan remained behind their fortress doors, deep in Kazad’A Zharr in their solitude of stone. The dwarves mostly kept out of the affairs of their neighbors.

On the eleventh cycle at high noon, the Loxhen clan emerged from the caverns beneath Kazad’A Zharr. News spread quickly through Baraz’Bar of an announcement of something strange and unique.

While the humans and elves are unwelcoming to the ever-hiding dwarves, they were intrigued by what the Loxhen Council had to say.

Coming into the square, looking upwards, perched at the stony steps of the gaping entrance into Kazad’A Zharr stood Vonric, the head of the council for the Loxhen Clan - Flanked by large statues, tribute to the dragons felled by Drawven warriors long before the third cycle.

An ominous feeling fell over the crowd as four Dwarves came forward, each cradling a mast stretched beneath an elongated slab of granite, as if presenting the body of a fallen comrade for ceremonies. The four stopped at the edge of the steps.

Vonric rests his palms on the hilt of his axe. "We bring good tidings - friends of Loxhen and nobles of Baraz. We, the Dwarves of Loxhen, present this…this accolade.”

Vonric pauses, taking a breath as if struggling to make thoughts into actions.

“Passing through the mountains of Kazad, tunneling through to the depths from which darkness escapes not, we have unearthed a room. A room connected by a web of tunnels which we have yet to exhume.”

Vonric pauses again, his brow dripping with sweat as if standing in a cauldron of hot bath. He regains his composure, wiping his face. The four dwarves, struggling to hold the slab also begin sweating; swaying back and forth with a sickening look upon their weathered faces.

Vonric, gazing wildly into the audience, steps towards the slab and takes hold of the veil spanning the slab which hides this “accolade” beneath. From the way he walked, Vonric appeared to be under the influence of grizdal, a Dwarven fermented beverage for use in celebrations.

He continued; "I give you, the people of Baraz’Bar, a trinket, a gift from the Loxhen Clan - found within the first vast expanse amidst treasures of untold value.” his wavering green eyes settle on his hand clenching the illustrious cloth draped over the stone, as if a strange sense of grief envelopes him.

His thick fingers clasped tightly lose their strength. Vonric suddenly falls into the slab, throwing the balance of the four Dwarves off. Each stumbles abruptly, trying to compensate for the other’s mistakes. The front two lose grip and release the mast allowing the stone to crash into the granite steps.

The council behind Vonric move to aid him. Mixed expressions of concern and worry flood the nobles of Loxhen, some start to unsheathe their weapons, readying for danger.

In the eyes of the onlookers, time seems to stop. All focusing on this special item that calls for so much attention yet is handled with little care.

Their eyes dart from the slab back to Vonric. He was powerful; broad shoulders sat atop a sturdy frame molded from many long battles and hard labor. But now, the vibrancy that once illuminated from his armor, the light of hope that shone through from the eyes of a proud leader was now gone - Vonric seemed empty.

This moment, stretched out in amazement - all that can be heard is the subtle flap of the silky veil as the slab slides forward, revealing the trinket.
A small statue peers out from beneath the cloth.

It is a crudely fashioned statue, carved from black granite to resemble a perched demon, or a small disfigured dragon of sorts.

What value is this? Why celebrate such a hideous item? Is it a rare material? Are their gems of great value within its outer core? Questions flood the crowd as time continues to inch sluggishly forward.

The veil catches slightly with the cool breeze moving down from the mountains. As the small statuette falls, some of the onlookers in the crowd begin to move away, some with looks of concern, yet their curiosity keeps them firmly rooted.

Others laugh in mockery of Vonric’s appalling display of intoxication.

Out of the crowd, the only citizen’s genuinely concerned are the elves of Baraz’Bar. Most have traveled great distances to this land in hopes of escaping outside conflict - conflict from those who would take their knowledge of the arcane for wrong purpose. They have seen evil; recognize its presence, they have defeated it and been conquered by it once before with only a handful of survivors standing now in Loxhen square.

Something is afoot.

The statue finally loses grip on the granite surface and slides forward off the slab, crashing into the steps of Kazad’A Zharr breaking into several pieces.
Panic breaks out among the Dwarves as their leader falls to his knees.

"Vonric!” one man screams, pushing his way through the crowd of dwarves blocking the entrance.

Vonric coughs and gasps, struggling for an ounce of air.

"He has been possessed!" - Faintly heard from the perimeter of the crowd.

Vonric trembles uncontrollably; he looks around in shock and confusion, hoping for some answer to what is happening. His eyes are now completely blackened, his face pale and sunken as if the very life was being sucked from his body. He grunts and stammers for a moment and looks at the open palms of his hands. A sudden urge takes over the noble dwarf - Vonric begins clawing his own eyes out and ripping at his leather tunic as if it was made of flame.

All those whose gaze fell on the now broken trinket fall to their knees. Hundreds fall to the ground; human, elf, and dwarf alike, the other council members, the soldiers who stand guard at the gates of the fortress, all are forced to the ground, bellowing in pain.

Several villagers come from the mill, confused and curious about the commotion. Others in the crowd who paid no attention to the statue are frozen in terror as friends and family members are forced to their knees by some evil entity. The cursed villagers thrash about on the ground, tearing at their own eyes.

“A curse has befallen us!” one elf says with a look of disbelief.

Survivors survey the area - the entire village is dead.

The Loxhen clan is dead.

Only a handful of people remain, standing in the square among hundreds of bodies.

Everyone quickly stands at attention as the silence is met with a piercing scream. A scream not like one has ever heard, one of pure malice, pain, and torture. The few living throw their hands to their ears in terror, confused at what is happening, looking for the origin of scream seeping from the mass of corpses.

One scream turns into many as the bodies of the fallen start to convulse and twist in ways that would not be possible. Suddenly, as quickly as the screams began, they subside into sounds of lungs gurgling as they fill with blood.

All that is heard now is the sound of bones snapping against the slow pull of muscle, flesh being ripped and torn; dragged across the granite steps and blood soaked earth.

No one is able to move.

From within a small shop, a man, clothed in a grey wool hooded shawl calmly opens the front door facing the scene just before the fortress steps. He is the elder of Baraz’Bar living in the mountains overshadowing the village. He is the oldest amongst the Loxhen descendants; his history unknown to most. His name is Hale.

He steps out of the shop into the court yard, balancing slightly on his cane. He taps his pipe on the head of his cane as spent ash falls, stowing it to his inner pocket.

He shades his eyes, trying to focus through the noon sunlight passing through the rising dust from the square.

He looks into the crowd with intent and slight purpose; studying, observing, as if meeting an old friend whose name he cannot recall.

His attention is stolen. A young boy is seen clutching onto the body of a fallen. He recognizes the boy as the one who delivers items to his cottage high in the mountains. The boy is weeping uncontrollably.

"Make haste boy, there is nothing you can do here.” A raspy voice is heard.

The boy turns to meet Hale’s deep cloudy eyes - both a sharp grey with a ring of gold just in his left eye. An unusual sense of recognition and calm sweeps over the boy as he peers into Hale’s eyes. He loosens his grip on the body.

Hale and the boy quickly step away from the body.

A faint crackling noise is heard; the small sound of cold dead breath escaping the mouth of the cadaver which was once his mother sends chills through the boy.

They look upon the body – she is lying on her side, both legs bent backwards, snapped at the knees with open sores where both bones are extruding. Her body twists slightly; head turning this way and that as if trying to find the boy. She turns to them revealing bloody, empty eye sockets.

More gurgling noises are heard as she grunts and moans, tearing for traction in the blood soaked earth.

Her head tilts up taking notice of Hale. She stops moving.

A sense of tension falls over the boy as the two stare at each other – like a strange unseen agreement keeping each other at bay.

Suddenly, the air cracks loudly and turns ice cold.

The icy pressure on the boys exterior makes it difficult to breathe, forcing him to shut his eyes. The boy blindly reaches for Hale.

He gets down on one knee huddling for warmth trying desperately, scanning the area.

The thick cool disperses as quickly as it came - the very ground beneath their feet is frozen, blades of grass snap against the light wind.

It’s confined…confined around the body of his mother.

She is frozen solid - arms reaching out towards Hale.

The boy’s eyes widen with suspicion… “You wield the arca….”

“Silence!” - Hale snatches the boy.

Hale takes a moment to look over the crowd of the fallen. The bodies that seemed dead and lifeless are now moving. All of them begin squirming about in the bloody mud. Like a sea of some discerning dark mass. Several begin to stagger to their feet, followed by others. All have misshapen legs and grisly bent backbones, making them look grotesquely hunkered over.

The several villagers who were not affected rush to escape the crowd, guessing at which is precisely the shortest route.

Hale turns to the boy, gesturing him to move away towards the herb shop. They start walking slowly, as to not draw attention, and soon quicken their pace.
Hale shuts the door, fastening it with two thick timbers.

The boy’s breathing is labored. He stands motionless in the middle of the shop, intent on never taking his eyes off the door.

Hale takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He is rubbing a small gem attached to a chain between his thumb and forefinger.

“If safety is your concern boy, do not falter. It is not you they are after.”

The boy looks at Hale; he wipes his face with his sleeve and backs against the wall adorned with empty bottles, corks, and stoppers. “Who are they? And what happened out there?”

Hale stops and thinks. He looks at the boy, measuring his words – almost like making a difficult decision. He sits down calmly and begins patting his shawl in search of pipe weed.

"…Fiends. Tormented fiends from an age long before your time. They are not dangerous to us, they are after the elements. Do not worry yourself with such questions for they will serve no purpose today.”

Hale pulls a small pouch synched at the top with fine leather strap from his inside pocket. He stands up and walks towards the window looking out towards the Western mountain peaks, putting a pinch of pipe weed in the channel of his long wooden pipe.

The boy’s eyes light up as he watches Hale pull a draw on his unlit pipe – the pipe weed pops and crackles without flame...

Hale studies the ridge just beyond the forest line where his cottage waits.

“Pay no heed to my business, neither what lies beyond the doors. I will be in the back, gathering supplies for a meal. By daylight, they will have been gone and we will be well on our way. A perilous adventure is before us."

Hale walks through the arched door into the supply room.

The boy’s eyes follow Hale. When he is gone he stands up and walks towards the window, peering out towards the cottage where he once delivered everyday items.

The boy leans against the pane of glass. “…adventure?”

Description
The village of Baraz'Bar was created by dwarves, and kept well by both elven and human villagers. Gorged out from between three mountain ranges; the village sits low with only three merchant routes connecting it to the outside world; one route by water-way for the delivery of goods, and two hidden passes - one between the gorge, the other passing through the thick of forest from the North-west. Both land routes are rarely used by travelers and soon forgotten. Merchants come once every quarter cycle to purchase the fine iron weapons crafted by the dwarven smiths and quality wooden bows crafted by elven bowyers and fletchers. Leather goods, meat, and seed are purchased from humans.

To the North and stretching West stands the vast Esgal forest, shadowed by an untouched mountain range. To the South-East lies the range of Kazad'A Zharr, the ancient monumental home of the Loxhen Dwarves. To the North-East sits the Ember Gulf - coining its name from the appearance during sunsets. The Gulf provides a means for food and work for the village. The elves and humans work together peacefully, trading with the dwarves in return for their safety, for the dwarves guard the only mountain pass into Baraz'Bar.

Few elves and even fewer humans know and openly practice magic in Baraz’Bar. Knowledge of the arcane is not something many look for in the North. The Southern and Western regions of Tienmure are home to the wisest and those who seek out the arcane. If one truly wants to master the arcane, one must travel past the Seeing Spine, westward across the Black Channel to Destratto, the wizard keep.

However, in Baraz’Bar there was never really any danger from outsiders. The village is locked between mountain ranges and a waterway too small to be advantageous for any invading army. The magic used within the village was primarily used for raising crops
.
Alchemy was the key to the success of the village. Elven Alchemists created potions that helped in growing seed and plants, which helped feed the livestock. Potions helped to invigorate the human farmers to work more hours, even potions to prolong life were made. The elves brought alchemy to Baraz’Bar to teach and enlighten and strengthen the bond between elf and man.

The elves tinkered with their bottles, herbs and salves while the Loxhen Clan remained behind their fortress doors, deep in Kazad’A Zharr in their solitude of stone. The dwarves mostly kept out of the affairs of their neighbors.

On the eleventh cycle at high noon, the Loxhen clan emerged from the caverns beneath Kazad’A Zharr. News spread quickly through Baraz’Bar of an announcement of something strange and unique.

While the humans and elves are unwelcoming to the ever-hiding dwarves, they were intrigued by what the Loxhen Council had to say.

Coming into the square, looking upwards, perched at the stony steps of the gaping entrance into Kazad’A Zharr stood Vonric, the head of the council for the Loxhen Clan - Flanked by large statues, tribute to the dragons felled by Drawven warriors long before the third cycle.

An ominous feeling fell over the crowd as four Dwarves came forward, each cradling a mast stretched beneath an elongated slab of granite, as if presenting the body of a fallen comrade for ceremonies. The four stopped at the edge of the steps.

Vonric rests his palms on the hilt of his axe. "We bring good tidings - friends of Loxhen and nobles of Baraz. We, the Dwarves of Loxhen, present this…this accolade.”

Vonric pauses, taking a breath as if struggling to make thoughts into actions.

“Passing through the mountains of Kazad, tunneling through to the depths from which darkness escapes not, we have unearthed a room. A room connected by a web of tunnels which we have yet to exhume.”

Vonric pauses again, his brow dripping with sweat as if standing in a cauldron of hot bath. He regains his composure, wiping his face. The four dwarves, struggling to hold the slab also begin sweating; swaying back and forth with a sickening look upon their weathered faces.

Vonric, gazing wildly into the audience, steps towards the slab and takes hold of the veil spanning the slab which hides this “accolade” beneath. From the way he walked, Vonric appeared to be under the influence of grizdal, a Dwarven fermented beverage for use in celebrations.

He continued; "I give you, the people of Baraz’Bar, a trinket, a gift from the Loxhen Clan - found within the first vast expanse amidst treasures of untold value.” his wavering green eyes settle on his hand clenching the illustrious cloth draped over the stone, as if a strange sense of grief envelopes him.

His thick fingers clasped tightly lose their strength. Vonric suddenly falls into the slab, throwing the balance of the four Dwarves off. Each stumbles abruptly, trying to compensate for the other’s mistakes. The front two lose grip and release the mast allowing the stone to crash into the granite steps.

The council behind Vonric move to aid him. Mixed expressions of concern and worry flood the nobles of Loxhen, some start to unsheathe their weapons, readying for danger.

In the eyes of the onlookers, time seems to stop. All focusing on this special item that calls for so much attention yet is handled with little care.

Their eyes dart from the slab back to Vonric. He was powerful; broad shoulders sat atop a sturdy frame molded from many long battles and hard labor. But now, the vibrancy that once illuminated from his armor, the light of hope that shone through from the eyes of a proud leader was now gone - Vonric seemed empty.

This moment, stretched out in amazement - all that can be heard is the subtle flap of the silky veil as the slab slides forward, revealing the trinket.
A small statue peers out from beneath the cloth.

It is a crudely fashioned statue, carved from black granite to resemble a perched demon, or a small disfigured dragon of sorts.

What value is this? Why celebrate such a hideous item? Is it a rare material? Are their gems of great value within its outer core? Questions flood the crowd as time continues to inch sluggishly forward.

The veil catches slightly with the cool breeze moving down from the mountains. As the small statuette falls, some of the onlookers in the crowd begin to move away, some with looks of concern, yet their curiosity keeps them firmly rooted.

Others laugh in mockery of Vonric’s appalling display of intoxication.

Out of the crowd, the only citizen’s genuinely concerned are the elves of Baraz’Bar. Most have traveled great distances to this land in hopes of escaping outside conflict - conflict from those who would take their knowledge of the arcane for wrong purpose. They have seen evil; recognize its presence, they have defeated it and been conquered by it once before with only a handful of survivors standing now in Loxhen square.

Something is afoot.

The statue finally loses grip on the granite surface and slides forward off the slab, crashing into the steps of Kazad’A Zharr breaking into several pieces.
Panic breaks out among the Dwarves as their leader falls to his knees.

"Vonric!” one man screams, pushing his way through the crowd of dwarves blocking the entrance.

Vonric coughs and gasps, struggling for an ounce of air.

"He has been possessed!" - Faintly heard from the perimeter of the crowd.

Vonric trembles uncontrollably; he looks around in shock and confusion, hoping for some answer to what is happening. His eyes are now completely blackened, his face pale and sunken as if the very life was being sucked from his body. He grunts and stammers for a moment and looks at the open palms of his hands. A sudden urge takes over the noble dwarf - Vonric begins clawing his own eyes out and ripping at his leather tunic as if it was made of flame.

All those whose gaze fell on the now broken trinket fall to their knees. Hundreds fall to the ground; human, elf, and dwarf alike, the other council members, the soldiers who stand guard at the gates of the fortress, all are forced to the ground, bellowing in pain.

Several villagers come from the mill, confused and curious about the commotion. Others in the crowd who paid no attention to the statue are frozen in terror as friends and family members are forced to their knees by some evil entity. The cursed villagers thrash about on the ground, tearing at their own eyes.

“A curse has befallen us!” one elf says with a look of disbelief.

Survivors survey the area - the entire village is dead.

The Loxhen clan is dead.

Only a handful of people remain, standing in the square among hundreds of bodies.

Everyone quickly stands at attention as the silence is met with a piercing scream. A scream not like one has ever heard, one of pure malice, pain, and torture. The few living throw their hands to their ears in terror, confused at what is happening, looking for the origin of scream seeping from the mass of corpses.

One scream turns into many as the bodies of the fallen start to convulse and twist in ways that would not be possible. Suddenly, as quickly as the screams began, they subside into sounds of lungs gurgling as they fill with blood.

All that is heard now is the sound of bones snapping against the slow pull of muscle, flesh being ripped and torn; dragged across the granite steps and blood soaked earth.

No one is able to move.

From within a small shop, a man, clothed in a grey wool hooded shawl calmly opens the front door facing the scene just before the fortress steps. He is the elder of Baraz’Bar living in the mountains overshadowing the village. He is the oldest amongst the Loxhen descendants; his history unknown to most. His name is Hale.

He steps out of the shop into the court yard, balancing slightly on his cane. He taps his pipe on the head of his cane as spent ash falls, stowing it to his inner pocket.

He shades his eyes, trying to focus through the noon sunlight passing through the rising dust from the square.

He looks into the crowd with intent and slight purpose; studying, observing, as if meeting an old friend whose name he cannot recall.

His attention is stolen. A young boy is seen clutching onto the body of a fallen. He recognizes the boy as the one who delivers items to his cottage high in the mountains. The boy is weeping uncontrollably.

"Make haste boy, there is nothing you can do here.” A raspy voice is heard.

The boy turns to meet Hale’s deep cloudy eyes - both a sharp grey with a ring of gold just in his left eye. An unusual sense of recognition and calm sweeps over the boy as he peers into Hale’s eyes. He loosens his grip on the body.

Hale and the boy quickly step away from the body.

A faint crackling noise is heard; the small sound of cold dead breath escaping the mouth of the cadaver which was once his mother sends chills through the boy.

They look upon the body – she is lying on her side, both legs bent backwards, snapped at the knees with open sores where both bones are extruding. Her body twists slightly; head turning this way and that as if trying to find the boy. She turns to them revealing bloody, empty eye sockets.

More gurgling noises are heard as she grunts and moans, tearing for traction in the blood soaked earth.

Her head tilts up taking notice of Hale. She stops moving.

A sense of tension falls over the boy as the two stare at each other – like a strange unseen agreement keeping each other at bay.

Suddenly, the air cracks loudly and turns ice cold.

The icy pressure on the boys exterior makes it difficult to breathe, forcing him to shut his eyes. The boy blindly reaches for Hale.

He gets down on one knee huddling for warmth trying desperately, scanning the area.

The thick cool disperses as quickly as it came - the very ground beneath their feet is frozen, blades of grass snap against the light wind.

It’s confined…confined around the body of his mother.

She is frozen solid - arms reaching out towards Hale.

The boy’s eyes widen with suspicion… “You wield the arca….”

“Silence!” - Hale snatches the boy.

Hale takes a moment to look over the crowd of the fallen. The bodies that seemed dead and lifeless are now moving. All of them begin squirming about in the bloody mud. Like a sea of some discerning dark mass. Several begin to stagger to their feet, followed by others. All have misshapen legs and grisly bent backbones, making them look grotesquely hunkered over.

The several villagers who were not affected rush to escape the crowd, guessing at which is precisely the shortest route.

Hale turns to the boy, gesturing him to move away towards the herb shop. They start walking slowly, as to not draw attention, and soon quicken their pace.
Hale shuts the door, fastening it with two thick timbers.

The boy’s breathing is labored. He stands motionless in the middle of the shop, intent on never taking his eyes off the door.

Hale takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He is rubbing a small gem attached to a chain between his thumb and forefinger.

“If safety is your concern boy, do not falter. It is not you they are after.”

The boy looks at Hale; he wipes his face with his sleeve and backs against the wall adorned with empty bottles, corks, and stoppers. “Who are they? And what happened out there?”

Hale stops and thinks. He looks at the boy, measuring his words – almost like making a difficult decision. He sits down calmly and begins patting his shawl in search of pipe weed.

"…Fiends. Tormented fiends from an age long before your time. They are not dangerous to us, they are after the elements. Do not worry yourself with such questions for they will serve no purpose today.”

Hale pulls a small pouch synched at the top with fine leather strap from his inside pocket. He stands up and walks towards the window looking out towards the Western mountain peaks, putting a pinch of pipe weed in the channel of his long wooden pipe.

The boy’s eyes light up as he watches Hale pull a draw on his unlit pipe – the pipe weed pops and crackles without flame...

Hale studies the ridge just beyond the forest line where his cottage waits.

“Pay no heed to my business, neither what lies beyond the doors. I will be in the back, gathering supplies for a meal. By daylight, they will have been gone and we will be well on our way. A perilous adventure is before us."

Hale walks through the arched door into the supply room.

The boy’s eyes follow Hale. When he is gone he stands up and walks towards the window, peering out towards the cottage where he once delivered everyday items.

The boy leans against the pane of glass. “…adventure?”