Backstory

Alric Thorne was a man forged by toil and tempered by grief. Raised on the outskirts of Draymoor, he spent his life on a failing farm, a crumbling patch of land hemmed in by the grey woods and the ever-watching mist. The mist has always been there — a silent presence that drifts in each night, rolling across the fields like a shroud. It was there when Alric was born, and it will be there long after he’s gone.

In the shadow of the mist, Alric grew strong. Days spent driving the plough and hauling nightroot and ashbeet from the frozen ground built him into a man of imposing stature, all muscle and hard edges, with hands rough as old bark. But for all his strength, Alric’s heart belonged to Annabelle, the sharp-tongued, flame-haired barmaid from the Crooked Lantern tavern. Her laugh echoed across the fields like a bell, and her warmth burned away the chill of even the longest Gloom.

They married, moved onto the farm, and built a life. The seasons rolled on in their cold, grey cycle: The Withering, The Gloom, The Grief. They brought a daughter, Elspeth, into the world, and Alric found himself staring down at her tiny hands, wondering if she would grow up as he had — shadowed by mist, trapped by frozen soil.

Then came the night that changed everything.

It was during The Gloom, when the mist rolls in earlier, thicker, as though it seeks to swallow the world whole. Annabelle stepped outside to bring in the lanterns — a simple task, one she had done a hundred times. But the mist that night was different. Alric was in the barn, hacking through frozen wood, when he heard her scream.

By the time he reached the yard, the mist was a wall, cold and impenetrable, pressing against the house like a living thing. Alric plunged into it, lantern swinging, calling Annabelle’s name. He swore he heard her voice — faint, far away — calling his name, but the mist swallowed the sound, swallowed the world.

By dawn, when the mist finally receded, Annabelle was gone. No body, no blood, just the echo of her scream carried on the wind.

In the years since, Alric has become a man adrift. The farm has been taken over by another worker. Alric now lives alone in a small outbuilding, too broken to work the land himself. The council couldn't let the farm go to waste, so they reassigned the fields, leaving Alric as little more than a shadow in his own home. Elspeth grew up too fast, taking work as a tavern girl to keep food on the table. Alric drifts between taverns now, drowning his sorrows in sour ale and recounting the same stories to anyone who will listen. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, when the mist presses against the windows and the air grows still, he swears he hears Annabelle’s voice. Calling to him. Begging him to come home.

Despite the bitterness that has settled into his bones, Alric cannot let go of the hope that she is still out there, somewhere in the mist. Perhaps she is dead. Perhaps the mist has claimed her, body and soul. Or perhaps it is worse — that the thing calling to him in the night is not Annabelle at all, but something that wears her voice like a shroud.

Now, with the mist thickening each night and rumours spreading of strange happenings and voices heard in the mist, Alric finds himself at a crossroads. He can remain the man he has become — bitter, broken, waiting to die. Or he can step into the mist once more, scythe in hand, seeking the wife who was stolen from him and the truth that haunts his every waking moment.

Hollowstep Quarry

The fields of Alric’s farm had never been particularly fertile, but they had been enough. Enough to keep his family fed. Enough to barter a few sacks of grain at market. Enough to keep him busy from dawn to dusk. But that was before the blight.

It came during the Grief, when the air was heavy with the scent of dead leaves and wet earth. The crops withered overnight, their stalks blackened as though they’d been kissed by fire. The land refused to yield, the soil turning hard as stone beneath his feet. Chaunthra’s priests visited, murmuring prayers and etching protective wards into the barn doors, but the blight remained — and the whispers followed.

It was a wandering hermit who brought the answer. An old man wrapped in furs, his eyes milky and distant, who spoke of a place hidden in the Hollowstep Quarry. A place where the earth’s voice still murmured beneath the ground. A place where a man might listen, if he was willing to sacrifice. Alric went alone, a desperate man with nothing to lose and nothing left to give. The quarry was a ruin, its stone walls split and crumbling, the air heavy with the scent of ash and damp earth. The hermit led him to a shallow pit, ringed with stones etched with runes Alric could not read.

“Bury your hands in the soil,” the hermit said. “Close your eyes. And listen.”

Alric did as he was told, his fingers sinking into the cold, wet earth. The ground trembled beneath him — a low, grinding sound, as though the bones of the world were shifting beneath its skin. The hermit’s voice grew distant, his words slurring into a rhythmic chant. And then Alric heard it. The earth itself seemed to breathe beneath him, a slow, shuddering inhale that rattled his bones. His hands clenched, and the ground rose to meet them — soil twisting around his wrists, stone fusing to his skin. The pain was a dull, grinding ache, but the power that thrummed through him was undeniable. He felt it surge through his veins like molten rock, hardening his muscles, thickening his blood.

When Alric opened his eyes, the hermit was gone. The runes on the stones were still smoldering, the earth beneath them cracked and steaming. His hands were coated in stone dust, his skin rough and grey. The ground still trembled beneath him, as though the world had taken a breath and was holding it.

He returned to the farm that night, stronger than he’d ever been, but with a weight in his chest that refused to lift. The blight was gone, but the land never fully recovered. The crops that grew back were twisted and brittle, their leaves veined with silver, their stalks hollow and dry. Alric tried to forget the quarry. He tried to pretend that the ground wasn’t shaking beneath his feet.

Tools of the Trade

Alric wields a rusted scythe, its edge worn and pitted, a tool meant for harvesting grain but deadly enough in his hands. He also carries a rake, modified with iron teeth, which serves as both a weapon and a tool for clearing obstacles — and for cutting through mist that seems too thick to be natural.

Deity and Beliefs

Alric once prayed to Chaunthra , the Frostmother, whose cold patience and bitter resolve kept the fields from freezing solid. But since the night Annabelle disappeared, his faith has crumbled like old stone. He still mutters her prayers under his breath — old habits die hard — but his belief is a hollow thing, all words and no heart. If Chaunthra watches over him, she does so with a cold, indifferent eye.

Secret Desire

Though he would never admit it, Alric always dreamed of being more than a farmer. Before he married Annabelle, he imagined himself a hero, a wandering swordsman, a man of purpose and power. Now, the only power he seeks is the power to break through the mist and bring Annabelle back — or to end the mist once and for all.

The Last 6 Months

For the past six months, life has crept by in the same stagnant cycle. Alric drifts through the days in the small outhouse on his farm, the fields now tended by strangers under the council’s order. Nights are spent in The Guttering Flame, the tavern where ale is cheaper than hope and rumours are easier to come by.

Lately, whispers have grown sharper — talk of Mystra’s wards faltering, of lanterns dimming when they shouldn’t, of people vanishing without a trace. Some say the priests don’t have as firm a grip on the mist as they claim. Alric listens, nursing his drink, letting the words settle like grit in the bottom of a glass.

The mist has grown thicker, rolling in earlier and lingering longer, and with it comes the whispers — a voice, Annabelle’s voice, drifting through the fog like a song just out of reach.

When the Lord Warden calls on Alric again, asking for his strength to aid in yet another search for missing villagers, it’s not duty that drives him. It’s that voice — the one that sounds like Annabelle. If the mist is hiding something, perhaps it can be made to talk.

Family Farm

Your family farm was a small one in the north end of Draymoor (off the map). There are roughly 6 farms within the town walls, owned by families, and governed by the Draymoor council. Farming is a vital component of survival in every settlement. There is a veilgrove (large greenhouse-type building) that grows more delicate crops, herbs and mushrooms. The farms outside provide root vegetables and hardy grains that require more space. Here are a few examples you can choose from:

• Winter Rye | An ash-coloured grain similar to wheat and stored the same. It's tough and nearly inedible without long boiling or fine milling,


• Nightroot | A twisted, gnaraled plant that grows underground, immune to frost. It takes like bitter ash if eaten raw and behaves similarly to a potato,


• Emberroot | A dark orange root vegetable that glows faintly when cooked. Midly spicy and highly nutritious,


• Ashbeet | A greyish, ashy-skinned beet that thrives in frozen soil. It bleeds black juice when cut, and has a rich, earthy flavour. Excellent for fermenting,


• Ghostleek | A fibrous stalk that grows tall and thin, with pale silver leaves. Used in soups and medicines

Running the Farm

When you were actively running the farm, you had a number of additional duties that you performed

• Preserving Food | Preserving food is essential due to the harsh growing conditions, and relative uncertainty that a crop will succeed. As a farmer, it was also your job to see to preserving vegetables and milling grain. There was a windmill used in town to mill grain, and a water mill down at the docks. You preserved items by drying, salting and pickling the crops you grew. Your speciality was Pickled Ashbeet. You passed this knowledge onto those who now run the farm, but it isn't quite as good as yours,


• Gathering Peat | Peat was used on the farm to enrich the soil, and to burn in communal fires on occasion. You gathered this peat in a location east of Draymoor, called the Mournfen Marshes. It took ~4 hours to get there, so you often found yourself camping in the mist and protecting those who had gone with you to collect it,


• Part-time Watcher | You were physically capable, and handy with a scythe. You were called on a handful of times to assist with mist-related issues. You only had to fight once