"What good are your gods when they abandon their faithful to my fires? Pray harder, little soul, and perhaps I will hear you instead." - Tyranthraxus
Location: The Moonsea, City of Phlan -Year of the Lion, 1340 DR
The Sea Sprite creaks and groans as it glides into the harbor, its hull battered by the relentless winds of the Moonsea. The stench of rot and brine rises to meet you as you step onto the pier, where cracked stone and warped wood tell of a city barely clinging to life. Phlan looms before you like a wounded beast—its eastern district huddled behind palisades and guards bristling with weapons, while the ruins to the west sprawl like a rotting carcass, crawling with danger and despair.
The stories you heard on your journey seem tame compared to the reality before your eyes. They spoke of riches hidden in the bones of this ruined city, of ancient treasures and lost magic. What they failed to mention was the overwhelming stench of death and the ominous feeling of something watching you over the ruined walls.
Chills runs down your spine as you catch sight of the blackened spires of Valjevo Castle - half-shrouded in mist, looming over the ruins. Some say the castle bow holds a gateway to darker realms—an unholy wound in the fabric of the world from which demons and other horrors seep into the city’s shattered streets.
But closer at hand, more immediate dangers stalk the ruins: goblin packs scurry in the shadows, their guttural laughter echoing like the scrape of a blade. Orc warbands prowl the outskirts, their crude banners fluttering as they sharpen their axes for the next raid. Rumors speak of darker alliances and something… worse.
A large man in heavy plate strides past, his helm shaped like a snarling demon’s visage. The man introduces himself as Commander Guardon, an enforcer of the Council of Ten. “Welcome to Phlan,” he growls. “Pray your steel is sharp, and your courage sharper. These ruins are no place for cowards.”
A thin man in threadbare robes closely shadowing Guardon, his eyes hollow and his voice trembling. “Another fool come to die,” he mutters, before spitting on the ground and shuffling off.
The Council of Ten has issued a desperate proclamation:
As the sun sinks below the jagged horizon, painting the ruins in shades of crimson, the first screams of the night echo from the western ruins. The guards stiffen, gripping their weapons as the guttural noises of nocturnal creatures rise on the wind.
The city gates swing side to side in the wind with a metal on metal whine.
