To a town filled with honor, and danger, and vice, where coin filled those coffers of verdigris ice, and where men and dwarf trembled at dark
For one was a sellsword, and one was a witch, and one was a swindler with fingers a’twitch, and all with a curse old as Time, as Time
Oh the heaviest curse, old as Time…
Stand and hear, comrades and enemies, ladies and gentlemen, lords and paupers, and lend if you will a humble ear to your humble interlocutor, and I’ll tell you a story.
It’s a story of a town, that had wealth measured in thick ledgers, and grief measured in bitter tears. It’s a story about a mayor, who was weak with years but strong and noble with honor and decency. It’s about monsters, who stole men’s breath from their lungs and replaced it with thick green rock. And it’s about monsters, who stole men’s souls from their chests and replaced it with thick, black hate. And it’s about monsters who stole men’s honor from their families, and replaced it with heavy, counterfeit coin.
But it is not a sad story. It’s a tale of mad hermits in whose madness is divinest sense. It’s got lost heirs who earn their respect through toil and character, not blood and breeding. There are kind souls, and three almost heroes, and there’s a hell of a fight or two.
Sieges? Kidnappings? Ancient evil, blackmail, gnomes, ballistae, hangings, righteous revenge?
Too good to be true? Ah, no, comrades. Too true to be anything but great. Now sit, and drink.