An Epic Chronicle Begins...

4711, Aroden Reckoning.

Mendacious expatriots and jealous foreigners often claim that modern Taldor is an empire in decline, but proud Taldans know that nothing could be further from the truth. What cannot be denied is that the heart of the empire has a decadent and complicated upper class ruling over an enormous and poverty-stricken lower class known as “the unbearded,” who make up the vast majority of Taldor’s population; the unbearded are merchants, craftsmen, day labourers, dock workers, vagabonds, soldiers, sailors, and so on. Taldor’s prefectures fight border skirmishes, its noble houses joust and ruin one another, and its sparsely populated frontiers have turned lawless and chaotic.

In spite of the instability, merchants still need to journey to the more remote corners of the realm and beyond, requiring the services of guard escorts and thereby providing valuable employment opportunities to professional mercenaries or to those willing to risk their lives for the sake of adventure, travel, or a chance to prove their skills, or who are simply desperate enough to take whatever work they can in exchange for a guaranteed meal everyday, the provision of weapons and equipment, and the promise of a handful of coins at the end of the job with which to support themselves and possibly their loved ones.

It is against this background that the chronicle of one of the great epics of glorious Taldor's present age begins...

An old merchant named Silas Gribb hired four complete strangers as guards to escort his salt wagon from the grand capital of Oppara to the semi-autonomous gnomish town of Wispil at the heart of the Verduran Forest in north-central Taldor, near the borderlands between Andoran and revolution wracked Galt. The pay would be meagre -- about 10 gold coins each by journey’s end -- but beggars can’t be choosers, and he probably selected his escort based on their potential and enthusiasm rather than on their actual experience. 

Silas Gribb

The four strangers that made the escort were an odd bunch, to say the least.

Shalora and Jiri Faldrum

Shalora, a gregarious, tall (6’2) and skinny slip of an elven girl, blonde and blue-eyed with the beauty typical of her race, who looked to be no more than 18 in human years. The waif carried no weapons, but was accompanied by a little red fox named Mischief and a small speckled pony named Sparkles. Shalora had been hired for her skills as a healer, should trouble befall the party on the road.

The other three were hired for their brawn or skill with a blade:

Jiri Faldrum, a gruff and stern, glaive-wielding dwarf clad in leather armour.

Akiro Hashimoto and Iacobus Tancredi

Akiro Hashimoto, a short (5’5) and oft distracted Tian mute clad in exotic armour and oddly shaped wicker hat, and bearing an equally exotic oriental sword and glaive. Communication with Akiro -- primarily through gestures and facial expressions -- had been a challenge, though not insurmountable. Akiro’s fascination with Sparkles and Mischief, and his and Shalora's mutual devotion to Shelyn, the Eternal Rose, facilitated a growing bond between the speechless Tian warrior and the elf, who did more than enough talking for the both of them. Akiro has spent much of his time during evenings wood carving, playing unfamiliar tunes on his flute, or engaging in solitary swordplay that looks more like a graceful dance.

The final member of the crew was a temperamental young and evidently beardless Taldan man by the name of Iacobus Tancredi, a falcata-wielding vagabond clad in leather lamellar who also seems to have some skill with magic. In contrast with his other companions, Iacobus was an ardent follower of Abadar, Master of the First Vault, as made evident by the keys and crossbow tattooed on his forearms. Iacobus has seldom been seen smiling and has tended to keep to himself, spending much of his rest time studying the contents of a book that he is highly protective of.     

The party had been on the road for nearly four weeks now, having traversed the eastern Tandak Plains to reach Dunholme at the southern edge of the forest, and then veering off from there north into the woods on a rough track. Throughout the journey, the hired hands had helped protect Silas and his cargo from roving gangs and vagabonds, and kept aggressive wild animals, including Taldor’s famed prides of lions, at bay. The rapid decline of Taldor’s once glorious achievements became more evident with every mile they travelled from Oppara, the land littered with abandoned, weed-choked settlements and ruins, muddy roads, as well as with canals clogged with silt or debris. Even inhabited towns and roadside inns looked like they were crumbling, save of course for the estates of some wealthy lords or ladies.

It was late morning on a chilly, rainy spring day in Gozran (April), when Silas decided to continue past the turn-off for the East Wispil Road, taking the turn-off for the Old Belhaim Road a little bit further instead. He had been showing increasing signs of fatigue and illness over the last few days and cursed the miserable weather from under his hood. “My old bones can take this foul weather no longer... Whatta ye say we get a roof over our heads in town, and I treat ye all to a hot bowl of stew and a mug o‘ ale while we dry out for a bit?”   

Soon, the party found themselves traveling past a few farms and crossing a wooden bridge over a river, pulling up by the single story inn across from the garrison at the entrance to the little community of Belhaim, at the junction of Devy Road and Kingfisher Road.

The inn was surprisingly large for such a small, remote community. A painted sign hung above the door depicted an elderly man with a bushy white beard clad in crimson robes with a matching droopy pointy hat, playing a pipe. The main building was built from oak-framed wattle and daub with wooden roof shingles, while one wing was made of limestone with red clay singles. The smell of wood smoke and freshly baked bread wafted up through the chimney to tantalize the travellers. The warm glow emanating from the many windows that lined the facade of the inn, and the bright red shutters, open wide, were equally inviting. 

The glimpse of the other buildings visible across the road from the inn -- the garrison, an apothecary and a scribe, judging by the signs hanging above their doors -- suggested that, while they were not particularly grand, they had also been maintained in better condition compared to many of the buildings the salt merchant and his escort had passed by throughout the Taldan countryside these past weeks. At first glance, the community seemed very peaceful, sleepy even.

“Quiet little village in the middle of nowhere, we shouldn't have any problems here,” mumbled Silas as he looked around, water dripping from his hood and scraggly beard. He sneezed repeatedly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his grey wool cloak.

Hawk-eyed Jiri and some of the other party members thought they saw Silas try to conceal nervous glances toward the garrison across the road, but said nothing...