The mines of Mount Kakarillion, rich with gold and gemstones that had been thrust up from the earth in ancient ages, had supplied the lands of Ubuir for countless generations. The country had grown fat on the wealth of the mountain, living in peace and prosperity for nearly a century. The nobles held grand festivals and even the poorest of paupers was never left in the cold. Truly, it was a golden age.Now the great curled spire loomed like a threatening claw in the sky, dark clouds and chilling fog settling across the realm. The mines were dark and dormant, echoing the hearts of the wretched souls who still remained here. The golden age of Ubuir was nearly half a century gone, and her cities and ports were crumbling. When the mines closed, the neighboring nations had seen the collapse and had waged a war against Ubuir for her vast hordes of treasure. They had won the war, but it had cost everything. Now the realm was in shambles, the once grand cities wracked by plague and poverty. The nobles have locked themselves away in ivory towers and great castles, though they too are beginning to tarnish.Rumor speaks of a darkness that welled up from inside of the earth, spreading through the mountain and the surrounding lands. The miners all perished of a mysterious illness, and those that attempted to take up the pickaxes in their stead rarely return. Those that do not lose their life lose their sanity, often wandering into villages covered in blood and babbling of demons.This is where we come in. The outstandingly brave or the immensely foolish. Only history will tell. Ubuir still holds many treasures, though only the foolish venture here.
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Geo dropped the small knapsack of food onto the table, kicking up a small cloud of dust and dirt as the weathered fabric crumpled in on itself. His supplies were almost exhausted, and his pockets as empty as ever. The otterong shook his head imperceptibly, a gesture meant only for himself as he sat down. Pondering his options left little doubt in his mind that he was on the right path, but choosing the more appealing of two highly unappealing options gave him little solace.
The bar's name was The Gronloom, and the rickety old sign depicted a man bent over what might perhaps be an anvil or some other squat object. Geo had no idea what a Gronloom was, in any case. The place was small, and resting on the outskirts of Ubuir it had become a well known base of departure for the desperate or foolish souls wishing to enter there. The locals had mockingly started to call the place The Gron Doom, as most of the travelers passing through soon met untimely deaths seeking fortune in the dead country. Geo was not amused at the name.
Still, even with the grim moniker, the place would doubtlessly be a great aide to him. Venturing into Ubuir was.... unwise, but venturing in alone was suicide. The bar was moderately full this day, and the otterong knew why. One of the local villages had a short crop this year, forcing many unwilling farm boys to pick up swords and try to earn the extra coin to feed their soon to be starving families. Those were the types he needed to avoid, he knew, those with little training or skill. He was no great hero himself, but he would take bets for himself against a desperate teenager with a pitchfork. His forest-green eyes glinted from beneath the brim of his hat as he scanned the room, hoping to find at least a few he could join or gather. He had to leave soon, he knew. His food would last another day, maybe two if he ate lightly. A few slain monsters would net enough gold to keep his stomach full. Dangerous, surely, but a short foray into the dark country surely beat a life of crime and dishonor. His fingers found the necklace over his breast, touching the familiar symbol for comfort... and courage.
