Thread: Adventures in Barsaive

I would alo like to direct you to the game rules section where I have posted my usual GM posting style. If you would like to use the exact same style feel free, but as long as you label things you won't get any problems from me. An elvish man walked carefully, slowly through the halls of the great temple. His clothed footsteps making scant noises through the otherwise quiet monastery. The thick night air wafted heavily through the occasional open slits within the walls, creating an strange wailing noise tha became muffled by the stones. The man continued to walk, clutching is robes tightly against his body at the chill. The night seemed to hang hard against the sky, and it chilled the young acolyte to his bones much more than the cold air. After several more moments of trudging, the acolyte came upon a door. An otherwise unremarkable door. The elf approached cautiously and knocked three times exactly. Master Messiass? I was wondering if you wanted me to fetch those scrolls from the library? Master Messiass? the acolyte peaked into the room, the unsealed door creaking as it began to open slowly. The acolyte released a blood curdling scream, falling onto his behind at the sight that was before him. In the corner of the room laid the master. His dead body twisted in full agony, a look of sheer, unimaginable terror. Blood was caked onto his aged fingertips, his eyes plucked from their very sockets. The man was pale beyond any form of normalcy and there was nothing natural about his position. The acolyte continued to scream down the stone corridors. Upon the desk next to the dead master, sat a large desk with six thick and strange tomes sat upon it and upon them sat a note These are the books of Harrow. They are our doom and our salvation. Learn from them, or we will all perish. Much time has passed since the days of The Scourge. The time foretold within the books of Harrow that told of the return of the Horrors. A race of malevolent creatures from the astral plane whose one purpose is to feed on the pain, misery, and suffering of mortal beings. In order to shield themselves from this terrible fate the Name Giver races constructed great earthen Shelters into the earth called kears. These proved to be the savior for many individuals. As the time of the scourge finally waned, the name givers left their kears and made their way back to the lands above. Nearly 800 years had passed since those days, and the small border town near the Scythian mountains called Drenix is all abustle due to the time of season. It is the first day of the great trading season, a time for the great farmers and crafters set their excess crops and goods to give to a few selected officials the right to sell their goods within the great Dwarfen kingdom of Throal, the great lords of most of the free name givers of Barsaive. While you are still in a state of mourning for the loss of your warrior master not twelve days ago, you have been asked by the council to accompany the cities small caravan for protection. Though it is fully your choice, it was something that your former master often talked of sending you out with it as your last great duty before you moved on to the next level, and a higher trainer. The town is abustle with activity, many individuals both Ork and Human making their way to the town center to say their goodbyes and good wishes to those on their journey. Two main wagons formed the bulk of the activity as farmers and artisans alike mounted goods onto those very wagons. Though the wagons are not quite ready to go, many individuals are saying that they will be able to depart within the next two hours.