(Undertake a Journey – Strong Hit)
(First waypoint: Oracle: Strange Hill)
Uram of the Greywolves stumbled upon a peculiar sight that halted him in his tracks—a towering hill crafted entirely from the bones of various creatures. As he stood in the heart of the dune valley, the bone structure loomed above him like a macabre monument, a testament to some prolific killer. Bones intermingled seamlessly, forming a mosaic of animals, orcs, and other poor creatures. The air around him tingled with an otherworldly energy, and an unsettling feeling gripped Uram’s heart. It was not the hand of humans that had brought demise to these creatures but something far more sinister and elusive.
(Gather Information – Miss – Pay the Price: It is stressful)
Uram’s instincts, finely tuned by years of survival in the harsh desert, crackled like a fire, listening to the eerie ambiance that enveloped the valley. The shadows seemed to come alive, whispering warnings, or threats?. Unnerved by the silent gaze of unseen eyes, Uram made a swift decision to press on; he looked back, though, lingering on the bone hill, a foreboding omen of where he was headed. The sand beneath his feet seemed to shift in response, urging him to tread carefully through this realm. With a wary glance over his shoulder, Uram resumed his journey, leaving the bone hill, but its aura lingered in his mind long after it faded into the distance behind him.
(Undertake a Journey – Strong Hit)
(Second waypoint: Oracle: Dark Cliff)
The young orc found himself at the edge of a cliff, which gave a view of the vastness of the Sajir Desert valley beneath a star-strewn night sky. The desert winds shifted across the sand dunes, and Uram, still confident surviving this far from home, chose to make camp until the sun graced the horizon again. As darkness draped the landscape, an unsettling familiarity gripped him—the shadows played tricks on his perception, reminiscent of the eerie bone hill he had encountered earlier.
In the inky depths of the night, Uram’s senses picked up on an elusive anomaly within the shadows. It was as if the very darkness held a life of its own, moving with a predatory grace, much like a dune panther stalking its prey. The air seemed pregnant with an arcane energy, hinting at the lingering remnants of shadow magic. The stories of Kronholm, the legendary City of Eternal Night, danced through Uram’s mind, a place enveloped in a colossal orb of shadow magic. The tribal historian would tell stories of the great city’s fall into ruin and how mages reacting to the Eastern Empire tried to hide their home from their oppressor’s eyes instead opened a door between this plane and one of pure shadow. Whispers of that enchantment, it seemed, had found their way into the desolate expanse of the desert, manifesting in regions wisely avoided by the Greywolf tribe.
As Uram huddled against the chill of the night, he pondered the tales of Kronholm and the mystical forces that had seeped into the very fabric of the land. The desert had become twisted in the interplay of shadows and magic, and Uram could begin to see aberrations in the landscape that shouldn’t be – beasts that swam beneath the sand and lights of alien hue that floated across the desert in the distance. With a vigilant eye on the shifting shadows, Uram awaited the arrival of dawn.
(Make Camp – Miss – Pay the Price: It causes a delay or puts you at a disadvantage.-1 Spirit)
Beneath the canopy of a starlit desert night, Uram wrestled with a sleep that failed to arrive. The ever-shifting sands whispered unsettling lullabies, carrying the anguished cries of desert creatures caught in the clutches of unseen predators. Squeals of pain intermingled with ominous snarls, signaling the presence of something formidable and malevolent prowling out there. Each attempt at finding solace was thwarted by the haunting cacophony that painted the night with shades of sorrow and death.
Rest only found its reluctant perch upon Uram’s weary shoulders as the first light of dawn graced the horizon, casting away the shadows that clung to the night. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and in the quiet sanctuary of the early morning, Uram collapsed into the sweet release of slumber. The sun hung high above as the orc finally slowed his breath and rested.
As the day unfolded, Uram awoke to the relentless march of the sun overhead, its rays growing more intense with each passing moment. Determination ignited within him, fueled by the urgency to bridge the distance between him and the slavers who had stolen his people away. Pushing against the weariness that still lingered, Uram pressed forward.
(Reach Your Destination – Strong Hit)
The journey through the unforgiving desert finally reached its terminus, unveiling an unexpected oasis where life erupted from the sandy soil. However, the vitality of the flora carried a sinister affliction. As Uram approached, the once vibrant plants, trees, and flowers revealed their unnatural secret – a viscous ichor oozing forth when disturbed, staining the vibrant hues of the growth with a surreal, otherworldly rich crimson.
On this peculiar grassy plain, a daunting sight unfurled before Uram’s watchful eyes – the silhouette of Kronholm, shrouded within its enigmatic sphere of perpetual darkness. The ominous city loomed in the distance, a beacon of shadow amid the otherwise lively landscape. It looked like a giant’s blade had sliced a vast mesa through the middle, and a city had spilled out. New structures stood upon old ones, and Kronholm sprawled out across the land, away from its rocky origin. An inner wall protected the oldest sections of the city, while new developments were built outside those protections. Uram also knew from the old stories that this was a city built deep into the earth. There was much he could not even see yet of the city. And the shadows that had swallowed the city up generations ago rolled like curls of smoke at the edges, swirling around every tower, never allowing the citizens to forget their lightless existence.
Studying the ground beneath his feet, Uram intuited that this was the path the slavers had chosen, leaving traces of their malevolent journey toward Kronholm. A heavy burden settled upon Uram’s shoulders as he realized the inevitable convergence of his quest with the foreboding city. Despite this unsettled feeling, determination flickered in Uram’s eyes. Following in the footsteps of those who had wronged him, he steeled himself for the impending confrontation. The desert’s embrace may have waned, but a new and ominous chapter awaited Uram as he trod the path into the shadowy unknown.
Perched upon a rugged outcropping, Uram observed the ebb and flow of trading caravans. The city gates loomed ahead, a teeming portal. His keen eyes discerned the many entry points, but one stood out as the pulsing heart of activity.
As Uram surveyed the desolate ground beneath him, he noticed the lifelessness that clung to the earth. The soil, once brimming with vitality, now starkly contrasted with the lively procession of commerce. Its surface bore the weight of gnarled roots and withered grass, clinging to the ground in feeble defiance. The patches of life that managed to survive seemed emaciated and frail.
Uram pondered the possibility of infiltrating the enigmatic city. Hitching a ride on one of the larger wagons seemed like a plausible way to enter unnoticed by the guards. The rhythmic pulse of the caravans resonated with the beat of his heart, urging him to seize the opportunity and venture into the heart of Kronholm. Somewhere beyond those gates the members of his scavenging party were in shackles, some possibly already sold. The orc warrior, a silhouette against the backdrop of the outcropping, plotted his course.
(Face Danger w/Shadow – Weak Hit – Lose -1 momentum)
Slipping into a covered wagon driven by a collection of scruffy-looking dwarves, Uram blended seamlessly with the clay jars, each vessel harboring an unfamiliar aroma hinting at faraway lands. As the merchant’s wagon rumbled forward, fate intervened with a broken wheel, forcing an unscheduled halt on the outskirts of Kronholm. With practiced stealth, Uram nestled among the jars, his senses attuned to every creak and murmur of the world beyond his temporary sanctuary.
The minutes elongated into hours as the repair work unfolded, the orc warrior holding his breath. His focus remained fixed on his task. The gates finally creaked open, granting passage to the hidden city. Uram seized the opportunity to extricate himself from the cart, slipping away into the labyrinthine tunnel-streets that wove beneath the city. As Uram ventured deeper, the echoes of his footfalls mingled with distant shouts reverberating through the passages. The orc, driven by an insatiable curiosity, pressed forward into the dimly lit abyss, where the clamor of distant voices spoke in a rhythm of conflict.
(Face Danger w/Shadow – Strong Hit w/Match)
(Oracle: Hunt Superstition)
Perched out of the light in a hollow, Uram witnessed a battle unfold before him—a squadron of hunters taking center stage. The commanding figure at the helm, adorned in gleaming gold armor, orchestrated the delicate dance with precision. Her authoritative voice cut through the air l, directing her warriors to encircle a colossal inky spider, its back emanating smoky plumes of shadows.
The leader’s strategic prowess became evident as her acolytes closed in, forming a tight ring around the monstrous arachnid. A sword, glowing with divine light, materialized in her grasp, and with a resolute charge, she delivered a lethal strike. The spider recoiled, shadows dissipating in the wake of the holy onslaught, yet not without a final act of defiance. A venomous bite claimed one of her men before the creature succumbed to its fate. The beast’s mandibles sunk into the man’s side, pumping venom by the gallons.
“Damn you!” the leader screamed. In frustration, she slammed her sword into the ground, the clang resonating with a mixture of grief and determination. Victory spoiled by tragedy, underscoring the perilous nature of their noble pursuit.
Eager to glean any morsel of information, Uram strained to eavesdrop on the hunters’ words. He remained on the fringe, a silent observer in the shadows, attuned to the whispers that might reveal more about this group and their role in the city.
(Oracle: Defend Possession)
In the subdued aftermath of the encounter, Uram’s keen ears caught the echo of two names— Nightstalkers and Amelia. It seemed she was the leader, bathed in gleaming gold armor. Yet, a peculiar dynamic unfolded as one of the men addressed her in a tone that hinted at a more intimate familiarity.
“You must handle the blade with more delicate hands, Amelia!” the old man shouted. “If it shatters, there is no reforging it!”
The reproach for her treatment of the sword sounded to Uram’s ears like a mentorship. He’d heard such banter between people in his tribe learning at the feet of an elder, a chastisement for rash behavior. Uram sensed that this outspoken comrade might be more than just a subordinate, perhaps a guiding force in Amelia’s journey.
As the Nightstalkers gathered their fallen companion and ventured deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels, Uram made a calculated decision. The shadows whispered of another path, leading him back toward the city’s entrance. Guided by subtle signs, he found himself standing at the threshold of The Torchlight Market—a subterranean bazaar thriving just below the city’s surface.
The air crackled with the energy of commerce as Uram slipped into the bustling marketplace, still clinging to the places where the firelight did not touch. Stalls adorned with exotic wares lined the underground expanse, illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted torches. The hustle and bustle of buyers and sellers created an ocean of voices, each thread hinting at the lives of the people who dwelled in Kronholm.
(Secure Advantage w/Shadow – Miss. Pay the Price: You are separated from something or someone.)
In the expanse of the Torchlight Market, Uram’s discerning eyes scanned through its inhabitants until he spied the slave market. A sea of varied faces, shadows of different races and backgrounds, languished within a makeshift corral. The red jacket uniformed enforcers, guardians of order in the chaotic underworld, patrolled with vigilant eyes; their badges bore the name “the Protectorate.” Though unfamiliar with the specific insignia, Uram recognized the coordinated attire—symbols of authority that spoke a universal language of control.
Within this captive congregation, orcs, half-orcs, dwarves, and children of the forest stood as a testament to the harsh realities of the market. Malnourished and bearing the cruel imprints of physical torment, Uram felt a fire of hate burn in his heart, one he had to temper lest he be as rash as the Nightstalker woman he’d watched in battle earlier. While she fought craven monsters that wandered the deep tunnels, she allowed this horror to play out without a second thought? Uram thought. As the young orc subtly scanned the beleaguered faces, he searched for a potential ally among the free.
His focus was shattered as a heavy hand seized Uram’s shoulder. With a brutal force, he was yanked back, crashing to the ground. The imposing figure of a Protectorate officer loomed over the young orc, flanked by four enforcers. The central man had hollow eyes and a face that reminded Uram of the few times he’d seen the dead. He looked at the orc as if he was a mist, set to fade when the sun burnt it away. Shackles clamped onto Uram’s wrists, and the entourage led him away from the desolation of the Torchlight Market, their trajectory directed towards a nearby holding station—Uram felt his hope sink even further away.
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