Our Story Begins...

INTRODUCTION
The adventure begins in the town of Frisia, a small farming and timber community of no more than 500 inhabitants in the Barony of Halpveg. Frisia lies in the northern periphery of the Graffenvold, sixty miles north of The Vakhund and 100 miles south of Halpveg.

Surrounding the town is an earthen embankment topped with a wooden palisade with walkways. It overlooks a dry moat, which is in the process of being constructed.

Frisia’s buildings and houses are one and two story wood or wattle and daub constructions with a few stone ones, either shingled with wood or thatched with hay. Most buildings have simple wood cat chimneys, while the homes of the wealthier inhabitants have rock chimneys.

Frisia is the last human village on the road south into the goblin kingdoms. There is a fairly regular trade between the goblins to the south (the Kdyzj of the Drazkleed) and the Barony of Halpveg. Goblin traders come to Frisia for trade while the human traders go as far as Mejketek (120 miles south of Frisia) and no further. This trade has brought some wealth to the community but mostly to the merchants who ply their trade here.




There are four places of interest in Frisia: The Keep, Merkel's, The Kreut, and The Bierkeller.

Some flavor text:

"Greeting my friends. There are no introductions necessary here, for I know well who you are, my intrepid adventurer. A weary traveler indeed? Have a seat my fine fellow and let me speak with you a moment before you enter the bleak Graffenvold and traverse its winding paths and muddy byways."

"But first I must ask, have you come here seeking quick glory and easy wealth? Perhaps you have come here to beat down the lords of this land and submit them to your will? Do the deadly paths and glistening edges of the world’s revenge frighten you? Eh my friend? What was that?

"Regardless! I fear you have gone beyond yourself here in Inzae. This place has neither easy roads nor abundant wealth. The lords of this land are powerful and care not for the lives of the foolish and weak. Here, in Inzae, simple mistakes may be your unmaking and doom.

"For beyond yonder door is a fearful world clinging desperately to its life. Inzae’s denizens struggle against a vast array of malignant forces seeking to drag them deeper into the pits of the Maelstrom. And even here, in this backwater region called the Reintier, you will find no respite from this meaningless and overwhelming struggle.

"So take heed traveler, take heed as you enter the Graffenvold, it will do you well to remember that this is a deadly world and lest you take care, you will be engulfed in its dying spasms."

Kjaldr sits in the dimmest corner of the room, hands wrapped around a tankard he hasn't touched. He speaks in a low, raspy whisper that barely carries past the edge of the table. He pushes a mysterious token (an old gold coin?) toward the center of the wood.

"Take it. Keep it out of sight. That coin is your lifeline, and your death warrant.

The Baron has a problem, and you are his Tertia Optio—his Third Option. The First Option is diplomacy, which has failed. The Second Option is open war, which we cannot afford. You are the option that does not exist. If you are caught, the Barony will brand you as rogue mercenaries and thieves. The Baron will deny your names, your faces, and your very lives.

Tomorrow morning, you join a merchant caravan heading south. The caravan master thinks you are just extra muscle. He will pay you 10 silver pieces a day to guard his wagons.

Your first stop is the town of Frisia. The caravan will drop you off there to make a few local trade stops before it returns to pick you up. While the wagons are stopped, you must use that coin to find a spy named Ozrit. He has eyes on the border.

Once you regroup with the caravan, it moves another sixty miles south to Vakhund, right on the cusp of the Goblin lands. Merchants trade openly on the borders, but they never go deep. You will.

Bring Ozrit's intelligence back to me. Simple scraps of information you find will earn you extra silver. But if you dig deep, cross the border, and bring back chunks of the bigger picture... the Baron will pay you in gold. Ten times the value of anything those merchants can offer you.

Keep your heads down, keep your mouths shut, and remember: you wear no banners. Do we have an understanding?"

I am seated beside the other two, my cloak swept to my side as it drapes down to the floor. I look to my newly-met comrades, glad at least to be working with men of intelligence and attention. The prospect of wealth in such a desperate world gladdens my heart, but not as much as the possibility of adventure, of the chance to trace the lines of my God and learn the world's true shape.

"I think I understand the task at hand. Travel south into Frisia. Find Ozrit and use this coin to earn his trust. Learn what he knows about the borderlands and the Goblin Kingdoms, that we might bring you word. If we wish for true wealth, we cross the border ourselves and bring you firsthand witness."

I try to keep cool, but I can't quite keep the excitement out of my voice. My boot taps the tavern floor, my fingers lightly drumming the table as I ponder whether it would be amiss if I picked up the old coin now. "I must second my associate's concerns. What should we be on the lookout for on our journey south-- what should we note to return to you, should the matter not be immediately obvious?"

"You have the right of it. Gather the information from Ozrit, and if you want to increase your earnings you must penetrate deeper into the Damfrat. There are rumors of Rebellion and of war. Goblin armies are rumored to have been gathering deeper into the Goblin Kingdoms. They could be mercenary or perhaps they wage war amongst themselves-this is not uncommon. Either way, if Rebels exist, they may capture you, torture you and dispose of you. If the Goblins have secrets to uncover...well, no need to get into details. There you have it. I have other appointments. Rest assured you will be well compensated," he says. He drops a bag of coin on the table. "There's more where that came from."

He stands up and turns to leave the private backroom, he looks at each of you and says, "I will send an agent bearing the coin. That is how we shall communicate. ...We never spoke."

He leaves through the curtain and small vestibule then closes the door behind him, leaving you alone.

(As Wilfred) I watch the Baron leave, remaining in this backroom. Finally, I pluck the old token from the table and tuck it into the pocket of my trousers. I slip the knot on the coinpurse, dumping it onto the table and counting out our downpayment. How much did the Baron leave?

"Zugor, right?" I reply to the brooding, tusked bruiser across from me. "I agree with you. I have about a week’s worth of grub on me, but to be honest I haven’t the coin to buy another two weeks. Or at least, I didn’t before." I start divvying the payment into equal piles on the table, one by one.

I leave a fourth pile, looking to Zugor and Geros questioningly. "I was told our company would be four in number, not three. We’re one short. Have we heard from him yet?"

The pouch contains 160 gold pieces.

You meet the Caravan Master: Torvald "Iron-Eye" Vance
* Appearance: Massive frame, scarred cheek, wearing a heavy wolf-skin mantle and a boiled leather breastplate.
* Personality: No-nonsense, hyper-vigilant, obsessed with grease for the wagon axles and checking horse hooves.
* Role: He dictates the pace and demands absolute discipline. He won't tolerate slackers but respects those who keep their weapons clean.
And his "second"
* The Grognard Veteran: Old Barnaby
* Appearance: Lanky, balding, missing two fingers on his left hand. Wears a faded, patched gambeson and chews on bitter root.
* Personality: Cynical but helpful, speaks in short grunts, possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of goblin behavior.
* Role: Offers mechanical assistance. If consulted he helps by pointing out hidden trails or explaining weather patterns.

THE ENCROACHING FROST
The morning air bites like cold steel. As your boots crunch against the frozen mud, the jagged, volcanic peaks of the borderlands loom ahead like broken black teeth. The dense evergreen taiga swallows the path, its canopy shutting out the pale autumn sun. All you can hear is the rhythmic, heavy creaking of Torvald’s wagons and the nervous snorting of the draft horses. Fall is bleeding away, and winter is breathing down your neck.
Old Barnaby chews his root as he rides a mule, nearly asleep in the saddle...