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...

Old Barnaby looks up.
"On the frontier, you can bet most Goblins are poor. They will trade, but you have to look like if they mess with ya, they'll regret it. They may be small folk, but they have a knack for being mean and bloodthirsty. I hope that answers your question...," he say in his gravely voice.

Iron-Eye yells back, "Shut your pipes back there! If we do run into some trouble, you'll be the first to go. Pay the hell attention!" He is stern and Barnaby moves up towards the front and then slows again, looking half asleep once more.

"Whoa!" You hear Iron-Eye call out.
A recent rockslide has choked a narrow mountain pass with sharp, loose shale. The horses are panicking, and a wagon wheel threatens to splinter.

"If you're gonna be useful to me, now's the time to do it," he says.

Barnaby snaps to, he calls out to the Half-Human, "Grab those horses lad!"
After righting the wagon Zugor brings the horses under control with gentle words and a vice like grip on the reins.
"Steady now. Watch the black moss. It’s slicker than ice. Guide the wheels along the gray ridge instead."
Zugor manages to lead the horses through the narrow path left by the rock slide.

Iron-eye looks at Zugor.
"Yer more than you seem. What's your name hand?"

Iron-eye looks at the team.
"You did not hesitate. That is what I respect. I think we will get along well."

The day passes into twilight and you stop at what is obviously a campsite. Barnaby asks Zugor to help with horses and he directs the rest to secure the wagons and get a fire foil in the fire pit. He then goes off to help Iron-eye set up the tent.

The area is relatively safe and as there are no others with you there is a commeraderie amongst you. The night is uneventful and you have a sound sleep.

Day 2

The wind shifts, carrying the acrid, sour stench of wet fur and peat smoke. The silence of the forest is heavy—too heavy. No birds sing in the copper-leaved brush. Up on a jagged ridge of black basalt, just out of bowshot, a shape moves. A low-slung silhouette, gray and black fur stares down at the caravan. For a heartbeat, its yellow eyes lock onto yours. Then, like smoke caught in the pine boughs, it vanishes. There are no tracks. No sound. Only the sudden, violent shivering of the horses.

Iron-eye looks at Zugor and Geros he quietly tells them to scout the ridge and see what they can see. He tells Reinhardt to be ready to draw steel if necessary.

RangerRanger Zugor heads out to track.

Zuger finds wolf tracks. He deduces that this one was a lone Wolf. He knows a lone wolf would not attack a caravan alone. But he almost misses the second set of tracks a little further into the wood. Dire Wolf. These tracks are fresh and this second set of prints makes him nervous being about alone. On his return, he hides his own tracks.

Iron-eye is a bit surprised.
Barnaby grunts.
"Odd that a Dire Wolf is active in the daylight. We need to take precautions as you say. Reinhardt! Where is he? I need him at the front and Zugor take up the rear, Geros I need you on the left flank and Wilfred...on the right flank with Barnaby. Now let's move out!" says Iron-eye.

The attack you anticipated did not appear. The night passes uneventful.

Day 3
The sky has turned the color of a bruised plum, threatening a heavy, premature snow. The trail dips sharply into a sweeping, wind-scoured basin. Below you sits Frisia. Its low, timber longhouses hug the earth, buried under thick mounds of green sod to keep out the killing frost. Plumes of grey hearth-smoke rise from the settlement, promising warmth, hot broth, and stone walls. Behind the town, the ancient, impenetrable canopy of the Damfrat begins—the true territory of the goblin clans.

Smelling the settlement and sensing the approach of a storm, the draft animals bolt as they approach the final steep descent into Frisia!

Reinhardt? Geros?

Old Barnaby’s Yells at Geros, "Don't yank the bit! Whistle low and blindfold the lead mare with your cloak."Geros stops yanking on the reins and begins to whistle softly and blindfolds the lead mare. The horses calm once again, Iron-eye gives an approving nod.

The chill of the Graffenvold clings stubbornly to the morning air as the caravan rounds the final bend in the south road. Dew still glistens upon the grasses and wagon ruts sparkle with last night's rain. Ahead, rising above freshly cut fields and timber lots, stands the frontier village of Frisia.

A stout earthen embankment surrounds the settlement, crowned by a sturdy wooden palisade. Men labor along its northern face, digging what will one day become a defensive ditch, pausing only long enough to watch your caravan approach. Thin ribbons of blue-gray smoke drift lazily from dozens of chimneys into the crisp autumn sky.

Beyond the gate, modest homes of timber and whitewashed wattle stand shoulder to shoulder beside workshops and storehouses. Ox carts rumble over packed earth streets while farmers, woodsmen and traders begin another ordinary day. Children chase one another through the lanes, stopping only long enough to stare curiously at the arriving wagons.

There is nothing remarkable about Frisia.

It is simply a quiet village standing watch over the southern frontier.

The caravan enters the village without ceremony. The guards exchange familiar greetings with the gate watch while several villagers wave toward merchants they recognize. Clearly this journey has been made many times before.
The wagons slowly make their way toward a large slate-roofed building near the center of town.
Iron-eye, the caravan master, rides near the front.

As the caravan pulls into the yard behind the Bierkeller, Iron-eye swings down from his horse and begins directing the unloading.
"Barnaby, stable the teams. Lars, check the wheel on the flour wagon. Easy now... no sense breaking an axle after two hundred miles."
Barnaby merely nods.
"Aye."

Payment
Once the horses have been turned over to the stable boys, Iron-eye approaches the adventurers carrying a worn leather purse.
He counts the coins carefully into each character's hand.
"You've earned your wages."
"Three days on the road. Thirty silver apiece, as agreed."
"We'll spend today in Frisia. I leave before dawn tomorrow with the merchants for the Drazkleed. You'll remain here until we return."
"I've already arranged rooms with Ronart. Beds are paid for, so you needn't worry about lodging."
"Food and drink are your own affair."
"Enjoy yourselves while you can. Frontier roads have a habit of growing longer than expected."
He gives a slight nod before turning back toward the wagons.
Old Barnaby glances toward the characters.
"Breakfast won't wait."
Then he disappears into the stable.

The Bierkeller smells of oak smoke, fresh bread and simmering stew.
Although still morning, several local farmers are already gathered over mugs of weak ale before heading into the fields. A pair of woodsmen quietly discuss timber prices while one merchant pores over ledgers near the hearth.
Behind the bar moves a tall, gangly fellow with rolled sleeves and an easy smile.
This is Ronart Tonnahor.

Bierkeller Menu
Morning Fare
Meal Price
Fresh bread with butter 2 cp
Bread, cheese and apple 4 cp
Hot oat porridge with honey 5 cp
Fried eggs, bacon and rye bread 8 cp
Hearty woodsman's breakfast (eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes and bread) 1 sp 5 cp

Midday & Evening Meals
Meal Price
Thick vegetable stew 6 cp
Beef and barley stew with bread 9 cp
Roast chicken with carrots and onions 1 sp 2 cp
Pork roast with cabbage and potatoes 1 sp 5 cp
Hunter's platter (venison, potatoes, mushrooms, brown bread) 1 sp 8 cp

Drinks
Drink Price
Small ale 2 cp
Large ale 4 cp
Dark stout 5 cp
Apple cider 3 cp
Mulled cider 5 cp
Goat's milk 2 cp
Herbal tea 3 cp
Spring water Free

Extras
Item Price
Fresh loaf of bread 3 cp
Wheel of local cheese 7 cp
Smoked sausage 6 cp
Honey cake 5 cp
Meat pie 8 cp
Sack lunch for travelers 1 sp

What do you plan to do?

Not everything on the list is available. No camels.

You find yourselves at the Bierkeller and Ronnart is as usual, busy polishing the glassware and ordering his servers about. He sees a beggar enter who looks to be in his 30's.
"Ozrit, I knew you'd come around begging once more. Fine...have a seat and I'll have them bring you a meal," says Ronart.
"And a beer? I is awfully thirsty milord," says Ozrit in a rough and gravelly voice.
"Aye...a beer as well. Have a seat somewhere," replies Ronart.

Ozrit looks around and sees your table and the empty chair.
"Do ya mind milords? Me feet and me back are a sufferin' and I needs to eat," he says as he takes a seat.

"I am a scribe's assistant sir, my name is Ozrit," he says and sits up straight. "I hear you are about to head south once your caravan is ready?"

"Iron-eye. We go back a ways, why?" he says looking at Geros in the eye smilng.

"No, but I probably should. My master forgets I need to eat and as a Sage doing research, I have much work from him but little in the way of pay. As you can see, I have a tab here and very little else," he says as he looks at Zugor and nods as if to say "good day."

Two goblins walk in to the Bierkeller and take a seat at a table and order food and beer. They have a large bag with them containing vegetables from what you can see.

"Oh, them. They're a complicated lot. But alas, I must eat," he says as the server places a huge plate of boiled eggs, ham and roasted vegetables right in front of Ozrit. He digs in with relish.

Ozrit finishes his breakfast.
"Alright, nice to meet you lads. I'm off. If you need anything, I will be near the North Gate. Master Loamora's Apothecary. Good day milords," he says, give a short nod for a bow and is out of the door.

You find the Apothecary. lnside is the Alechemist...

Zugor and Garos return from the Alchemist. The two Goblins look over at Zugor and one of them walks over and speaks to him in Orcish, "Warrior, we have some knives to sell. Seeing as you are a cousin of sorts we'd like you to have first opportunity to buy one of our finest, we will sell the rest to the merchant here in town. What say you?"

The Goblins invite you over to the table and open a leather roll with several knives on display. There are 7 of them, each about the size of a small to regular size dagger. Each looks somewhat stylized as their grips are each wrapped in leather, with simple, but also decorative crossguards. What draws you to the conclusion that these are more than they seem is that each is made of a blue steel with a grain that reminds you of wood.
"Be warned master Orc, these are very sharp and they keep their edge longer," he says. He pulls one with a black leather grip, a pommel in the shape of a dragon's head. The crossing guard is shaped like a crescent, covering the knuckles.
"This is the best of the best," he says as he offers you to hold it. You find that the balance is incredible and when you test the sharpness, it shaves that inch of your forearm hairs leaving it baby smooth.

"Most common folk are reluctant to trade with us. Only the Merchants, but as you can see...hmmm. I have a proposition. If you like this particular blade, I will let you take it now, in return, you escort us to our village. It's a one day trip. And...carry some of our pack. We travel by foot. What say you?" he says.

"If you change your mind, we leave within the hour," he says as he packs up the weapons including the dragon blade. The two goblins begin putting their things in order after shaking hands with Zugor.