“Haven’t seen ‘im,” the dwarven bartender mumbles yet again to another despondent family member as he nonchalantly cleans a semi-washed tankard.

The same slow exhale of desperation. The same desperate glance across the bar, hoping to spot a familiar face, or someone with information. Anyone, really. The same realization that Bloodriven was not the place to find a lost soul.

As the tall giantman wanders out the doors, Grallis glances up from his…third? mead of the morning, exposing his copper-inked asp along his forearm, the appendage stretched out from the depths of his heavy black cloak. It had been weeks since Grallis had seen any of the Cabal, those greedy bastards eagerly delving down below the arena, hoping to return triumphantly with “treasure beyond compare.”

“Ya should join us, Grallis,” they said. “Imagine tha piles of silver, I betcha you could buy tha arena!”

But that was several long weeks ago. Several weeks of searching with no answers nor responses. No emerging from the tunnels, no bags bulging with coin and treasure.

The horn-handled stein set on the dirty table trembles slightly, spilling the foam across the wooden surface as Grallis glances outside, towards the arena. Confused visitors scramble for cover as the ground shakes, but the locals merely continue their business, cautiously standing in the middle of the roadway as they make their way to their destination. Just another day within Bloodriven Village.

As Grallis raises his fourth mead of the day to his mouth, he murmurs to himself, chugging down the drink as he gazes at the empty tables ahead of him.






Speaking grimly to Farain, Cruxophim laments, "I didn't see planks until I was nearly a MAN."

SO ELEVATED IN TEMPERATURE RIGHT NOW, OIRISU.