Tales of the Oremian Empire
It is the fall in the month of the Bloody Moon, a week before the Festival of the Slaughter. You’ve witnessed the leaves change to a myriad of oranges, reds and browns, as you have made your way north from Flinn. Your are currently in the small, silver mining town of Sorn. You have replenished your supplies and find you are now low on funds. You are currently staying at the, Silver Flagon, a well maintained, middle class inn.
While seated at a table in the corner of the dining room, you contemplate your next move. Your thoughts are interrupted by the suddenly raised voices at a table nearby.
“It was horrible!” a distraught voice exclaims.
You look up and see a thin, aging man with salt and pepper, receding hair and mutton chops seated at a table with three other men. The other men are staring, mouths open, at the man. The aging man has 2 empty tankards in front of him and is working on a 3rd. He speaks again, a look of terror on his face as he stares, not seeing the men before him.
“The monsters! They took poor Torvald!” He takes a drink of his ale and the men start speaking in hushed tones.