The husk of a once-proud city lies curled at the foot of Mount Ragal—though no one calls it that anymore. These days, it’s Deathwatch Mountain, and the name is no exaggeration. The ruin that gutted the city still festers in its bones. All that remains is ash, silence, and the bitter memory of a land betrayed by its own ambition.
For a dozen centuries, treasure-seekers and glory-hounds have been drawn to the place like flies to carrion, chasing whispers of lost relics and forgotten riches. But “The Burn,” as it’s rightly called now, is no place for the living. It doesn’t just kill—it unravels you. Linger too long, and it’ll peel your soul out through your skin. It’s not the heat or the dust that does it. It’s something deeper. Something wrong. It wants you gone.
Still, some go anyway—brave or foolish, desperate or doomed. One such was the Dragon Lord of Taurduin. Again and again, he climbed the mountain to the lake at its peak—Glimmermere—harvesting its waters to breathe life into his island nation. And now he’s gone, and Taurduin lies shattered in his wake. A victory, perhaps. But one so soaked in ruin, the word triumph dies in the throat.
The survivors—the ones who aren’t still trapped behind the cracked walls of their homeland—are scattered now, clinging to the wild coasts of Whyrllish, where the land bites back and no welcome waits. They march inland, weary and ragged, placing what remains of their faith in Lady Gavashoon of Auris. They beg for safe passage to Mithrin. They carry hope—but it stinks of rot.
Because something follows them. Not fire. Not plague. A quiet thing. A wasting. Folk grow tired. Can’t move. Then… fade. No herb cures it. No priest banishes it. No spell does more than slow it down. If the waters of Glimmermere cannot cleanse this creeping death, then they’ll all be gone by the first snows.
You are sent to speak with a man who has seen Deathwatch and returned—if barely. Gravik Hurma, a Sorskappian mercenary dwarf, survived the forest and the Burn, though not whole. He came back missing an arm and carrying memories like grave-weight.
The medic’s tent is dim and stifling, thick with the tang of blood, steeped herbs, and the faint copper sting of something spoiled. A voice like gravel in a boot grumbles from within before you even step through the canvas flap:
“WHAT now, Lars? I’ve had enough o’ yer yammerin’. Told ye, I don’t know! I wasn’t there when it happened, I—”
He turns—and stops. One eye, clouded with pain and years, narrows as he takes in your group. His tone shifts. The fire dims. Tired replaces angry.
Before you stands a broad-shouldered, thick-set dwarf carved from hard labor and harder days. His left shoulder is bound in honey-soaked wrappings, the arm gone clean off. His beard is a patchwork of iron-grey braids, and sweat clings to his brow like dew on stone.
Utgar Van Morian steps forward, voice calm but solemn.
“Sorry, Gravik. I need you to tell them what to expect. What you saw in the forest and In the Burn.”
Gravik exhales, long and rattling.
“Aye… aye. Let’s get it over with, so I can go back to dyin’ quiet.”
He squints at the group, then tilts his head toward Utgar.
“I take it that elder o’er there’s your way back?”
Blank looks earn a scowl.
“Bah. Ye best have a way out. Else ye’ll feed the dirt same as the rest.”
Utgar gives a curt nod. “We have a plan. It’s costly—but it will work. Just tell them what they need to know about The Marth.”
Gravik snorts, a bitter sound.
“If ye say so. Our way out was one of yours.” He jabs a scarred finger at Rhyll. “Old wizardess named Abathra. Hard as frozen leather, that one. Cold as mountain stone and twice as unyielding. A terror with spells—turned jungle to cinders, split trees with bolts of pure sky. That was old magic, the real stuff. From before the Fade. Back in the Winterwar. You lot wouldn’t remember.”
He shifts, grimacing at his shoulder.
“She’s why I’m still breathin’. Kept us alive more times than I like to count.”
His voice drops, low and grave.
“Now the jungle… it moves. It breathes. It wants. Everything in it will kill you—by tooth, by sting, by seed. Don’t eat anything. Don’t let anything eat you. You’ll meet the forest elves—oh, you will. End it quick. The longer the fight, the more of ‘em come. Fast, silent, cruel. That arm?”
He gestures to his stump.
“Took two arrows. Barely scratched the skin. Next mornin’? Roots, growin’ outta the wounds. They had to carve ‘em out—Abathra and our healer, little gob named Bak or Beak or somesuch. But they kept comin’ back. Burrowin’ in again.”
He pauses, eyes distant.
“When we broke into the Burn, the elves stopped. Just vanished. Like they knew we were already dead. Didn’t bother finishin’ the job. I made it two, maybe three days. Then Abathra sent me back. Said I’d do more good carryin’ word than rot.”
He leans in slightly, as if sharing a secret no one wants to hear.
“You’ll know when you cross into the Burn. You’ll feel it. The air changes. Sweat vanishes, like it’s afraid to linger. Heat, yes—but dry. And silent. Too silent. The ground? Bones. A blanket of ‘em. Tiny ones. Creatures, birds, vermin. All dead. Not rotted—withered. Even food stays fresh. No rot. No mold. Even the bugs are gone. One of the riders said our beasts were clean—no ticks, no fleas. All dead.”
He looks troubled now.
“Abathra said it kills the smallest things first. Mold. Mites. Then beasts. Then… us. Gave us five days. No more. After that… even she didn’t know.”
He shifts, rubbing the wrapped stump with slow, pained fingers.
“She cut the roots out again, that last night. Sealed ‘em in a jug. Why? Dunno. But she looked… worried. That kind of quiet that says a wizard’s thinkin’ too loud.”
He glances away, then back.
“Next mornin’, we saw shapes. Quick. Silent. Out of the corner o’ your eye. Then we found the burrows. Deep ones. Somethin’ lives under the Burn. That city? It’s not empty. Not really. Nor the mountain tunnels.”
He meets your eyes, and for the first time, his voice wavers.
“We fought two of the burrowers. Like ankhegs—but worse. Bigger. Meaner. Horses didn’t stand a chance.”
He leans back with a sigh, rattling and raw.
“One last thing. No matter where you walk, you end up facin’ the city. Doesn’t matter your heading. North, south, east—your feet turn back. Some old enchantment, still alive in the ash. So if there’s anything watchin’ from in there… it knows.”
He pats his stump absently.
“They took my arm to stop the rot. Still itches. Still feels like it’s there. They’re tryin’ something new. Might help. Might not.”
He looks to Utgar again, voice soft.
“I brought back sendin’ stones for the scouts. Two reports came through. Then nothin’. Been two weeks.”
Utgar gives a small nod.
“Thank you, Gravik. That’s enough. Go rest.”
The old dwarf turns to your group, eyes like hot coals beneath a battered brow.
“Aye. May your feet be swifter than ours.”
And with that, he limps back into the dark of the tent, leaving a silence that feels heavier than the sun-baked air outside.
Utgar turns to you, voice low.
“Come. Let me show you to the ship.”
Shermans fantasy world 