Crumbli
the Tea Time Tyrant
The year is 714 R.C (Revised Charts). The world of Maerl has experienced a long calm with the major nations across its lands focusing more on calming themselves than expanding their borders. Despite the vast size of the major nations, many lands remain unexplored and most who dwell within them unenlightened to the methods of refinery and magics. Some would argue their ways of life are traditional and in touch with the land, others that they’re savages. For most they remain ignored and little more than myth with the trials of daily life holding their attention. And for good reason.
As of 4 short months ago the Brolla Imperium came into contact with what is commonly known as red fever. The disease’s origin is still unknown with each community blaming its diseased neighbours for it. The Imperial body did little to stop the spread of the disease holding each county, duchy, and barony responsible for their own quelling of the plague.
As of now the disease has spread to the farthest coast of the Brolla Imperium with its corrupting touch seeping into the empire’s neighbours. The county of Pendine, a decently sized land with a renowned port, has felt the hands of the red fever clasp firmly around its throat with few feeling brave enough to leave their homes. Out of sheer desperation the count of the region has made an official decree to enlist the aid of anyone brave enough to search far and wide for a cure to the disease. The rewards are plenty for succeeding but the interest garnered isn’t small. Many far and wide have come for all motives. Be it for fame, fortune, or fear.
In the county of Pendine above the city of Newport the clouds loom ominously overhead, heavy with rain and dark in colour as a consequence. The sun's yet to rise or if it has its rays are too weak to penetrate the grey blanket above. Chilling winds wash over the city from the sea beyond with the smell of salt doing little to help mask the scent of burning flesh and rotting meat. Too many have passed from the red fever and with the sisters of the local abbey growing ill themselves, proper cremations are a luxury the survivors can't afford. Piling the dead on wagons and setting fire to them has become common place with many wondering if there'll be any wagons or people left once the fever dies down.
Despite the doom and gloom of the fever and its impending demise of the surviving few, people still hold out hope. Inside one of the remaining inns of Newport gather adventurers, aspiring heroes, grieving souls, and frightened townsfolk. The natives of region being observed exploiting the low price of alcohol to drink away their suffering. The inn's wooden floors and closed windows retain the heat well, with the upper floors of the inn being rented by trapped passers through and the refugees of neighbouring holds unwilling to part with their rooms.
For those just arriving, the majority of people within gather around two of the long tables seated farthest from the door and closest to the wall of casks. The taps of the mostly filled barrels stop only for a few seconds to allow the next mug to get into the right position before flowing again. Beyond the sounds of quiet murmurs, trickling drips of ale, and tapping of mugs on the wooden tables there's little to speak of. That is until the next bard begins playing a song. Many of the songs so far have been about loss and pain, topics very familiar to most present, though a change in mood seems imminent.
As of 4 short months ago the Brolla Imperium came into contact with what is commonly known as red fever. The disease’s origin is still unknown with each community blaming its diseased neighbours for it. The Imperial body did little to stop the spread of the disease holding each county, duchy, and barony responsible for their own quelling of the plague.
As of now the disease has spread to the farthest coast of the Brolla Imperium with its corrupting touch seeping into the empire’s neighbours. The county of Pendine, a decently sized land with a renowned port, has felt the hands of the red fever clasp firmly around its throat with few feeling brave enough to leave their homes. Out of sheer desperation the count of the region has made an official decree to enlist the aid of anyone brave enough to search far and wide for a cure to the disease. The rewards are plenty for succeeding but the interest garnered isn’t small. Many far and wide have come for all motives. Be it for fame, fortune, or fear.
In the county of Pendine above the city of Newport the clouds loom ominously overhead, heavy with rain and dark in colour as a consequence. The sun's yet to rise or if it has its rays are too weak to penetrate the grey blanket above. Chilling winds wash over the city from the sea beyond with the smell of salt doing little to help mask the scent of burning flesh and rotting meat. Too many have passed from the red fever and with the sisters of the local abbey growing ill themselves, proper cremations are a luxury the survivors can't afford. Piling the dead on wagons and setting fire to them has become common place with many wondering if there'll be any wagons or people left once the fever dies down.
Despite the doom and gloom of the fever and its impending demise of the surviving few, people still hold out hope. Inside one of the remaining inns of Newport gather adventurers, aspiring heroes, grieving souls, and frightened townsfolk. The natives of region being observed exploiting the low price of alcohol to drink away their suffering. The inn's wooden floors and closed windows retain the heat well, with the upper floors of the inn being rented by trapped passers through and the refugees of neighbouring holds unwilling to part with their rooms.
For those just arriving, the majority of people within gather around two of the long tables seated farthest from the door and closest to the wall of casks. The taps of the mostly filled barrels stop only for a few seconds to allow the next mug to get into the right position before flowing again. Beyond the sounds of quiet murmurs, trickling drips of ale, and tapping of mugs on the wooden tables there's little to speak of. That is until the next bard begins playing a song. Many of the songs so far have been about loss and pain, topics very familiar to most present, though a change in mood seems imminent.