Our tale begins as so many often do. In a world saddled with strife. Uthil'Tal, a divided continent. Drawn by rising mountain spines that carve through jungle and tundra alike. Rivers that act as the life blood of many a civilization. And the sword, crimson bled and white knuckle handled. 

Dividing the Plain Lands of Avierno and the Blood Teeth Valley of Galicia are the dreary Three Peaks Mountains. Home to the cyclops, powerful in stature and vengeful of man's grip on the world. The dragon, worshipped by many, feared by more. And the dwarves of the east. Their expansive kingdom, as glorious as it is secluded, remains an envy of the world.

With envy comes conflict. With conflict comes ruin. And amongst the ruins of Karcsaal Thaig, lays an enticing promise. Three characters of various skill and merit enjoy the warmth of a quiet campfire. A dwarf. A human. and a fruug. Bound by fate? Whose to say. These stories so often exaggerate.

Ranveg Hofstaar chewed on a well seasoned piece of bacon fat, mulling it over as if it were the finest cut of pork off the butcher's slab. The dwarf, like the bacon, was a seasoned veteran of the cave roads that connected the beardkin kingdom. His skin was pruned with age and slick with salty sweat from the hard day's journey. Blue ink covered his ebony skin in geometric templates. He didn't share what they meant to those who asked. And if they knew what they meant, then they didn't ask. His pitch dark hair was tightly knit in interconnecting braids that traveled down the sides of his face and connected to his drooping beard; all well oiled, bundled with silk mesh, and dotted with gem dust as was custom to so many under the mountain. He absently picked at his knee where the curved metal prosthetic acted as his right leg. 

Doctor Ife Aganwe listed her head sideways, listening to the crackling fire pop and sizzle. The scarf covered her bronze toned bald head and gouged out eye sockets. She smiled, weathered creases framing bold amber colored lips. Her fingers traced the bumpy page she was reading; Ferocious fights and Frigid Nights; A Tale of Adventure in the Southern Jungles. Written by famed treasure hunter Kenesia Zenawi. She wore finely tailored grey trousers beaten down by the road and leaned against a propped up staff of zebrano, faintly glowing from its magic imbued tip of ivory. Twisted red and orange beads dangled off strings and hung carved pieces of the home she dreamt of returning to.

Turt diligently scrubbed at his copper plate armor with long green fingers tipped with yellow and gold. His slimy olive green skin shone against the ember light. Bulbous red eyed blinked in rapid succession, one following the crawling beetle on the wall, the other focusing on the task at hand. The fruug's pink tongue shot out the length of his body and snatched the insect in a heart beat. His wide mouth snapped shut with a crunch. Tall and broad of shoulder, he dwarfed the dwarf and looked down at the human when talking to her. His great ax, a gift of the dwarven kingdom to the west nearer his homeland, was always close at hand. 

"Care to read what makes you mirthful so, good doctor?" Turt croaked. Ife didn't look up. She only nodded absently. 

"The author speaks of demodand in the caverns of your home in the Southern Jungles. I smile only as a reaction to trouble ahead, not in joy but rather nervousness." 

"He wrote the book. Suppose he's fine." Ranveg grumbled.

"A harrowing tale clutches the heart, regardless of the outcome, noble dwarf." Turt's tongue flicked at his bottom eyelid as he spoke. "Nary a story told in my clutch was one bereft of emotional turmoil. It speaks to the author's wit with words and skill with pen!"

"I am aware of how books work." The dwarf responded, thumbing the edge of his belt. "Let's keep the talking to a minimum. This old road is scarcely patrolled since Karscaal succumbed to its end. Monsters don't sole lurk in the ink stained pages of witty men." 

"The dwarves of the west are skilled at many things, paranoia chief among them. It seems you share this same trait in the east." Turt groaned. 

"Aye. Rightly so." Ranveg said. "A kingdom isn't forged in a day but it can be lost in one."

"These cavern roads are confusing." Turt agreed. 

Ife smirked. Ranveg didn't correct the fruug. Instead he tucked his bag under his head and closed his eyes. A few long breaths later and he began to snore. Ife closed her book, patted the leather bound cover with affection, and crossed her arms, content to fall asleep sitting cross legged against the wall. Fruug watched the entranceway of the rest station they lodged in. The path they trod, maintained no longer, still had the stone touched hand of civilization. The road was once a thriving commerce way with rest stations periodically peeking out of alcoves for weary travelers to find respite.

Thankfully, theirs was empty upon arrival. But sound goes far under the mountain. Their foot falls, while tepid, rang out all the same and those who had ears twitched in the dark. They scurried along the hidden ways. Crept through the bones of memory. Long was their reach and short was their temper. Vile was their claw and lustful was their hunger.  This was their home now, not the dwarves. They claimed it with their wicked tongue and their wily ways. 

The hours came and went. First watch was nearly at an end. Turt blinked absently, adjusting his breastplate to scratch underneath. At first he thought the sound of tumbling rock was his own doing. He had moved, after all. But the second time confirmed his doubt. The third had him standing straight, ax in hand. Ife was on her feet but only a moment after. 

"Stalwart allies." Turt whispered. "It seems we no longer travel alone." Ranveg flipped onto his belly and grabbed for his quiver; nocking a bolt with his eyes still full of slumber's embrace and a tired, far away look.  The hair of his crouched form rose upward, levitating ever so slightly above the natural order of how beards ought to. It wasn't just his hair; Ife's body hair stood on end. And so too did the pebbles around her feet. A lightness of breath overcame the room. A tingle of harnessed energy. She was whispering something under her breath. Something in the old tongue. Something not meant for this world. The glow around her ivory tipped staff pulsed as if startled awake from a long nap. 

The trio dared not to utter amongst each other. They saved their breath for call outs and warnings. The grim reality of what was likely to occur set into their brows. The rumble grew louder. Footfalls. Nimble and cautious at first. Then as they multiplied, emboldened and firm. Many things made their home in the shadow of the fallen kingdom settlements. Leeched off the fat calf of their betters.

Each of the three had an idea of what these things may be. The dwarf thought of the vile rat mutations that plagued his kingdom for generations. The human thought of the giant crustations that combed the beaches of the Zagwe Empire for prey. The fruug thought of the howling ogre spiders that webbed the ork without fear from their tree.

For better or worse, the dwarf was right. The giant rat creatures, garnok, were barricading the door. Monsters who stood a human tall and were twice as sturdy as a dwarf on a good day. Four reaching arms grew out of their backs and their curved snouts were lousy with sharp teeth. The garnok drooled yellow spittle and stared at the trio with beady black eyes lacking in mercy. Their back legs were capped with scooping pincers that let them dig into their hovels and their tri tails coiled, muscular and as painful as a whip, were the death of many a careless dwarf.

The first of the garnok poked its long snout over the entranceway frame. A shrill whistle blasted past. With a thwap and a thud the creature fell back, letting out a mournful howl. Ranveg nocked another bolt. Turt stepped forward, a bastion between life and death. His copper armor, freshly cleaned, reflected the simmering campfire light. What little could be seen of the exterior road was marred by roving black shadows.

The pretense of stealth now lost, the garnoks let loose chittering that echoed deep down the abandoned road. Garishly long, hairy limbs of brown and black fur clawed at the door. Ife raised her voice now, from a soft spoken utterance to a daring proclamation! Black ichor oozed from tears in the thinned air. They grasped at the doorframe, burning everything they touched. Smoke rose and it smelled of a foulness better not to be described.

A few of their number spat out a harsh, high pitched language. None knew what words they threw at them. It mattered not. The only language that mattered now was universally understood. Turt gripped his ax tightly, gangly fingers shifting the weapon to a ready position. His eyes scanned the doorway, each going their own direction. 

The spectral hands sizzled garnok as they attempted to enter but the weave of magic was only as potent as the weird words spoken and in such confined quarters, the war spells of an open field, though a magnitude more powerful, would be just as like to kill them. So in its deliberately modest state, the magic could only keep the monsters at bay for so long until one managed to slip past. 

Turt leapt astoundingly fast, clearing the distance and whooshing his ax down on the muscle bound chest of the vermin kin creature birthed from the dark world below. Blood stained the floor as the powerful knight cut flesh and bone. In another short burst he returned to his previous position. The garnok grabbed the corpse of their fallen kin and used it to shield themselves from the grasping hands of black acid. A bolt whizzed through an opening under the arm pit and another howl was let out. But that did nothing to quell the push into the room. 

Ranveg dropped his crossbow and picked up a flail and shield. Turt met the foes with a loud huzzah on his lips, tearing the corpse in twain with one fell stroke, sending a shudder through the front line. Ife hissed in her arcane tongue and bubbles of black burst from the ceiling, raining painful liquid, hot like tar, into the room. Suffocating rain that evoked cries of terror and pain alike. 

Ranveg wasted no time in bracing his shield and pushing the creatures, nearly twice his size, back towards the doorway. Many clawed limbs grabbing at him. Tugging at his armor. Trying to find a weakness in his grip. He felt the stinging rain on his back. He clenched his teeth as the contest ground to a stalemate. Turt hefted his axe high and swiped a head off a creature just before it could bite down with its rotting teeth on the dwarf's shoulder pauldron. 

A low rumble shook the room. Nay, not just the room but the road outside and the cavern above and the depths below. Shook the core of each person in that room and for a brief moment brought them to the brink of terror. The tussle stopped dead. The garnok's flat ears perked up and all shifted in the same direction. Whispers in the dark. Then they tarried off down the road. Not a sound nor a whimper. Just their footfalls echoing in the dark. 

Ife took a long breath. "It seems the harrowing has passed." She leaned on her staff, sweating through her head scarf.

"What was that?" Turt inquired as he cleaned the blade of his ax with the fur of the corpse on the floor. 

Ranveg huffed, gathering his strength, and kicked at the garnok dead blocking the entrance.  "I told you, fruug. Here be monsters."