A mythic sword thats only power is legend.
The tears of a blinded god created it.
A list of harmless (if sometimes annoying) potions.
A blade that lives, and has lived for millennia.
The story I am about to tell you is one of magic and of monsters, of bravery and courage, of good and of evil, but most importantly of Flame and he who wished to quench it - Old Cro, the story teller.
The road has never been more than an overgrown mud track, little travelled and little cared for, petered out to nothing more than a flattened earthen line, barely distinguishable from the rest of the landscape. The soil is dark and fecund and dark oaks stand like sentinels at the forest edge, their branches high and leafy. From them hang grizzly human bones, skulls and shiny precious stones. Who put these strange totems there? Are they warnings? Do the PCs dare to take the stones?