Few things shine as bright as the jewels of Hell
A rare and diseased jewel, a canker fallen from the heavens
“Gold. GOLD. GOLD! Beautiful, wonderous, Gold! I am Rich I tell you. I am the luckiest man alive!”
“Ever in my hand, lies the Blade of the Mad. It’s straight, simple craft is so alluring to me… It drives me to evil, but I love what it does. For the first blood the blade tasted was that of a human.”
Jemas Lorne, the most celebrated poet of the age, was found dead, clutching a fragment of verse torn from his journal. The tantalizing fragment spoke of wealth:
Golden sands, empty and cold,
Treasure's crypt, forgotten gold.
Under stone, ancestor's doom,
Noble's prize, troubadour's tomb.
Rumours claim that the poet's father, an eccentric nobleman, had hidden much of his wealth before his death. Perhaps the missing journal has more clues?