"This is a clean room environment. So we will have to pass through decontamination before we can enter." Researcher Gorgron Rogbutt, an Orc.
30 Prisons, some of which are dreadful places in which to be, whilst others can be surprisingly pleasant, as far as somewhere can be pleasant when you are not allowed to leave it. Some are short term places of confinement, others are where you will spend the rest of your life unless you manage to escape.
An open room lay before them, occupied only by a few cobwebs and dust. Upon entering, a phrase is seen on one wall. One of them utters the phrase out of wonder for its meaning, unknowingly activating the room. An eye opens on the wall in front of the poor souls and with a quick flash of light, the last thing heard from the room is heart retching screams... then silence.
It is said wizards don’t work well with others of their kind. Once they have a tower, woe to anyone not recognizing their superiority, that is the rule. But to every rule is an exception. Once, there were three wizards, on friendly terms, that built their towers closer than anyone before. The towers are lost, the knowledge therein may be yet reclaimed.
The TheoRgs are known for being amongst the biggest, toughest, and most generally unpleasant sentients in the galaxy. And this is their nightclub.
In the ramshackle town of Spear Malice only a single building still stands. It has defied the Great War and its spears of light; nuclear blasts that devastated the entire state, and ever since then it has defied the onslaught of time.
Its halls have not yet been breached, and a wealth of technological treasure await, ripe for plunder! But there are others who crave this treasure; others that will do anything to claim it.
Before the honored dead are placed in their sarcophagi of alabaster, they come to the Villa of the Embalmers.
The players have a chance to cure the plague that has sprouted up upon their travels. Will they choose to do the right thing and help bring health back to the region?
A tough climb for a source of wonderous healing…
"Calm your mind"," the mage said. "I can’t" says Raygar. "It is like my thoughts are echoing in here. It is so loud!" The mage tried to shift the burly bandit, to drag him out of the room. "This is a prayer room, what to ..." The mage practically leapt to the dais. Sitting in the center he sank in a position of reflection and prayed. The mage heard the click. The bandit sighed slightly in the tiniest relief. The mage began to drag the bandit out of the room, heading to and opening one of the doors.
You follow the map your purchased. It is to lead to the lair of Tergars the Dark. You follow through the woods, and find the rocks that lead into the hillside. The troupe creeps inside. Inside you find burned out candles, recent trash, and a few broken kegs. It is not Orc remains… there are funny and obscene things written on the walls with charcoal written in the local tongue. It is strange… unless….
In the dry steppelands, one of their most valuable exports is the dried sap of the Larthorn tree. These ugly plants are covered with vicious thorns, but the locals harvest the golden droplets that ooze from their bark each Autumn. This sap, once dried, is valued for its medicinal properties and as a spice. Since little gold or silver is found in the hinterland, the dried droplets of sap are often used as currency by the locals.