A family of semi-retired doomsday cultists, just trying to live a quiet life while tending an apple orchard in the country. Except with complications.
‘Don’t you go foolin around in the fens buy. Moeder Moeras don’t care none if you mean no offence or just want to fill your wicker creel with fish. She’ll have your guts for fishnets and your bones for soup.’
Paulis the Riverguide
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?