You still struggle to understand the nature of the Draconic
Prophecy. Moons, planes, dragonmarks—for those with eyes to
see, the Prophecy has the power to shape the future.
Your journey through the Shadow Marches has left your cloaks and armor covered in mud, your clothes soaked with sweat. The short break ye had out along the kings way did little to help improve your moods. Hungry insects buzz about you, and the air is warm and wet. Your destination is Blackroot, a village tied to the Dorrm and Veledaar clans. The sun is beginning to set when the settlement finally comes into view. Like most villages in the Marches, this small community offers few amenities and no dragonmarked house services. There is no central authority in the Shadow Marches, and the village reeve is responsible for administering justice in the local region.
Blackroot draws its name from the darkwood trees that thrive in this region, their tangled roots rising up from the soil to all sides. The ground here is relatively solid for the Marches, and the village sits atop a rocky rise. Its huts sit directly upon the ground instead of being raised on stilts above marshland, as is common elsewhere in the region. Orcs, humans, and half-orcs work together in the nearby orchards or pass along the main street. None of them seem particularly pleased to see you.
Within moments, you are approached by a lean and muscular orc. His skin is weathered, streaks of gray seen in his long black hair. He bears no weapons and wears loose peasant clothing, but he carries himself with confidence.
"Greetings," he says. "I am Toraash’Dorrm, the reeve of Blackroot. I don’t know what brings you here, but we’ve no inn, no tavern, and no time for strangers. I suggest you move on."
Tora turns toward ye, "Well Lordling here ye be, now if ye please, my 20 gold for bringing ye this far? Thank ye, well folks I am tired, wet, dirty and hungrey, I am going to find meself a nice little camping area back towards the city, mayhap I will once again see ye."