In a land of magic and mayhem that knows only war, heroes are forged in the heat of battle, wizards and warriors clash over fire and ice, blood and steel, swords and sorcery!
This is a works of fiction based on the 1980's board game Advanced Heroque...
Turning our backs on the mighty river Reik and the city of Nuln, where we had suffered much misfortune, we slowly trekked towards the Eastern Marshes, down muddy roads, until we reached this outland known as The Riding.
Surrounded by dense woodlands, this small part of the Empire was now but a shadow of its former glory. A forsaken wreck of a countryside that alas was past its best, where brave souls claimed their homes, bound in hamlets and basking in the wistfulness of their ill-fated inheritances.
Raiding parties from the nearby orc mountain dens regularly plagued the three villages that remained amongst The Riding's barren lands: Mayby to the south, Stoodthorpe and Averridge to the north.
We also knew to stay clear of the surrounding forests, for they now harboured dark and foul creatures. Would be poachers would be ill-advised to chance game in these dark woods and us, likewise, had no inclination to dawdle along their paths.
Thus, surrounded on all sides by inequity, gone were the days when pilgrims would travel to the Island of Virginia Lake and commune at the Shrine of Gadd. Those roads now stood deserted. Few believe any monks still live on the isle itself, and those who claim to know can only muster vague, half-muttered rumours when pressed for more.
All this we had learnt over pitchers of ale, under the thick heavy smoke of inns, from frightened merchants who were headed westward towards more civilized grounds.
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But we had also learned of the Barrow Hills, ancient burial grounds of forgotten kings. The locals dare not venture there, believing them to be haunted. This, we reckoned, would have kept would be tomb raiders away, allowing us the privilege of reaping the rewards their cowardice so conveniently left for our taking.
It was with sore feet that we came to our first stop, the fishing village of Mayby which strands upon the river Aver. There, river traders sail up the Aver to offload their goods, their boats no longer small enough to continue navigating its murky waters.
Our true destination was the village of Stoodthorpe, further up the Old South Road. There we reckoned we could find maps of the Barrow Hills and, with a bit of luck, hints as to the entrances of the hidden tombs therein, sepulchres filled with gilt and riches.
With such intentions we found ourselves at the crossroads of the Old South Road and the River Aver at Brann's Ferry. The skies were dark cloud heavy, and cold drops of bitter rain greeted us to the Aver's shores...
