A Terra Tale: A Trip to the Mohrg

Chapter One: Meet the Crew

"None of us is as smart as all of us."

Ken Blanchard

What would you consider a hero?

Not just an average man, right? Someone that did what was just and right. Not for personal profit or pleasure, but because they knew it would make the world a better place. Somewhere a little safer, a little less violence, with a little less suffering.

Someone brave and strong, perhaps? Capable with a sword and shield and always willing to defend the average person. Not just from each other, but the things that lurk in the night's dark. Someone who can keep the monsters at bay.

Or someone who heals, and is kind and virtuous? A priest who offered the kindness of the gods to aid those in need. Tending to wounds and the sick with one hand while raising the light of holy radiance to shield the defenseless from the hazards of the world.

Even the noble wizard, with pointed hat and long-stemmed pipe, full of sage advice and untapped power. Power that they wield to banish the hidden evils away, forever.

These are common ideas of what a hero should be. But this is not a tale of what a hero should be.

This is a tale of what a hero is.

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The tomb was a fresher one, by historical standards at least, as it was a mere three centuries old. The dwarves of the Bornum made walls composed of large blocks of rock that were hewn and shaped as the tunnels into the Cloudtop Peaks. The entrance had been a simple set of thick stone doors, barred and cemented shut with prayers dedicated to Freya inscribed around the large disc of marble that had been situated over the seam as a seal. A faded symbol, painted onto the stone with pigments flecked with gold and copper, of the Branmun clan had been on the marble seal before it had been broken, the large disc of marble splintered and forgotten by the invader within.

The interior was like most dwarven tombs. Multiple chambers with vaulted ceilings, an ossuary full of skeletons laid in loculi along the walls, tattered bits of funeral shrouds laid over their bodies and scattered possessions. The invader had picked them clean, taking anything of value left behind, as well as more than a few bodies that were (more or less) intact compared to the rest, before moving deeper into the crypt.

In the deepest section, someone had once built a small temple for Freya. Pews of solid granite, rotted remnants of what padding they'd had near gone, with chandeliers of enchanted candles shedding a dim glow over the room. At the back, built into the wall, had been the coffin of Hastul Bornum VII, the man for whom the tomb they had built. The other bodies had been his family, as well as several of his workers, who had died before his heart finally stopped beating.

The coffin had been quite ornate, but as the heroes had learned upon rounding the tunnel into this forgotten temple, it had been broken to bits and peeled off any valuable metals and gems.

All that had remained in the chamber had been a small army of reanimated dwarven nobles, as well as a few larger skeletons that looked as if something had recently stripped them of still-bloody meat.

"Sol be damned!" One dwarf bellowed as he plowed through three of his skeletal kin, bowling two over, while one latched onto his shoulder to be carried along as he continued his charge into one of the larger skeletons. "I still be sayin' this was the work of Blackheart!"

He swung his weapon, a massive axe that he gripped along a thick shaft of worn wood, wrapped in sweat-stained leather. Its heavy double-headed blade slashed into the arm of the large skeleton, breaking an ulna, and little else. The skeleton shuffled on its feet, lashing out with one clawed hand as it took the weakened blow. The claw bounced off a shimmering barrier of energy, the pinkish bone sizzling at the touch of the golden energy.