Chapter Three - Return to the Mournland

Meepo gets off the train and looks around. This looks as good of a town as any to see if there are any new friends to meet.

Meepo is a 2 foot 3 inches kobold. Walking around with a large backpack strapped to his back. Looking around like a tourist he seeks a new adventuring party and a new group of friends as he no longer has a pack of his own.

Looking through the Salvation Times Meepo decides to head on down to the Gray Beyond to see if anything there or anyone there is worth his time. He starts heading down second avenue before travelling on main Street. He looks around as he travels down the road to see the style of construction the buildings look as well as people watch to see how the civilians treat each other

Stepping off of the train onto the waiting platform, Trusk pauses a moment and stretches his 6 foot 3 frame, pushing his limbs to the sky and arching his back. The backpack, quiver of javelins and greatsword strapped to his back all rustle against his armor. His stomach grumbles. In the Wastes he could go for a few days between meals. But he'd gotten too used to the routine of these southern lands, and craved his third meal of the day. Glancing at the paper, he decided the Gray Beyond was the ideal place to be. Perhaps someone there would have information about what horrors lurk in the Mournland, what he can expect to encounter there.

Torhak stepped off the lightning rail, his massive frame towering above the other travelers disembarking onto the wooden platform of Salvation Outpost. The minotaur cut an imposing figure, standing well over seven feet tall (with his horns easily adding another foot), clad in heavy splint armor that bore the scars of countless battles. His dark fur was matted in places, and his broad, muscular arms showed the signs of wear from both weapon and weather. From beneath the pauldron on his right shoulder the faint crimson glow of his dragonmark could be seen pulsing lightly. More notably, broken manacles hung from his thick wrists, rattling faintly with each movement—a symbol of his past captivity and his vow to never be bound again.

Torhak’s eyes, fierce and steady, surveyed the town with a look of grim determination. The smell of dust, wood, and faint traces of smoke filled the air, all signs of a frontier town balanced on the edge of civilization and ruin. He gazed eastward, where the roiling wall of gray clouds rose high into the sky, marking the border of the Mournland. The sight sent a familiar chill down his spine, this wasn't the first time he'd encountered the Grey Wall, in fact if he found work here that required him to enter the Mournland it might feel like a return to the beginning for him.

‘The end of the line… but not the end of my journey’ he thought, his gaze unwavering. The Mournland was a scar upon the land, a place of death and torment, but Torhak saw it as a test, a challenge to be confronted. Whatever secrets the cursed land held, he intended to find them, to conquer them—if they did not conquer him first.

He pulled a copy of the Salvation Times from a nearby stack, scanning it for any leads. It spoke of work at the Grey Beyond, a tavern in town, and the promise of a job board—a place where those seeking fortune or purpose might gather. Not one to waste time, he tucked the paper away, the broken manacles on his wrists clinking as he moved.

Torhak turned, his massive warhammer resting across his back, and began to stride purposefully toward the town center, moving against the flow of travelers headed to the tavern. He had no need for food or drink, at least not yet; he sought purpose, and he would find it on that job board. Every step was a statement—of defiance, of determination, and of the strength that drove him ever onward. His dark hooves dug into the dirt roads beneath his tremendous weight.

As he walked through the unpaved streets of Salvation Outpost, his eyes narrowed at the abandoned church on the outskirts of town. ‘This place reeks of despair. And yet, it calls to the desperate. The lost. If only they knew the power that lived inside them.’ He spared it a final glance, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression, before shifting his gaze forward once more.

With each step, Torhak prepared himself for what lay ahead.

Stepping off the lightning rail, the young man with the insanely bright orange hair walked to the edge of the platform and stood staring out, not at the town, but the towering massive wall of clouds which was the Mournland. He slowly took off his orange tinted glasses so that he could see the wall in its true colors. A metal lion walked slowly to the edge to sit next to its creator.

"The pictures really don't do it justice, the smell and feel of the air, just radiates oppression doesn't it." he shook is head slowly wondering if this really was the way forward with his life. The lion made an expansive yawning motion, at which the young man laughed. "Not impressive to you huh?"

Not deterred by his metal companion's apparent boredom, Tryne continued to stare at the grey of the Mournland wall for sometime, his hand resting lightly on the lion's head. "Place of opportunity my friend..."

Finally turning toward the town, "A little slice of home..." he could almost see the thieves, con men, corporations which likely preyed within those few streets from here. "Streets here might actually be cleaner..." he comments with a broad smile looking at the unpaved dirt roads.

Tryne allows the crush of people from the train flow into the town, not in any rush, content to study the town for a moment.



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A handsome young man with an athletic build standing roughly 6' tall with clean human features and only the trace of elvish around the ears, Tryne's most striking feature is the tangle of bright orange, spiky hair on his head. Normally something you might find on a fire genasi it is impossible to tell if it is just naturally like this or if Tryne does it on purpose. Tryne always wears goggles with orange tinged lens, matching his hair but making it impossible to see his clear blue eyes.

Tryne always wears armor which is a clash of two conflicting styles. Every piece is meticulously cleaned, finely polished, displaying runes or symbols of fire or other magical elements and nothing matches. The left gauntlet and pauldron appear to be plate armor, but not from the same set, with the main armor being a grey steel breast plate. The right arm is mostly free of armor, probably to allow free use of a weapon, with a fine leather glove tucked into his belt. The shield strapped to his back is polished steel decorated with carved runes of elemental magic.

Torhak approached the bar and looked up at the Warforged Titan Head, "Impressive..." he said in his low rumbly voice to no one in particular. "Barkeep..." he said to the Halfling, "I'll have a drink, whiskey, strong. And the name of the group that brought that down if you have it" he said gesturing to the Warforged Titan head.

Torhak wraps his giant, meaty, paw around the shot glass and deftly drained it down his throat in one swift motion. He then set the shot glass back down on the bar, "Another please..." he then gazed back up to the helm. "That's exactly the kind of story I expect from the Mournland."

Meepo wanders into the bakery and buys a bakers dozen of any of the smaller pastries before wandering back on the road. Observing the boarded up windows he clutches his coin purse tight wondering if he is in an area of thieves and crooks before he notices main Street itself has some damage as well as collapsed roofs.

Taking note of the hotel so that he can come back there later when he needed a safe nights rest he wanders into Grey Beyond

Trusk enters the Gray Beyond and makes for the bar, sitting two stools down from Torhak. "I'll have what he's having." he says to the bartender. "So friend," he says to the minotaur "you seem to be a fellow warrior. If I may, what gods do you serve?"

Laulalith exits the lightning rail, taking in her new surroundings and taking her time to watch the other passengers disembark and disperse into the muddy streets of the outpost.

She pauses a moment to look at her reflection in the window of the train. She tucks a loose strand of black hair behind her right ear and inspects her appearance.

The travel has taken its toll on her, and her eyes are red and irritated from the train's smoke. She concentrates for a moment and let's her medalion's magic wash over her face to remove the traces of red surrounding her green irises.

The dragon mark that curls up the left side of her neck is well hidden under layers of disguise - both conventional and magical. It's a shame that she has to hide her heritage like that, but this is not the time for drawing attention to herself. As always, the illusion also covers the jagged scar on her left cheek, but that part is just vanity.

Last time she was here, the war was still raging, and it seemed like it would never end. She had been deep under cover and only sheer dumb luck allowed her to make it out in time before the cataclysm. She shudders involuntarily, thinking about what would have happened if she hadn't been pulled out in time, but this is no time to dwell on the past. She has a mission, and the enemies of her house are undoubtedly already moving to secure the secrets of the Mournland for themselves. The task before her is daunting and she thinks back to the message that made her board the train to this wasteland:To succeed, she needs allies, information, a hot meal, and a bath. Preferably in the reverse order.

Lauralith makes her way toward the tavern. As she walks down the street, old habits makes her scan the crowd to see if she is being followed.

"Challenge, profit, power, it's all a means to an end." Torhak said to the bartender as he looked to his empty shot glass, and then to the warrior who had saddled up to the bar two stools down. He was already attracting attention, good, he would need a group to travel into the Mournland. This one inferred he was a warrior, it would be good to have battle prowess out there beyond the gray. "I serve only myself, I am Torhak, the Ironbanded. What are you called?" his low voice rumbled a bit more when he gave his epithet.

"I am Trusk. I have come seeking great evil to battle. Perhaps you would be willing to join me in my quest?" Tordak sips his drink, savoring the flavor.

Torhak gave a bit of a sideways nod as if it to say, 'Maybe', "What kind of man are you Trusk the Warrior?" Torhak looked to Trusk, his gray eyes seemingly attempting to pierce through to his core, his nostrils flared with interest as if attempting to assess Trusk by his smell.

"I am of the Ghaash'kala, servants of the Binding Flame that keeps the demons and fiends trapped in the depths of Khyber. My people are a mighty tribe, who fight the monsters and Carrion tribes of the Demon Wastes to keep them at bay. I am strong of arm and spirit."

Torhak nodded in approval, "A strong man then, a man of conviction. Why then have you come to this wasteland? You said to seek great evil to battle. Is there no more evil in the Demon Wastes for you to test your mettle against?" Torhak levied one of his heavy arms up onto the bar to lean on it, the giant manacle fitted around it thudded hard against the wood, the broken chain that once linked the manacle to a post clattered against the underneath of the bar.