Prologue

Lark Crom marched onward on the dirt path towards the north. A narrow path with tree branches outstretched across the way like arms grasping towards him. With his pistol holstered to his waist and his sword of gold sheathed on his right hip, the gunslinger gazed ahead looking for any signs of settlement. He found none.

It had been nearly two days since he last slept and damn near two weeks since his last shot of whiskey. His sleeping arrangements have been an assortment of trees, caves, and occasionally slipping into barns of local farmers unnoticed. Asking the locals for shelter was a useless endeavor. Things go bump in the night here in Krakey Forest and the locals are always filled with paranoia and on high alert. He craved a beverage to soften his mind of the troubles of recent weeks and was in desperate need of a pub. A brothel would be even better.

He looked up towards the sky, and in the far distance, the gunslinger noticed half the sun was already behind Lectyl Mountain, home of the iron goliaths and the war elves. He could already see the smoke fogging up near the peak of the mountain from the factories the elves used to manufacture the goliaths. Dark would be upon him soon and even a sorry bastard fool such as he knew better than to be out at this hour, especially in this area of the forest. Krakey forest was full of monstrosities that would send the undead running back to their graves. If he were to die, he’ll be damned if it were disembowelment by a gholing or mutilated by a boaren.  He needed to find somewhere safe to camp soon.

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Lark strolled another half-mile before noticing a crooked sign under a tall oak. The sign looked almost ancient with chunks of wood missing around the edges and various scratch marks scattered on the wooden post. The sign was marked in green dwarven lettering,

“A sad place in a cursed land. Welcome to Grelch.”

Finally. Lark was starting to feel the power of luck returning to him. He immediately dashed farther north, towards Grelch. Despite his famished body, the thought of dwarven ale and whiskey propelled him forward.

The sprint to Grelch was a short one. Even so, it was long enough to tire out the fatigued and sober Lark Crom of Kell. The dirt path Lark had been following cut through the middle of town and ended at a large withered structure at the far side of the town. The town was of simple layout and no building boasted over another but Lark had definitely noticed the structure at the end of the road. It was lit up with glowing windows and silhouettes of people centered in some of the windows.  On his right loomed various shops with trinkets, meats, and other goods that were strung up in the windows to entice customers. On his left stood what seemed to be the town bank and jailhouse. Surprisingly, Lark saw no church, which he was completely contempt with.

  “Places like these aren’t in much need of a house of gods eh?” muttered the gunslinger.

Lark pressed onward and as he came closer he could hear laughter, crying, and shouts of rage. He could also hear the smashing of wood and breaking of glass.

  “Well I’ll be damned. Sounds just like home.” Lark smirked and continued towards the commotion.