The village of Witherfell had always been touched by misfortune. Since its founding, it seemed to draw plague and curse, as if the earth itself resented its very existence. Some called it mere superstition, but others knew better than to speak lightly of Witherfell's fate. Rowan staggered into the region after two days' walk, the air turning thick and choking. He collapsed, his hand on his head, barely staying conscious. A villager, face wrapped in thick layers of cloth, set down grain sacks and knelt beside him.
-"Calm your mind," the villager said. The curse feeds on ill thoughts." He mentioned.
Rowan's gasps eased. He rubbed his throat.
-"A curse tied to thoughts? Never heard of such a thing. Thanks."
The villager shrugged.
-"It's haunted this region forever. We adapt, but when it flares, some die, some flee. The rest endure."
-"The job I accepted was supposed to deal with a disease, not a curse. What's going on here?" Rowan asked, confusion lacing his voice.
-"Oh? You're an adventurer, aren't you? This village was never struck by illness. That's how they deceive you into lending your aid. Each time an adventurer comes, they disappear into the forest— never to return. I'm ashamed we've sunk so low as to lie." He exclaimed
Rowan, now steady on his feet, rose from the dirt-covered ground. He pulled up the old leather cloak that hung from his neck, hiding his face beneath its worn folds.
-"Thanks, I appreciate it. But I have to go—to the village. I'll put an end to this, once and for all." Rowan declared
-"Good luck to you," said the villager
The air thickened as Rowan drew closer to the village. A strange purple essence seeped through the cracks in the earth, as if marking the scars of an old quake. No, not a quake—more like wounded soil.
The sun sank below the hills, darkness claiming the lands of Rowas. He decided best to stay the night—for traveling in the darkness could attract the foulest beasts.
The mud clung to Rowan's boots as he made his way through the narrow streets of Witherfell. Ahead, he caught sight of a rather small building with faint light spilling from its windows. As he drew closer, the wind tugged at a hanging sign, its hinges creaking with each sway. The Rusted Helm.
He pushed against the tall wooden door and stepped inside. The warmth hit him at once. The smell of ale and roasted meat filled his lungs, mingling with the chatter of other voices.
-"Welcome to The Rusted Helm." The middle-aged barkeep exclaimed.
-"What'll it be? A room, ale—or perhaps a bite?" He asked.
-"I'll have an ale for now, thanks." Rowan said.
The barkeep shook his head. He grabbed a wooden tankard, filling it to the brim with fresh ale from the barrel that stood behind him. Then he set it on the old worn out wooden tabletop.
-"Here you are—Fresh Fenn Ale. The best there is." The barkeep said, sliding over the wooden mug.
Rowan took a moment to look around, his eyes scanning the tavern. Guards laughing about and adventurers sharing stories. However, one group of adventures caught his interest the most. The crest he bore on his cloak was that of the crest of Caelfall, his homeland.
The barkeep leaned in and said.
-"That right there is Ferant's squad—good folk, they are."
Rowan had a knack for gathering information. He'd spent years running quests—it was second nature to him by now.
-"Think they'd know anything about the curse, barkeep?" Rowan asked.
-"I'm not sure," the barkeep replied, wiping down a mug. But I'd bet they're here on a quest. This village doesn't get many visitors—just a few traveling merchants passing through."
Rowan set his ale on the table and approached the group.
-"Mind if I joined you?"
Laughter drowned out his words for a moment before one man turned in his seat. Ferant looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
-"Sure! And you are?" Ferant asked.
- "I'm Rowan—Rowan Emberwood. Pleased to meet you."
- "What's on your mind, Rowan?"
-"Do you know anything about the curse that plagues this land—where it comes from?"
- "Oh, that thing! We're actually planning to investigate it tomorrow. Rumor has it, it comes from the forest northwest of here. Some say it comes from the ruins within it, but I think it's much less serious than that. I mean, nothing has been seen there since the Red Age."
There were three of them: a paladin, a healer, and a rogue. The paladin was clad in thick iron armour, strong enough to withstand a reign of hundreds of arrows at once. The healer wore a cloak, wearing only an open chest plate along with the cloak. And lastly, the rogue simply wore a cloak, though it seemed as though he was wearing a waistcoat under. They looked seasoned, yet the way they carried themselves made them seem like novice adventurers.
-"You're heading out there with only three people? That's a suicide mission! You've heard what they say about those woods—none who enter ever return."
-"Those woods stand no chance against us! We've faced far worse than some cursed forest," said Ferant, a trace of arrogance in his voice.
-"Suit yourself. I'll leave you to it—good luck tomorrow."
Rowan retired to his room in the tavern and stayed the night. But before he could retire once and for all, he sat down and wrote in his journal his thoughts and emotions. It helped him reflect—preserving his journey between pages.
"25 G.A.
Today's journey came to its end. I made a new friend—an interesting fellow named Ferant. I can't quite figure him out just yet. There's also something about the ruins of Alderon's Fall—the ruins northwest of the village. For now, that's all. I still have a long road ahead before reaching the journey's end."
He closed his journal and unraveled a map of the continent of Rowas on the old wooden table. He inked his feather and circled several regions spanning across the whole of the continent. Loriael, Isilra, Lys, Emdwell Forest.
The candlelight began to dim. Rowan, ready to retire once and for all, killed the flame—drifting off to a deep slumber.
Dawn arrived reluctantly—grey and heavy. The rain drizzled into the first light of the morning, waking Rowan, in his slumber. The day came to venture into the mysterious woods of Emdwell. He had put his old ragged brown cloak and ventured to the outskirts of the village.
With a hint of hesitation, he started walking towards the mysterious forest. At the edge of the forest, he saw another group of adventurers slowly climbing deeper into the woods. Curious, he squinted his eyes, only to notice a paladin with his bright polished armor, reflecting the rain.
-"Could that be—Ferant's squad?" He noticed.
He'd been tailing them for a while, never far behind, yet somehow lost—until he realized the road looped endlessly. How could this have happened? Rowan had heard of tales of earlier adventurers lost in forests like this—trapped in an endless cursed loop.
He knew he was trapped in an endless loop, yet his mission left no room for retreat. Years spent wandering the convoluted streets of Caelfall had taught him a thing or two about finding his way through the unknown. So he turned to the oldest guide of all—the sun—to mark his path through the curse's maze. He headed North for some time. Eventually, he stumbled upon some ruins. Crumbled stone walls, buried under moss and lichen, draped the rubble in a greenish-gray layer. Faded carvings of gods on the walls, barely held together, their faces worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Broken archways led nowhere, framing the twisting trees behind like ghostly windows. In the center of the old fortress—a statue—the name barely legible. At the foot of the old stone statue lay Ferant's party. They seemed fast asleep—as if someone had cast the strongest sleeping spell capable of vanquishing even the mightiest of wizards.
-"How could this have happened? I could detect no sign of life in this fortress—so how could they have fallen under such a powerful spell? This must be the work of the curse. They must've fallen under the curse spell because they couldn't control their ill thoughts about it. A pity." Rowan muttered to himself.
Silence fell around him. All he could hear was the melancholic hum of distant birds. Then a pulse—a heartbeat—echoed through the air. It wasn't the heartbeat of a living being, nor did it come from the forest. A few meters ahead, a dark stairwell spiraled downward into the abyss.
Rowan knew that if he wanted to save the party, he would have to descend into the dungeon.