Fragments of Jewelspar
A bloodthirsty razing leaves the placid hamlet of Jewelspar in ruin and its flourishing gemstone mine in the grip of a band of merciless crag orcs. The orcs, led by a one-eyed ravager, left as many as two hundred dead as they took Jewelspar in the thick of night. Jewelspar’s militia fought valiantly, some standing in the way of a splitting axe or a heaving hammer while their loved ones could attempt to flee.
11 Uktar, 1372 DR
The seventeen year-old farmhand Kurrick, who may have been one of the first of the townspeople to become aware of the orc onslaught, sensed the smell of burning wood as he woke in the night to the barn he slept in on fire. The flames were already consuming the loft as he jumped off into smoking hay below. With the rolling sounds of boots and the cries of disaster erupting in the town outside his loft, he grabbed the wall-mounted sword he kept inside before bursting down the door to the outside, which had obviously been blocked with a large piece of wood that lay in splinter at the feet of the exceptionally strong Kurrick. The barn now obviously ablaze, Kurrick soon turned his full attention to the village that could be seen close by through the snow-capped pines. A small legion of savages poured over the once quiet town armed with heavy blades and torches. Kurrick had to do something, fast.
Aldolin, the educated noble’s son, also was compelled awake by the sounds of oncoming destruction and violence. He fretted, worrying of his and his family’s safety. As he managed to throw on an outfit suitable for the weather and string a bandoleer of arcane components around his chest, he moved fleetingly downstairs into the main room. Through the broken window came a glass bottle with a tail of fire, that broke upon the amnian rug and quickly enshrouded the room in a blaze. The young nobleman ran out of the kitchen door, that was already flung open.
Aldolin peered in horror as he scanned the chaos of the assault. Half of the town was already burning, and the townspeople were sent sprawling in every direction. Aldolin caught sight of the loomsman’s nine-year old daughter being cut down by a blood-spattered orc over twice her size. Fear and nausea nearly crippled Aldolin then, as he fought the will to keel onto the ground and hide. Aldolin turned to run east, when he saw the most disturbing image in his entire lifetime — his father, Lord Thalen, sprawling before a set of orcs, his clothing on fire. Thalen was then pushed to the frozen earth and executed with a visceral blade, cutting his neck spine-first. The bones could be heard breaking on the edge of the contorted sword, even from Aldolin’s distance. The wretched creature that heaved the blade turned to face Aldolin’s direction, and his one-eye veered backwards to see the young nobleman’s son writhing in panic and antipathy. A brief smile crossed the orc’s contorted face as he watched the human flee.