Thirteenth Rain

Return to Wroat


The Sun Beats Down…

The warm Brelish sun beats down through the glass windows which cap the lightning rail station. For the last hour or so the adventurers from Hatheril have been oblivious to what has been going on around them – mesmerised, drawn in by the words of the the Brelish lieutenant who called himself Wrogar Colworn. Crowded around a small bench in the concourse of the Wroat lightning rail station, it is only the slightest mutter from one of the party which snaps everyone out of their intent reading. It’s the voice of the Gnome, Orryn, and he says one simple name…


The sound of busyness, moments ago drowned out by their own minds, now hits them like the Five Nations Express. Maybe fifteen different languages meets their ears as the adventurer’s internal volume is unmuted. Not two steps away, a tiefling argues with a halfling in some unknown tongue. Just across the platform, a dwarven banker curses at some House Sivis employees in his mountainous tongue. The conflagration of noises is distracting at best and at worst, downright maddening. Each of the party suddenly realise that their journey has ended and that this is Wroat. This is the capital city of Breland, the seat of power both politically and militarily. They glance at one another and their eyes all speak the same untold words…

…They feel like very small fish in a very great pond.



I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.