Within Darkmoon Vale there is a legend that nearly a millennium ago, in the midst of the fall of the Mierodranian Empire, some among the Dwarves in the mountains forsook Andunai and turned to the worship of a dark Lord, whose name has been forgotten within the annuls of time. What is known for certain is that the reign of the Dwarves in the region of Darkmoon Vale ended during the Demonspawn Wars. Ruins of Dwarven architecture still dot the landscape, conjuring visions of former glory. One such vestige of Dwarven artifice is Drosker’s Crucible, an ancient monastery that lies at the foot of Drosker’s Crag. Made of simple stone blocks, worn smooth with the passage of time, the stout building is falling apart. Sections of the slanted shale roof have collapsed and portions of the outer wall have crumbled. Weeds and wild thorn plants run rampant across the field leading up to the place, leaving only the slightest indication of a path that ends at the ruined front doors.

Player Handout 1
…I warned Kemmrick: The secrets of the dwarves should remain beneath
the ground, but he would not be placated. We’ve already lost Martren, and
without his divine guidance we are truly lost in the dark. Monsters lurk in
every shadow, but something worse jangles in the deep. I feel its evil from
afar, like a blistering heat threatening to melt away my soul. The Dark
Smith might be forgotten, but I fear one of his vile servants still prowls
these halls, keeping the fires of Droskar burning for hundreds of years…”
…ears wet…thirst so thirst…lost in the dark…tongue gone now…
itchy…face rot rot rot…blood tastes good…fly soon fly.
…their shrieks tore my courage from me and left my heart cold. I don’t
know what they did to me when their rancid-tasting lips locked on mine,
but my thoughts jumble now, and my hair falls away in bloody clumps…if
only Martren were here, he would know what sickness ails me and pray for
my salvation. The only prayer I can muster is that this plague takes me
before that hellish shackled servant of Droskar returns to drag me off in
chains as he did Kemmrick. I still hear his screams in my mind…ears wet…thirst…lost in the dark…tongue gone now…itchy…face rot rot rot …blood tastes good…fly soon fly.

Player Handout 2
Our people have lost their way. They flee the
shelter of your great forges. Our fires dim,
my master. We have failed you. No use to
you here, I now come to you. I shall join you
in the Black Forge, whether to serve at your
anvil or stoke its flames wi th my soul.