Latest revision as of 15:26, 18 May 2010

Level Range: 4-6

Bard Lore:

The bard's face twists up into a grimace as if his drink had suddenly turned 
into vinegar. "Dung Hill Village...Now THERE is a poxed blight upon God's
green earth if ever there was one...All right, youngster, I'll tell you a
little tale of how good intentions can go ever so horribly wrong...".

The chair creaks as the old bard leans back against the bard and strokes 
his beard with a faraway expression in his eyes.

"A long time ago...and no, youngster, I don't know precisely how long..
There was a migration of a primitive people coming to our fair land. They were
known to be fierce fighters, skilled hunters, and truly dedicated to their
clans. What they liked was wild nature, the joy of the hunt, and the pounding
excitement of war. What they didn't like, not one bit, was magic. And so, when
they found themselves here, having run into the odd pyromancer or evoker, 
and making the aquaintance of the other people in existence here, there were
great arguments. Some decided the place was too scary, others that there would
be room for them too...and a small family, already held in scorn by the rest,
decided to abandon their heritage and follow a charismatic leader they
had found among the extant population of Tsunami. This leader, a fallen
priest, apparently led them to the island of Gladstadt, infecting them along
the way with his own rabid xenophobia and general hatred of everything not already known."

The bard sighs and takes another swallow of his drink.

"Apparently, one of his ideas was that mixing a pure bloodline with outsiders 
would dilute the quality of his followers and so he began a policy of
isolation which led to the current inhabitants of Dung Hill. A small and stagnant community, inbred and festering, thriving on its own evil, and forsaking all learning and any new ideas according to their warped ideal of 'superiority'."

The bard tosses down the rest of his drink and fixes you with a hard stare.

"If you go there, youngster, see to it your weapons are sharp and that you
do not turn your back upon them. A colleague of mine passed through there on
his way somewhere else and found the place to be even worse than we could imagine. It is a hell on earth, Dung Hill village...be sure not to overstay 
your welcome."

The bard ponders a while, then speaks:
"If you absolutely feel you have to go there, just take the ferry to
the Gladstadt dock, go 2 north, 2 west, then northwest... you'll find the
village beginning a bit down the westward path through the fog..."