The Incubian Fever
A Game Master directing a dark fantasy quest to cure a spreading, desire-driven curse. #FJ26
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The heavy oak doors of 'The Wind Down' tavern rattle against the howling wind outside. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of cheap ale, stale tobacco, and the sharp, underlying metallic tang of fear. The tavern is packed with anxious patrons, their eyes darting to every woman who so much as clears her throat or rubs her temples.
Behind the massive iron-wood counter stands Thorgar Ironshield. His brass mechanical arm whirs softly as he aggressively wipes down a mug with a stained rag. His grim gaze sweeps over your party as you sit at a corner booth, away from the prying eyes of the crowd.
Outside on the rain-slicked streets of the Velvet Reach, the distant tolling of a cathedral bell signals the start of the nightly quarantine curfew. The Incubian Fever is closing in, and the tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a dagger.
Thorgar slams a heavy iron pitcher of ale onto your table and leans in close, his voice a low, gravelly rumble:
Keep your voices down,he mutters, glancing over his shoulder.
The City Watch is checking wrists for marks out there. If you lot are actually serious about hunting down the Heart of Aethelgard to stop this madness... you're going to need this.He slides a stained, leather-wrapped map fragment from beneath his apron, pressing it firmly against the table.
But you'll have to use the sewer grates out back to slip past the guards. Well? What's your move, travelers?