"We once were mighty..."

Your short day’s journey north brings you into town at dusk. You find the city to be fairly expansive and nestled on the Morava River like a child clinging to a string. It is all over it and is making the river dirty with the constant interactions. The city looks old. It has buildings which are obviously in disrepair, but it still has a glimmer of the former majesty of the fallen Great Moravian Principality. The so often trod road leads you all into the heart of the city, an island flanked by the river which is home to a majestic cathedral. The smell of incense and the dance of song and lights emanate from lofty building. A passing monk chants the prayers of the hour. A cleric is robed and praying over the sick in a hospice on the corner. St George’s Island is holy ground.
You sense the majesty of what once was. The faded colors of the roofs, the nearly white-washed walls of the town center. The smell of spices from merchants. This place once was the center of the greatest kingdom of an age. The pulse of the city still is heard to the north in the Ironmongers District. The smell of the Cattle Market permeates the stench as you approach the river. Merchants from all walks of life and all races blend into the background noise of a once great city that doesn’t realize the world has passed it by.
You find an Inn – The Three-Legged Goat – and arrange lodging there. It is simple, affordable and slightly seedy. Once inside and settled, you begin to really take stock of the sights and sounds around you. The barmaid smiles and answers a few questions about the town and smiles woefully at one point to add, “We once were mighty…”
Suddenly, a dwarf runs up and starts vehemently whispering and muttering to Werner. He keeps looking over his shoulder and taking stock of who is watching. Werner is progressively turning shades of purple over his ruddy beard. He is obviously inflamed by whatever the news might be. By now, everyone in the inn is watching and he escorts Werner out of the room. Everyone slowly turns back from watching the door through which Werner had left.
About an half hour later, Werner returns, but back in his travelling garb. “My colleagues, I must depart. My sister… Her betrothed… He…” Werner chokes back tears and slams his mighty mug on the table, covering everyone with a heavy drizzle of beer. He bellows in Dwarven for a minute and storms out, followed closely by the other dwarf.
Khorin waits slightly longer than politeness requires, staring down into his own mug and whispers to the remaining members of the group: “He said, ‘Her stolen maidenhood and blood-letting will be avenged upon the heads of the House Babenbergen.’”
Everyone returns to staring into their mugs as Gresh laments, “We once were also mighty,” as he lifts his mug in salute. The mug is lifted, drained, and returned to the table from which it came and a slow smile crossed the beastly visage of the half-orc. “…but at least we don’t run out crying.”
Khorin mumbles to himself, “There’ll be more than tears shed before he’s done. An ugly business.”


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