In the noble brightness of the Ember Vale, there is only farmland.
Day in and day out, there is the drudgery of the fields, where the peasants till the soil in the name of Baron von NotYetNamed. Artisans can be seen at their forge and in their shops, crafting simple tools for simple folk. Taxes here are few, and the harvests are bountiful. Rivers run from the foothills of the Ashtop Mountains into the Featherlakes, and there is a certain peace upon the air. The swords have long since been shaped into plows, and the von NotYetNamed men at arms are as jovial as the festive people they watch over.
Whispers are carried on the wind from the North, where the Ashtop Mountains lie sleeping in their snowy caps. Word of a rising tide – the orc tribes grow restless, grow bolder in their raids; the goblins have found themselves a new fire to set alight the works of man and dwarf and elf and halfling. Something stirs atop the Sleepy Mountain, and bard and drunkard tell tale of a sight unseen for a thousand years. A sight by which to set the calenders.
A sighting of a dragon.