A Prologue

The unbearable heat of a crimson sun.  It rains down from an auburn tinted sky upon the desert sands of a cursed world known by it's land-bound inhabitants as Athas.  Even when the sun crosses the sky during the time of low sun, the heat of day has been known to kill many a traveler unfortunate enough to cross the barren lands either unprepared or ill fit for their journey.

And yet, this world, harsh and deadly as it is, for which even the gods of it's ancient inhabitants could not (or would not) protect, continues to survive; life has managed to struggle onward while the weak perished and the strong grew stronger - and then grew stronger still!  From the edge of the Barren Wastes and shores of the Silt Sea to the jagged, frozen tops of the Ringing Mountains, life here in the Tyr Region is a constant struggle for survival; and yet, there are still small pockets spread throughout the wastes that remind travelers of the world as it was once before, during the era informally referred to as the Green Age.  Tiny remnants that they are, spotted amongst the vast golden waves of sand and jagged rock fields, these patches of paradise that survived the destruction known as the Red Age draw all types of traveler and creature alike.

It was on the hottest day of the year that a wandering nomad spied one of these verdant patches while scouring the desert east of the walled city known as Tyr.  The nomad, weak from travel, like many become who cross the desert, was low on supplies and in desperately in need of a drink.  The elements had been getting the better of him as of late, possibly causing his perceived hallucinations of the shadowy figure following him.  Whenever the nomad began to approach his strange obsession, the figure would appear to blow away as if it were nothing more than sand fluttering in the wind. Even still, he kept his guard up for the desert was a strange place where stranger things have been rumored. 

Approaching the small oasis with optimistic caution, unsure if his eyes were again playing tricks on him, he saw sitting next to the edge of the water, beneath a shady tree, a young minstrel, probably no more than 20 seasons of age, playing a song upon a small yet fancifully crafted lute.  As the nomad came closer, bargaining within on his well found luck and relieved that this was no mere mirage, his approach gained the attention of the minstrel. 

The minstrel immediately began to size the nomad up, plotting the most surefire way to get the desert worn nomad to part with what little he might have to offer...maybe the minstrel's cunningly deceptive slight of hand game which he had used many a time before to loose the coins from so many poorer, unfortunate souls.  As his mind wandered over different plots, the minstrel noticed the nomad had readied his weapon...  

...and yet, there was another figure, hidden from view, hiding beneath the sand, who had silently watched the nomad drawing his weapon.  The unknown individual, steadfast in his resolve, was not about to hesitate in his action; he would wait patiently, using his cover to gain the upper hand, as he had become so apt to do; for no one would spill blood on or defile the sanctity of this oasis, at least as long as this strongly fierce, battle-hardened half-dwarf could help it...