The Beautiful Imposter

Fun With Characters And Dialogue

One Night At The Pub…

Fun With Characters And Dialogue

One Night At The Pub…

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

They say the Black Hill Country has a long memory, that the rich dark soil after which the region earns its name holds on to all that has passed, the good and the evil. The region itself is ill-defined, a wild country of thick forests clinging to the sides of steep hills, filling shadowy valleys, overhanging the banks of mist-covered rivers whose waters run like dark veins down from the higher crags into the lowlands below. Over time it has been claimed by many lords or kings or emperors but truly none have ever ruled here, or even wished to beyond claiming their borders included this particularly wild and desolate place. The last of these, the High Kingdom of Athanor, had nominally ruled over the few scattered settlements, lending legitimacy to the claims of the petty nobility and some strength to their authority but in truth the region very much ruled itself with the High Kingdom being only a distant presence at best, until even it fell to be replaced by the Morthandi Empire but even this machine of war and conquest gave the Black Hills little thought and so little changed at all for the people here. Little ever did, with the hardy folk of the country eking out their living beneath the bootheels of this baron or that, unconcerned with the petty squabbling of their betters beyond when it came with fire and naked swords and even then, once the flames had died and the steel had drank enough blood, things went back to how they had been before, only perhaps a little harder, with just a little less for the rebuilding. The land still brooded beneath its trees, muttered to itself in the winds that blew down from the higher mountains to the north and east to flow cold and swift through the deep vales. The land remembered all, the comings and goings of the tribes of mankind, the light tread of the Sidhe before them, the tromp of the Builderfolk, the Dwarves far beneath the dark soil…it remembered all of these to the times before, when darkness welled up from the black earth and dripped down from the uncaring stars above and wicked things roamed boldly through the wild places, gathering for dark rites and sacrifice, feeding the soil and bones of the earth with rivers of blood…the land remembered all, and even after the passage of centuries, these deep, dark rememberings would bear fruit. Once, perhaps twice in a generation a child might be born showing heritage of this darkness, whose blood and flesh were knitted not solely of mother and father but of something older, something foul, tainted by the dreaming dark memories of the Black Hills. It is of one such child, touched by darkness, abandoned upon the steps of an isolated abby, that this tale will tell.

Fun With Characters And Dialogue

One Night At The Pub…

What followed was soft, and sweet, and is absolutely none of your business.