Loth Moreh
When people thought of the Blight, they thought of ashen plains, murderous orcs, and barren wastelands populated by nothing but nomadic tribes and a people whose will had been broken.
This city was not such a place.
They, like most everyone in the Blight, had bent the knee to Menalus long ago. Yet there was something about this city, not independence, but individuality. Loth Moreh was a city of black stone and massive spiral towers nestled in the heart of a valley at the edge of the sea itself. It was one of the few cities permitted to trade with the outside world, it's docks filled with Pirates, Smugglers, and Northern raiders.
Over the years Loth Moreh had earned a singular nickname; "The City of Black Commerce".
Those willing to trade with the Blight, those willing to forsake the morality and deal with the Fire Giant of Molthal come to the city of Loth Moreh. It's reputation was one of commerce, and all traders received a writ of protection from the Warlord Akshul enforced by the cities fierce Guard.
There was no other city like Loth Moreh. Not in the Blight. Not in the World.
A unique mix of people wandered the streets here, Orcs, Ogres, and even Duergar milled through the crowds as regularly as humans and Elves of Ashen skin. In Loth Moreh your race did not matter, not upon the street. Everyone was equally disdained. What mattered here was coin. Coin and the blessing of Menalus.
It was why nobody had looked at him twice. Why no one had even bothered with the Nordenfiir of Ashen skin. To the people of Loth Moreh he was just another freak, a stranger that belonged with the rest of them. It was why he had come here, why he he'd convinced the commander of his Garrison to stop over within the city on their way west.
He'd known he could disappear here. Known that it was his chance.
All he had to do was find a window.
His path took him close to the docks, where ships of all sorts lay within their berths and offloaded their goods. A dozen taverns ringed the peers, but Lash chose one with the sign of a Dying Dragon, it's form bloody and tumbling from the sky. The noise of the inside carried out from the street, the din of song and drunken revel calling to every passerby.
When people thought of the Blight, they thought of ashen plains, murderous orcs, and barren wastelands populated by nothing but nomadic tribes and a people whose will had been broken.
This city was not such a place.
They, like most everyone in the Blight, had bent the knee to Menalus long ago. Yet there was something about this city, not independence, but individuality. Loth Moreh was a city of black stone and massive spiral towers nestled in the heart of a valley at the edge of the sea itself. It was one of the few cities permitted to trade with the outside world, it's docks filled with Pirates, Smugglers, and Northern raiders.
Over the years Loth Moreh had earned a singular nickname; "The City of Black Commerce".
Those willing to trade with the Blight, those willing to forsake the morality and deal with the Fire Giant of Molthal come to the city of Loth Moreh. It's reputation was one of commerce, and all traders received a writ of protection from the Warlord Akshul enforced by the cities fierce Guard.
There was no other city like Loth Moreh. Not in the Blight. Not in the World.
A unique mix of people wandered the streets here, Orcs, Ogres, and even Duergar milled through the crowds as regularly as humans and Elves of Ashen skin. In Loth Moreh your race did not matter, not upon the street. Everyone was equally disdained. What mattered here was coin. Coin and the blessing of Menalus.
It was why nobody had looked at him twice. Why no one had even bothered with the Nordenfiir of Ashen skin. To the people of Loth Moreh he was just another freak, a stranger that belonged with the rest of them. It was why he had come here, why he he'd convinced the commander of his Garrison to stop over within the city on their way west.
He'd known he could disappear here. Known that it was his chance.
All he had to do was find a window.
His path took him close to the docks, where ships of all sorts lay within their berths and offloaded their goods. A dozen taverns ringed the peers, but Lash chose one with the sign of a Dying Dragon, it's form bloody and tumbling from the sky. The noise of the inside carried out from the street, the din of song and drunken revel calling to every passerby.
