My Home

Cyre was my home.  My life.  I protected it’s borders throughout the whole of, what the paper call, The Last War.  The war is far from over.  Firstly the treacherous Elves of Valenar took land from us with blood.  Followed closely by the betrayal of the Goblioids of Darguun, who slaughtered our troops while they slept.  Finally the Day of Mourning wiped out what was left of our beautiful country.  My family are still missing, even after four years.  Many on my countrymen have given up hope.  Made homes where they can.  Some on the borders of the Dead Grey Mist, others as far as Stormreach on the wild continent of Xen’Drick.  Me?  My home is Cyre.  The haunted, feared Mournlands.  I pass through the grey mist rarely, it’s powers drain your emotions, make your depressed.  That is if you don’t become lost forever or wander into the hands of some beast.  Beyond the mist, where I belong, is no better.  The mist overhead block out the sun, casting the land in blurry light.  Spells cast of the Day of Mourning wander the barren land with no master.  The howling of the Mourners, ghosts of those betrayed by their commander, search for people to add to their ranks.  Carcass crabs lay in wait in the piles of dead bodies that do not rot nor decay.  Lakes of blood, mountains of ice and shifting cities are the new unnatural landscapes of my home.  Intruders in the form of lost Warforged, gather under the banner of a god like being calling itself the Lord of Blades.  The insane black dragon soars the skies searching for his friends.  On top of all this, healing spells do not work your only hope in Goodberry Juice, or if the land has mercy on you and a well of healing pops up in your path.  Why am I still here?  My family is probably long dead.  The countryside is not where I spent my childhood playing.  I’m still here because I have no where else to be.  After all this is my home and it needs protecting from the Elves and Hobgoblins and the Undead.  I am Weyand the Dwarf from Cyre.