The room slowly filled with hopeful adventurers, each with their own history, each with their own reasons for answering this call to arms. Some may have come for the money, some for the potential fame, some for the chance to delve into the mysteries of days gone by. But they all came. The door opened one more time, admitting a large human, so large he dwarfed even the twins downstairs. He was somewhere between seven and eight feet tall, with a craggy, weathered face that spoke of trials endured and enemies defeated. His left eye was covered by a metal plate he had apparently drilled into his eye socket, the plate was obviously mithril, and for those aware of such things, held a number of mystic runes upon its surface. He wore a simple suit of chainmail, upon him it looked like perhaps this was his leisure wear. Around his neck hung a silver necklace bearing a single tooth the size of a large dagger. A well-worn longsword hung at his left hip, his black cloak held back from it. His sole eye was a strange amber color, and his hair close cut raven black, with a thick coat of stubble upon his chin. The startling bit about his hair however was along the left side, in a streak that followed the same line as the scar over his eye, was a slash of white through his otherwise dark hair. His gaze slowly drifted across the room, pausing upon each member of the party, his eye of amber seeming to absorb them, to drink them up into his memory, one by one. Finally, after a long and silent pause, he spoke.<br/><br/>“I am the Snowlock. I am called Grimbjorn, the Snowlock, Harvester of the Moors, Slayer of Nygdrasuul, Wielder of Frostbite, and many other titles. I am here at the request of my employer, who has no desire for you to know his identity. Suffice it to know, he holds enough power to garner the respect of myself and other veterans in this area. He pays well and respects his employees freedom.” His voice came out as a low bass rumble, soothing and enthralling all in one. He stood at the head of the table, and poured himself a mug of mead, which he threw back in a single toss of the cup. With his thirst sated, he returned his attention to the room. “You have come here to answer a call for work. I am here to tell you the tale of the riches you would find. Sit comfortably, and save your questions for when I am done.”<br/><br/>“Ages ago, in days long lost to the memory of all but the gods, and forgotten in lore to all save the wisest among the elves, and a few other dedicated historians, was a time of great power for the elves. In the days when Mythals were still crafted by the High Elven magics, before the rise of the Netherese, were the great elven kingdoms. I speak of the Crown Wars, a time when the elves fought among each other like humans, seeking greater land, more power, and more prestige. In the days before the Drow fell from grace, there was an elven Kingdom called Miyeritar. Their suffering was the catalyst for so much other trouble to come. They were conquered twice by other nations, but it is the second time of which I speak now. Their foes engaged in a campaign, a campaign to slay the magi of the elven kingdom, removing most of their most potent defenders before they unleashed a terrible mystic storm. That storm devastated the land the nation rested upon, killing the citizens of Miyeritar, destroying their cities, and crumbling their entire nation. The land where Miyeritar once rested, we now call the High Moor.” Grimbjorn paused then for a slow draft of mead, drawing out the moment before continuing. “What most do not know, is that as the final cataclysm fell upon them, the surviving High Magi of Miyeritar joined together. They lacked the strength to stop the storm, but they could preserve some of the majesty of their nation, in the hope that someday it could rise from the ashes. So they cast spells of protection and preservation upon a few select sites in their nation, combining their powers in a powerful circle, weaving their magics as quickly as they could, preserving as much as they could. We know of a few sites they saved, some have been found but now way has been discovered to enter, but the important thing is they succeeded. Their magics preserved some of Miyeritar.”<br/><br/>He leaned forward upon the table now, looking into the eyes of those whom had assembled.<br/><br/>“Rumors have begun to drift across the moor of an ancient elven castle, uncovered by a sudden earthquake in the area. The exact location is vague, but what all agree upon is that it rests in the center of the moor, and that it is not going to be empty for long. My employer believes based upon the location of this fortress, and several other factors, that it is a castle made by the nation who first conquered and tamed the Miyeritar, and that it will hold records and perhaps even underground paths to sites that may have been spared by the cataclysm. My master believes this fortress is the first step in finding The Vault of Miracles, an ancient treasury and armory of the Miyeritar. If the Vault can be found, you are free to take whatever you wish from within its confines, my Master seeks a single jewel, a diamond the size of a man’s head, cut and shaped to the form of a star. It was called Miyeritar’s Light, and it is the only prize my master seeks.” Grimbjorn then lay upon the table an ancient, delicate sheet of parchment. Upon it, was drawn a map. A map from the days of the Crown Wars. “Here is the location he believes you will find the Fortress. You may not take this map with you, but you may use it to create a point of reference upon any maps you already have.” He told them as his fingers stabbed at a cluster of hills upon the map, dead in the center of what is now the Moor.<br/>