The setting was stereotypical but the scene was not. The tavern was normally a place of jovial drinking, idle or not so idle boasting, and more than a few pointless scuffles. In this one though the mood was much more somber and subdued. Hardened men downed equally hardened drinks with their eyes down to themselves, hardly uttering a sound at all. Serving wenches went from table to table, yet no one flirted with them or attempted any untoward advances.
Just what was the cause of the somber mood? By the looks of it, it was the same as everywhere else in this small town. Supply train after supply train didn't make it, nor were the merchants, guards, and their entourages ever heard from again. The stores were running out. The handful of devoted priests could help stretch supplies but were far away from being able to replace them. Once the food was gone everyone was dead. And everyone knew their days were numbered. This was a town of walking dead men. They weren't about to sit there helplessly and crawl into the grave like mewling babes though, no. They were downcast, but not destroyed. The leadership had put out a call for aid... and that call had been answered. Unfortunately, all that has came of it so far is information.
A necromancer had taken up his unholy residence somewhere in the Blackwood Forest nearby. He and his minions were responsible for the constant attacks on those coming into or leaving the town, and those few fortunate enough to survive (or opportunistic enough to outrun their fellows) spoke of beasts turned rotting horrors, skeletons that walk like men and beasts and at night... even death itself would assail them. No one has actually seen this necromancer or located his lair or if they have, they haven't talked about it.
Pooling their resources, the wealthy and the leaders of this town put up a sizable reward. That could be seen from the poster on the wall. Wanted: Dead or Alive - the Blackwood Necromancer. 15,000 gold for him or proof of his death. A few have already attempted to collect the bounty out of greed, nobility, or those most high of all intentions - the sacred drunken bet. Not a one of them ever came back, should no one have managed to disavail them of those notions before they set out.
For the call of suffering people, of money, of fame, of glory, of power, or any other reason a few people were here now, having gathered from near and far.
