The hamlet of Dunmoor lies nestled in the shadow of misty hills, a quiet place where the world seems to slow down. Travelers rarely give it much thought, passing through its cobblestone streets with little more than a glance. The simple cottages, their thatched rooftops covered in moss, look as if they’ve been standing for centuries. And maybe they have. The ancient trees that surround the hamlet, their gnarled branches twisted toward the sky, are older still, watching over the people like silent guardians. Life here is predictable, measured by the turning of seasons—planting in the spring, harvesting in the fall, and enduring long winters by the hearth. Excitement isn’t something the people of Dunmoor seek out.
Dunmoor isn’t the kind of place anyone plans to stay. It’s a stopover, the quiet village travelers visit on their way to somewhere more interesting. The nearest landmarks worth mentioning are at least a half-day’s walk in any direction—whether it’s the crumbling ruins hidden deep in the woods to the east, the river that winds its way through the valley to the west, or the distant trading post to the south. Those who pass through tend to keep moving, barely lingering long enough to rest their feet or water their horses. For the people of Dunmoor, this is how they like it. The outside world is loud, busy, and full of trouble. Better for it to stay out there, far from their quiet lives.
Surrounding the hamlet are dense forests, their shadows stretching far beyond the village. Towering oaks and thick underbrush press in from every side, hemming in the town like a living wall. Beyond the tree line, the wilds are a mystery, full of secrets the people of Dunmoor rarely care to explore. The howls of wolves echo through the hills at night, a reminder that danger lurks not far from their doors. But even those sounds have become part of the village’s quiet rhythm. The people here know how to live with the wild—they’ve done it for generations. And life in Dunmoor? It’s sturdy, reliable. Just like the homes they build.
Yet, even a place like Dunmoor has its oddities, its stories whispered by firelight when the nights grow long. Travelers speak of strange lights flickering deep in the woods on moonless nights or the strange tales told by the village elders. Dunmoor may be quiet, but it’s not untouched by the world’s mysteries. The people here, though, have learned to turn a blind eye to what they don’t understand. It’s easier to focus on what can be controlled, on the small, everyday things that make life here so steady. Life in Dunmoor is predictable—until the night it isn’t
At the eastern edge of Dunmoor, where the town opens into stretches of farmland, stand the trade homes. These are the heart of the village’s craftsmanship, where blacksmiths, coopers, millers, and other artisans ply their trades. The homes themselves are simple, often built as one large room where the entire family lives. A door on one side leads to the village road, while the other opens into the family’s storefront, separated by a sturdy counter. Here, the townsfolk and passing travelers can buy their goods—iron tools, barrels, milled grain—all crafted just a few feet from where the family eats and sleeps. The sound of hammers on anvils, the turning of the mill, and the occasional hiss of a hot blade dipped in water fills the air during the day, giving this part of town a steady rhythm of work.
Beyond the trade homes, the cobbled street narrows as it winds toward the village center, where commerce begins to mingle with the everyday life of Dunmoor. The general store stands at the main crossroads, its shelves filled with everything from dried meats to wool blankets. Next to it, the apothecary’s wooden sign sways in the breeze, advertising all manner of salves, herbs, and potions sourced from the nearby Veldtwood. People pass through here regularly, picking up what they need before retreating back to their homes, though most leave the streets empty as dusk approaches.
As the road reaches Dunmoor Square, it opens into a broad, well-worn clearing that serves as the town’s main gathering spot. On market days, stalls line the square, selling fresh produce from the surrounding farms and handmade goods from the trade homes. By evening, though, the square is quiet, with only the old stone well at its center standing watch over the empty space. The forest known as the Veldtwood encircles the town to the west, north, and south, its dark expanse always lurking just beyond the square, while farmland stretches east toward the looming Ironfist Peaks. The mountains provide a natural barrier, their rugged faces casting long shadows over the fields as the sun begins to set.
Tucked away in one corner of the square is The Goblin’s Teacup, Dunmoor’s only tavern. The building itself is unassuming, but the faded sign hanging above the door – a mischievous goblin holding a comically oversized teacup – draws the eye. Inside, a dozen or so patrons nurse their nightcaps. The air inside is warm and thick with the comforting smell of burning wood and a hint of spice from the barkeep’s special brew. Hefkin, the half-orc owner, stands behind the bar, his large frame softened by age, his greenish skin weathered from years of a tougher life. Now, Hefkin prefers the peace of pouring drinks and offering quiet conversation to the odd traveler or villager seeking refuge from the darkening world outside
It was a quiet night, with the patrons scattered among the low-lit tables, exchanging a few words here and there or enjoying the comfort of silence. A single lantern flickered at the bar as Hefkin wiped down a mug, his sharp eyes tracking the subtle movements of the room. His patrons were a mix of the usual faces and a few newcomers; each lost in their thoughts when the peace was shattered.
The door to the tavern slammed open, banging against the wall, and the room turned to see Boran, the village blacksmith, stumble inside. He was a mountain of a man, but tonight, his strength seemed sapped. His leg was bleeding profusely, his trousers torn and soaked in red. His face was pale, and his eyes wild with fear.
“They—they took them!” Boran gasped, clutching at the doorframe for support.
Hefkin rushed around the bar, a grim look on his face. “What happened?”
“Brutes!” Boran wheezed. “Big… like men, but not. Their faces—like dogs! They broke into my home. My children… they’ve taken my children!”
The tavern fell into a stunned silence. Boran’s children, two young boys, were well-known in the hamlet. Mischievous but harmless, always running through the town square or helping their father with the forge.
Boran slumped into a chair, clutching his wounded leg. “I tried to stop them, but there were too many…”
The patrons exchanged uneasy glances. The village of Dunmoor had seen its share of travelers and troublemakers, but nothing like this. Fear hung in the air like the smoke from the hearth. No one wanted to be the first to move.
Then, without a word, four patrons pushed back their chairs and stood. Determination glinted in their eyes as they moved toward the door.
Read Chapter 2: Bad News Has Claws | Dunmoor’s Definitely Doomed
You’re already behind… other people are making choices for you.
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