Wards of the Wyrmspire
The mountain never sleeps.
Not with the howls that echo down from its scorched peaks, not with the tremors that rattle the stone wards of the clinic, and not with the dragons. At the edge of the world, built into the blackened cliffs of Mount Vezzar, the Wyrmspire Clinic is the last light before the wilds. It is not a place people come to live. It is a place people come not to die -- and even that is not guaranteed.
Every day, monster hunters drag in bodies barely held together by potions and prayer. Mages blink in from battlegrounds still burning. Dragonriders crash-land in the courtyard, clutching bleeding sigils and shattered bones. And somewhere, deep within the walls, the Plague of Ash spreads, a sickness that resists all spells and reason, turning even the strongest into smoldering husks.
No one knows where it came from. No one knows how to stop it.
You are new here: perhaps a healer, a curse-breaker, a necrosurgeon, a medic with something to prove or something to atone for. You were drawn here by coin, by curiosity, or by the whispers that this place might be your last chance at redemption.
A courier arrived at dawn. His clothes scorched, tongue blackened by spellburn, eyes wide with a terror that hadn't yet caught up to him. He carried no letter, only a shard of obsidian marked with the sigil of the dead god Vezz, and a single phrase whispered into the air: “The plague has wings now.”
And somewhere, high above, a shadow coils against the rising sun. It is vast, wheezing, and bleeding fire.
Now, your shift begins.