Auchendale

Original description and concept made by Alex16.

Auchendale is populated mostly by humans and half-elves, although one may see the occasional dwarf or gnome staying for a few days after traveling with one of the trading caravans. The city survives primarily on the natural resources it can draw from the sea to the south and the Ironwood to the north. The people of Auchendale are not particularly religious, but in the center of the city lies a single temple to Lymar. The people are happy – they’re safe from the south due to the sea as a natural boundary, and the large and expansive forests to the north protect them from the desolation and evil bands of warlords that roam that area. However, this was not always the case.
To the north of Auchendale lie the desolations of Duka and Zuummidi. Barren and treacherous, these deserts are ruled by subjugating tyrants who constantly vie for power, their “citizens” slaves to their wars and desires with the most deceitful and powerful rising up the ranks within each band.
One such group of slaves was controlled by Urgen Zhimdayor, a monstrous and cruel orc who inhabited the southern Duka. One day fate smiled upon the slaves: they were on a mining excursion and their overseer fell sick, retiring for several days to his personal chambers. As he grew weaker the slaves took their chance: with the diminished strength of the overseer they were able to overpower him and the few guards that were meant to keep them in line. The took what resources they could from the temporary camp and set out to try to find refuge in the Ironwood to the south.
When their expedition had not arrived several days after they were supposed to return Zhimdayor set out with several of his generals to find them. He was no stranger to runaway slaves, and he relished in a slow hunt of those who disobeyed him, following them on their heels ever closer for days and days until they became too exhausted and hopeless to push forward. Only then would he pounce upon them and make them wish that they had never dared to defy him.
They had a lead, but they were not sure how long it would last or how far they would make it. Not many made it to the Ironwood, and few went unless under dire circumstances. Tales of strange creatures and many disappearances were commonplace, and they anticipated that if they got far enough away from Duka that perhaps Zhimdayor and his generals would prefer to let them escape to likely doom than risk their own lives. But they were not hopeful.
After days of travel the slaves began to hear hunting horns in the distance. They were faint, but they were audible: a sign that Zhimdayor was on the hunt and drawing closer and closer. Resources ran slim. Even with no one chasing them this was a treacherous journey through many miles of desert, and several of them had begun to feel the effects of constant heat and dehydration. Several were not able to keep up with the pace necessary to remain ahead of Zhimdayor, and rather than hold the entire group up they fell behind and were picked off by Zhimdayor’s scouting parties. Each day numbers grew a little bit slimmer, but the forest was on the horizon.
As they finally reached the forest the faint sounds of horns had given way to the cacophony of a small army in movement. Horses, dogs, men with weapons – all were a constant background to a hurried rush into the dense foliage of the Ironwood. As they traveled further into the canopy of trees there was a momentary lapse in the sound of their pursuers, and for the moments the slaves had hope. Perhaps they were right and the fear of what lied in the heart of the Ironwood would be enough to scare off their chasers. But as soon as the noise had stopped it started again, and hope slowly started to fade.
It was not long before Zhimdayor converged upon them. They were lost with no guide, and they quickly found the well-nourished and superiorly mobile pursuers could not be outpaced. They broke through a tree line into a small clearing of low foliage, but before they had even reached the other side horses burst into the meadow, Zhimdayor at their head, screaming with a bloodlust in his eyes.
Something started to happen. It was as if the trees themselves surrounding this clearing started to move and shuffle. Just as Zhimdayor descended upon the slaves, from the left came a burst of arcane energy, from the right a volley of arrows. Vines sprouted up from the ground shackling horses and men alike. One by one Zhimdayor’s men were picked off from every directions but from no source until all eventually fell, Zhimdayor himself with two arrows in his chest and one through his skull, his arms and legs bound to the earth.
Silence. No one moved, no one spoke. Even the wind stood at an eerie calm. The slaves were not sure how to feel. Many were stunned, not comprehending what just occurred in front of them. Others were exalted, their pursuers lying dead in front of them when they had lost all hope. And others still were fearful of what new immediate danger might now be in front of them.
But then there was whispering from all around as if the forest was talking to itself. After several seconds of murmuring there was once again quiet.
Seemingly from the surrounding trees themselves strode forth a wood elf towards the huddled and fearful slaves. Then another. Five, ten, twenty – all appearing out of nowhere, but as if they were no more than twenty feet away.
The wood elves guided the refugees through the Ironwood to the ocean on the other side, teaching them the mysteries and the dangers of the forest along the way. There the slaves settled Auchendale, far away from the desolation that was once their home and prison.
The wood elves still patrol the Ironwood and its neighbor the Prystwy, guarding the forests from unwelcome visitors. The Auchens make use of the small river that run from the outskirts of the Prystwy to the ocean as well as the resources of the nearby Ironwood. Twice a year the elves of the forest and the people of Auchendale reconvene: once for the Spring and once for the Autumnal Equinox. In Spring they hold a celebration to welcome life back into the forests. In Autumn they hold a solemn ritual of transition from the warm summer months to the cold and harsh winter, both a solemn prayer to Lymar for a safe passage to spring and a remembrance for the life of the previous year that may now find itself extinguished.