Blackbridge Whiteverdict Lagoonforge

The mist clung to the crooked rooftops of Blackbridge like a shroud, pale and heavy, as if it had been woven from the very breath of the marshes that lay beyond the town’s crumbling walls. Dawn had broken reluctantly, with no streak of gold or fire to greet the waking earth — only the dull greyness of another day stretched thin over weary stones and tired souls.
Blackbridge had never been known for its cheer, even in times of prosperity long since forgotten. It stood at the meeting point of two once-proud roads, its wooden bridge arched over the black waters of a river that had given the place its name. Traders had once crowded here with wares of silk and spices, iron tools and leather goods. But the bridge, like the people, had aged poorly. Its beams sagged, patched with mismatched planks, and the river that flowed beneath it carried more silt than fish, dark and sluggish as tar.
The townsfolk moved about their business with a muted carefulness, like shadows that had grown weary of being seen. The blacksmith’s hammer no longer rang with vigor but fell in dull, tired beats. The market square, once a stage of color and chatter, held only a few baskets of wilted vegetables, shriveled apples, and the occasional slab of meat whose freshness was questionable. Children played not with laughter but in tense whispers, mindful of unseen ears. Blackbridge lived — but it did not thrive.
The stranger noticed all this as he entered through the northern gate, its rusted iron hinges shrieking with protest at being disturbed. His boots stirred the dust of the road, drawing suspicious eyes from those who happened to be outside. He was cloaked in travel-stained grey, the hood drawn low, though it could not fully hide the sharp lines of his face or the peculiar gleam of determination in his eyes. His steps were purposeful, though he moved as if carrying a weight greater than the pack upon his shoulders.