Far outside the rest of human civilization, near elven territory, is the frontier town of Haetrope. In most respects Haetrope is unremarkable. It has a town council, and a town guard. The citizens of Haetrope enjoy their ales in the tavern, get their pack animals shod at the blacksmith’s shop, and purchase their tools from the general store. The only thing that Haetrope has which most towns do not is the tower. The really old, really tall tower.

The base of the tower is circular, and about 200ft in diameter. The bottommost levels are completely open, the walls having long since crumbled away, leaving only a ring of off-color stone to indicate that the space was once the base of a mighty structure. Iron structures remains in place, ascending high into the sky, and through the clouds. The tower can be seen from miles around, and many travelers in the area rely on it as a guiding marker.

A handful of the towers levels do remain intact, with the lowest being about 200ft above the ground. The few who have successfully ventured up to those areas say that the stones are incredibly unstable. A wrong step can send a piece of the floor crashing to the ground far below, along with the adventurer who foolishly put their weight on that floor. It has been said, though, that any who dare to climb the tower and survive to explore its many levels could return with fabulous and untold treasures. This brings a steady flow of adventurers to Haetrope who wish to attempt the climb. So much so that watching someone make the attempt—and placing bets on when they will fall—has become a local pastime. The few who do make it to the top often return empty handed, if they ever return at all.

A far safer and more reliable expedition is to explore the numerous sublevels of the tower, which extend deep beneath the earth. Perhaps descending even further below the ground than the tower rises above it. These sublevels are not without danger of their own—fearsome monsters and deadly traps still claim the lives of most adventurers who dare venture into the depths. But at least it does not require a treacherous climb to the heights of a long since crumbled tower.

The razed bottom level of the tower allows easy access to the first sublevel via an open staircase, making the tower a popular destination for those whose lust for gold is sufficient to drive them into danger.

Nobody knows when the tower was built, or for what purpose. Not even the greatest historical sages can name a time when the town of Haetrope did not lay in the shadow of the tower. And while it is true that much of history has been lost, it is also certain that both the tower, and the town of Haetrope beneath it, have existed together for millenia.

Beyond when and why, it cannot even be determined how the tower was built, or why it still stands. Numerous kings over the ages have sent their royal architects to learn from the tower, so they too could have a castle which rose above the clouds. But even the most talented architects humankind has produced have been unable to replicate the materials or the construction techniques used by whatever ancient people built the tower. And more than one twisted wreck of a tower can be found throughout the human lands to prove it.

Rosco Rurik was good at killing the undead. The ranger had devoted all of his training, and all of his time to becoming more efficient at slaying the hated creatures. He’d memorized every type ever encountered or created. He’d memorized the known weaknesses and powers of each, and carried with him an extensive array of tools to accomplish his undead slaying task. If anything could send a shiver of mortal fear through a vampire’s spine, it was the name ‘Rosco Rurik.”

Rurik’s hunting made him famous through the land. Tales were told of him round campfires, and over pints of ale. And nearly every story mentioned Rosco’s powerful magic axe. In the presence of the undead, the axe’s blade became shrouded in white mist, and it was uniquely suited to slaying them. After a single cut, the blade would adapt itself to take advantage of the individual creature’s weaknesses, meaning Rosco’s second blow was often the last he needed to make.

There are many tales which could be told of Rosco and his mighty axe, but what concerns us today is their last adventure. As usual, Rosco was in pursuit of some undead ne’er-do-well who had caused a lot of suffering. A lich by the name of Amkon, who lived on an island surrounded by treacherous waters. Rosco had thought himself sufficiently prepared to kill the vile creature, but the Lich had lured him into a trap, and Rosco barely escaped from the lich’s lair alive.

He ran with all haste, the Lich’s ghouls close on his heels. The brave ranger managed to make it to shore, but found that his boat had been destroyed by the lich’s servants, to prevent any possible escape. He was trapped on an island with a foe he could not defeat by himself. Rosco knew he was going to die. Knowing he could not allow his axe to fall into the lich’s hands.

He had managed to gain a good twenty minutes on the creatures chasing him, but that did not leave him much time. With his hands he shoveled sand away as fast as he could, then shoveled it back in place again once he had dropped his axe into a hole deep enough that he thought it would not be discovered. By the time the lich and his minions arrived. Rosco was sitting peacefully in the surf, looking out over the water. The lich grabbed him by the throat and held him off the ground. He demanded to know where the axe was. Rosco smiled

“The ocean tides will carry it far from here. You’ll never find it. “

Those were Rosco Rurik’s last words, before the lich tossed him into a pack of ghouls, which tore the ranger into unrecognizable chunks of what had once been a man.

The lich spent a year sending zombies to walk the ocean floor, searching for the axe. He hoped he could use it in his magical experimentation to produce undead creatures resistant to their traditional weaknesses. He never thought to search the beach itself. Eventually the lich grew bored, and moved on to some other project in its interminably long life. For many years the axe lay beneath the sand, undisturbed. Then an unexpected thing happened. A green sprout appeared in the sand, where the axe had been burried. And the sprout grew over years into a tree, towering above the beach and shading the surf. It is a mystery why precisely this happened, or how the tree survives rooted in sand. But one thing is clear: Rosco’s axe was the tree’s seed, and most agree that his blood was the water.

Rurik’s Tree is unlike any which has ever been seen before or since. The wood is brown, with soft bark and straight, sturdy branches. The leaves of the tree are large—roughly a foot across. They curve outwards from the branch, appearing very much like the blade of an axe. They cut very much like one as well. While the leaves are alive, they function as a battleaxe with a +5d6 enchantment bonus against undead. Unfortunately, within a day of being removed from the tree, the leaves wilt and becomes useless. No one has yet determined how these leaves could be used in a more permanent application.

Some years ago I was in the southern lands. My expeditions had not been fruitful of late, and I was in sore need of some coin. To tide myself over, I took a job as a bounty hunter. The town I was staying in at the time had been harassed by a group of brigands for several months. They pooled they resources, and offered me a hundred gold coins if I would bring them the heads of all seven bandits. Normally I wouldn’t have taken such a poorly paying job, but my purse was so light by that point that it may as well have been filled with feathers.

I waited until the band attacked once more, then pursued them from a safe distance, with as much subtlety as I could manage. Given their superior numbers, I did not want to face them in an even fight. I hoped to attack them in the night, when they could be caught unawares. Their path led through rocky hills, and into a wasteland of dry, sun-blasted earth. The ground was so flat that it would have been impossible to remain hidden, so I allowed them to pull ahead of me over the horizon, and continued to pursue them by following the tracks their horses left on the ground.

In the late afternoon, I happened to catch a hint of movement at the edge of my vision. I turned to see a pack of large, hungry-looking coyotes stalking me. I had no idea where they’d come from, but it was clear they intended to have my horse and I for a meal. Weary from the long ride and the harsh sun as we were, I knew I didn’t have much of a chance fighting the damned things, so I spurred my horse along and we took off as fast as we could. Which turned out not to be very fast, given our exhaustion. Up ahead of us, though, there was what looked to be a dry riverbed with an old wooden bridge across it. It would be as good a place as any to make a stand, so I made for it with all haste I could coax from my steed.

We made it across the bridge, where I leaped down and drew a dagger and shield. It wasn’t much defense, but at least it would prevent them from completely surrounding me, I thought. I turned and waited for them to pounce on me, but they never did. I could see it in their eyes the moment their forepaws landed on the decrepit wooden planks. Immediately I no longer interested them. They took a few more bounding steps forward, but their focus was lost. They all wandered about for a moment, before moving off together, leaving my horse and I untouched.

I was curious, so I examined the bridge more closely. It was clearly very old, but I was surprised by how sturdy it felt. I tried putting my feet through the boards, and shaking the railings, but nothing budged. Upon closer inspection, much of what I had assumed to be gnarled, worn wood was actually expertly carved with leaves, trees, birds, and other small woodland creatures depicted on the railings and posts. Clearly it had been built when its surroundings were much different. Either that, or whoever built it had a very unusual sense of aesthetic.

I jumped down to the riverbed below, and began digging my hands into the ground to see if I could tell just how long it had been since there was any water under the bridge. The surface was so dry that I had to loosen it with my dagger before I could begin searching at all. I dug perhaps a foot into the ground without encountering anything but dry, dead earth. I was about to give up and move on when I noticed some markings on the bottom of the bridge. They were made with paint, but still clear to see. It was a large circle with half a dozen runes inside of it. I copied it to some parchment I had as best I could, then climbed atop my horse and started to ride back the way I’d come.

Back in town I found a scholar who told me the symbol was an old elven one, meaning “Go in peace,” or “Walking the Path of Nonviolence,” or something else to that effect. It wasn’t until I spoke with her  that I realized I had completely forgotten about my pursuit of the bandits after I crossed that bridge.

If you visit the town of Everbrook, there is a sight you ought to see. Follow the stream which runs through town upriver, and you’ll come to a crumbling watchtower near the town’s edge. Behind it is an overgrown path leading up into the hills. The trees here grow large, and broad, blocking out all but the occasional trickle of sunlight. You may need a lantern to follow the path, even at noon on a bright summer’s day.

The climb is steep and winding, but the path never strays far from the stream, so you’ll have plenty of water to slake your thirst. A mile or so up, you will happen upon a clearing. It’s the only spot for miles, aside from Everbrook itself, where the sun shines through the dense tree cover. The southern edge of the clearing drops off suddenly, and if you stand on the edge you can see a rolling ocean of thick leaves extending as far as human eyes can see.

The clearing is small, no more than 15ft from any point on the clearing’s edge to any other. The stream pools in a tiny pond here, before continuing further up the hillside. There are no insects or animals there, only a profound stillness that makes you keenly aware of every sound you’ve brought with you–your footsteps in the grass, your breathing, your heartbeat.

Beside the water is a tomb; 6ft long, 3ft wide, and 3ft high. It is made of local stone, and somehow seems more at home than I would have thought a man made object could be in such a profoundly natural place. Its surfaces are covered in ornate carvings, depicting great battles, and slain demons. The side of the tomb which faces towards the water, and out over the trees, bears the only word, written in common.

“Hero”

If you were to ask anyone in town where it came from, none of them could give you an answer. They say that the town’s founders only discovered it several years after settling in the area, and no one has ever found out where it came from, or how long it has been there. Most of the townsfolk have visited the Hero’s Rest at least a few times. It is a solitary experience for them, one of solemnity and contemplation. Specific beliefs and traditions regarding the site vary from person to person, but every last citizen of Everbrook agrees that Hero’s Rest deserves reverence.

No one has ever opened the tomb, nor would the people of Everbrook ever willingly allow someone to do so–though they do not guard the site and could not stop a determined thief. Nor are they eager to learn of who was lain to rest there. Whoever that person was, the town of Everbrook embraces them.

Whoever that person was, they were a hero.

Thirty years ago, the town of Lilbr was utterly commonplace. It wasn’t deep in the wilderness, nor was it convenient to any large cities. Its people were not renowned for any great craft or service. They lived unremarkably, and no one paid them any mind.

Then a virulent diseased spread rapidly throughout the land, touching every community. Its victims died horrible, retching deaths. Many attempts were made to cure it, but they seemed powerless to stop or even delay the spread of the terrible malady. Like an avatar of death, it killed the ones it chose for itself, and ignored the rest completely. Even those who tried to keep themselves completely separated from society had no luck escaping the scourge of what came to be known The Death Cough, after its distinctive first symptom.

The disease raged for only three months, but in that time it nearly halfed the size of most communities. Some towns were reduced to a tenth of their previous population. Everyone was scared, and mourning, and many towns were abandoned because their devastated citizenry could no longer support themselves. It took a few months before people started to realize that in all the shuffling, no one had heard anything, from anyone in Lilbr.

Scouts were sent to investigate. They discovered what everyone had feared. Not a single person in Lilbr had been left alive. Upon inspection, no new graves were found. There was no indication that anyone had taken the time to bury any of the numerous bodies curled up in their homes and in the streets. It was apparent that the Death Cough had afflicted all the people of Lilbr at the same time, and had not spared anyone as it had elsewhere. Even the livestock were seen curled up and motionless, apparently dead from the disease which had only been observed affecting humans before.

With the threat of the disease still fresh in everyone’s minds, no one even dared bury the bodies. That would require being near them for far too long. Instead, it was agreed that no one should approach within 20 miles of Lilbr until 10 years hence. The number was arbitrary and unscientific, but to the farmers and other peasant folk who made up the surrounding villages and towns, it seemed like a safe bet.

Signs were posted warning travelers away, and indicating safe detours. For a decade, no one set eyes on Lilbr. And when the 10 year quarantine finally drew to a close, the emboldened villagers sent a small band to purge the village. They were to bury the bodies—no doubt skeletal by now—and burn the buildings and fields. The band returned three days later, each of them as pale as death. They said there were no bodies to bury, because the dead of Lilbr walked the streets as though they were alive.

Fearing the worst, a party of adventurers was hired to investigate further. They found that, indeed, the people of Lilbr had been raised as zombies. But even the adventurers, widely traveled though they were, had never seen anything quite like what the town had become.

While on the surface the town appeared to be overrun by completely average zombies, the adventurers discovered them to be anything but. For one thing, they did not attack the living on sight. In fact, they completely ignored the adventurers until the group destroyed one of the shambling corpses. When they did that, every zombie in town immediately attacked, and the adventurers thought for sure they would be devoured by the sudden onslaught. But the moment they stepped outside the city limits, all pursuit ceased. The zombies stopped running, picked up the remains of the one who had fallen, and went about their business. Stranger still, the following day, the adventurers saw the same zombie they had destroyed walking about as though nothing had happened! That shouldn’t be possible. A destroyed zombie cannot be reanimated a second time, it is common knowledge.

Still more strange, the adventures noted that the zombies did not mill about aimlessly as mindless creatures are apt to do. They seem to be living the same lives they had before the plague came.The farmers farmed, the millers milled, the children played, and friends stood around chatting with one another. It would be an idyllic scene, if the participants were not dead. The running children moved in a stilted, rigor-mortised shamble, and every conversation was nothing but guttural noises produced by lungs and throats which no longer functioned as they were designed to.

Unsettled by this news, the surrounding villages began to empty. No one was comfortable living near such a horrifying place. It wasn’t long before the village of the dead was surrounded by a dozen ghost towns. Occasionally, a group of paladins have taken it upon themselves to destroy Lilbr, and rid the world of its foul mockery of life. Many died trying, unprepared for the vicious coordination of the zombie counterattack. And before a more organized force could raze the town, necromancers began to arrive from all over the world.

Lilbr was unique. An absolutely unparalleled opportunity to study naturally occuring necromatic phenomena. Every powerful necromancer in the world wanted to be a part of it. Many went so far as to build their towers within sight of the town, forming a very loose coalition. They quickly noticed something the adventuers had failed to recognize: each zombie’s actions are exactly the same nearly every day. Down to the number of steps taken and the tones of the guttural conversations. Very occasionally, once, or perhaps twice a year, the zombies deviate from their routine. For a day, everything is different. They have a festival, or a trial, or a war. So far none of these odd days have repeated themselves, and no one is quite sure what they represent.

Entire towers have been filled with tomes pertaining to the bizarre puzzle of Liblr. To this day, no one actually knows what is going on.