Sirocco.
The old city on the fringes of Dracomar. It stands as the last bastion of sanity in the hopelessness of a land claimed by mystic-lords and legions of the undead.
In the minds of other towns and providences, the city sits as that hustle-bustle outpost in the Blasted Steppes. Many make pilgrimages believing in the prospects of fortune. But just as the torch's flicker attracts the unsuspecting moth, voyagers are sure to meet destruction in the flames of hostility that is old Sirocco.
In the centuries past, it might have been ruled by a king or sultan, but now the only sovereignty is the scattered guilds held together by a loose trade alliance and the utter need for one another. Sticking together was a matter of survival for Siroccans. Survival was the reason they had built the outer spiked wall--although the hordes of zombies were savvy enough to hide, sprint, and jump, they had yet to master a way of negotiating the tall sandstone fortified with spikes and spears.
And thus despite his noble birthright, Grant would receive no special treatment there (not that he needed the attention). The days of kings had faded. Lineages were forgotten. The culture of Sirocco resembled no particular group; it was merely a melting-pot of peoples that had been forced together from the pressing ravages of a world gone mad.
And Grant needed to make it to the city despite the surrounding danger. He rode away from the ruins of former glory near the Tower Vorox. He looked the part of a royalty, tall and stout, but he was armed to his teeth in weapons and magical devices. His gleaming brown-iron armor with bronze trim, his regal red cloak, and his heavy gold shield would get him hot in the sun but he had to make the trip during the day as zombies seemed to be mostly nocturnal. His trip would take weeks. At night, his magics would protect him if he didn't move about.
The sun went down on his last day of travel and he knew he couldn't make it down the cliff to the city before the hordes arose. He tied his horse to a lone tree and sprinkled crystal dust around them to a rune shape. His power would make him invisible to the the voracious undead, but not to the Vistari. . .
Grant lay there in a half sleep watching the fire's flicker. He was a serious man, not prone to smile or otherwise change his stoic facial expression for most things. Suddenly, a figure from the darkness kicked up enough dirt to break the warding seal. Before Grant could rise to his feet with sword unsheathed, a nomadic Vistari thief galloped away on his unbridled horse.
There he stood in the darkness, alone. Rather than idly curse at the horse thief, Grant stood in a brooding glare, listening to the fading gallop. With the seal broken, his only choice now was to gather his things and petition to whatever gods still gave a damn. Perhaps he could make it there by morning. . .
Grant sprinted through the gates of Sirocco with about 20 or 30 snarling zombies in pursuit. The gate guard had seen him coming down the hill, held open the heavy spiked gate, and then smashed it back shut in time to lock out the uncaring devourers. Grant fell to the earth in exhaustion and pain, watching the gate guards chuckle to themselves as they recreationally took pot shots at the zombies' clawing appendages that protruded through the wooden beams. He was relieved that they failed to notice the oozing spot of missing flesh on his left arm. Grant had to keep that a secret; the paranoid Siroccans would hardly welcome a visitor who had been bitten by the newly dead.
When hell is full, the dead shall walk the Aerth. Damn you, my fallen Fathers, why did you have to be wrong? I curse the gods for your sakes.
Within the walls of Sirocco, it really wasn't much safer. The people were prone to violence and extremely superstitious. As the weeks passed, Grant's arm-wound did not heal. He most assuredly would have made the perfect candidate for a ritual sacrifice or perhaps the blood-hungry Siroccans would cast him into the gladiatorial fight pits.
A group of monks made their profession there. The fighting arena was dug out of the ground. The monks kept to themselves mostly and claimed to hail from some nearby secluded monastery. It was a great event whenever some hapless convict was pitted up against a professional gladiator, wild animal, or randomly captured undead monster.
The shadows of Sirocco held more sinister secrets still. There was some thieves' guild that was apparently led by some she-tiefling called Astara the Soulwitch. There also was some underground religious cult that everyone was afraid of. They called them "The Harvesters" for two reasons. One, their creepy cloaks, their sickle and blade styles seemed to hearken to more agrarian culture, and two, because their murdered victims were usually missing a number of organs--as if they'd been harvested.
Grant soon discovered that there were a few more recent events that made the town on edge.
Amalgaloth seemed to be acting up again. Sirocco had a neighbor--Tower Amalgaloth. It was a lone tower that stretched up high above the cracked, dry wastes. It was locked with magic. No one really knew much about it other than a myriad of rumors and the sporadic flashes of red light that could be seen through spyglass. The superstitious Siroccans claimed that demons were brought in from there. They were scared to death of demons.
They blamed one supposed demon named Charnock for drying up their well. The well was fed from a stream that came from a nearby lake. The lake dried up; Charnock, the ash-demon was to blame. Luckily, Grant travelled with the fortune of royalty and could afford the steep price for a cup of the rationed water-supply.
Grant now was safe for the time being, but his quest could arouse suspicion from the Siroccans. He sought a petition with some of the resident mystics--old men who were sometimes branded as demon mongers and subsequently killed. He therefore treaded lightly in those dusty streets. He knew the mystics could help him with his quest--his sole purpose of risking life and limb. He knew that they could help him get inside Tower Amalgaloth.
He finished his ale, left the bar, and then gave one last prayer to those gods that still gave a damn.
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