Tales From Grothgar: Tales From

By Paragon Papers

Within the pages of this enchanting collection lies the realm of Grothgar, a land where myths breathe and magic flourishes in the shadow of ancient secrets. Here, the lines between the mystical and the mortal blur, as heroes battle not just beasts but their destinies. From the eerie whispers of the Wailing Woods to the shimmering towers of arcane scholars, each tale is a thread in the tapestry of a world both splendid and somber.

Meet the unforgettable characters who define Grothgar: Cyra Darkbloom, who commands the dark flora; Elric Vane, who weaves magic through forgotten lore; and many more who will claim a piece of your heart. Together, these heroes unite to face the ultimate challenge in a climactic battle that will decide the fate of their world.

With each turn of the page, you'll encounter the Howling Harvest, explore the depths of the Phantom Piper's haunting melodies, and witness the power of the Timeless Tome. This collection isn't just a series of adventures; it is a journey through a world where every shadow tells a story, and every sunset promises a tale of heroism and heart.

Dive into a universe where each sip of an enchanted brew at The Tavern at World's End reveals deeper truths, and discover why Grothgar is a realm that, once visited, will never be forgotten. Perfect for fans of high fantasy and mystical adventures, this book promises to enchant, thrill, and inspire. Will you heed the call of Grothgar?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paragon Papers
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224120741

Book preview

The Tavern at World's End

In the shadow-haunted realm of Grothgar, where magic breathed as heavily as the fog upon the crooked cobbled streets, there stood an inn as bent and twisted as the hearts of those who frequented it. The Tavern at World's End was not merely a place for ale and respite but a pulsating hub of the darkest human whims—a place where laughter mingled with cries, and sorrows drowned in potent brews spiked with dragon's bile.

The innkeeper, a hunched figure known only as Crow, had eyes like shards of obsidian, reflecting a mind filled with schemes and secrets. Crow’s true delight wasn't in the coin that clinked on his counter, but in the stories that unfolded like sinister plays among the patrons.

On this particular stormy night, the door burst open, admitting a gust that swept through the room like a premonition. In strode a man cloaked in a robe that shimmered with an eerie, unnatural light. His face was hidden beneath a hood, and a staff topped with a glowing emerald hummed softly in his grip. The patrons, a motley assortment of warlocks and witches, cutthroats and conjurers, paused and turned their gaze towards this new figure.

Barkeep, the stranger’s voice rolled out like distant thunder, a room for the night and your strongest drink.

Crow's grin was a crescent of malice. Of course, good sir. But here, we trade tales for our services. Your drink, your room—they cost you a story.

The stranger nodded, dropping a handful of shimmering dust onto the counter, which settled into the shape of tiny, screaming faces before fading away. I am called Maelthor, and my tale is one of woe and wrath, a folly of the gods themselves.

The room fell silent except for the crackle of the fireplace, and Maelthor began:

In the lands beyond the Shivering Wastes, I sought the Heart of Tornos, a gem said to grant its bearer the power to command the very shadows. But what I found was not a gem but a child—a child born from darkness itself, abandoned in the realm of mortals.

Crow leaned closer, his eyes glittering with more than just reflected firelight.

Misfortune, they named her, and true to her name, she brought calamity to all around her. Her cries summoned beasts from the nether, her laughter wilted crops. Yet, amidst this chaos, I saw the purity of her curse. She did not choose this life, no more than we choose the blood that runs in our veins.

Maelthor's story twisted through the night, painting visions of a world where gods gambled with the lives of mortals, where magic was not a gift but a burden that clawed at the soul. As the tale concluded, the patrons, for once, found themselves clutching at their own shadows, whispering of the child who could command darkness.

Crow nodded, a slow, appreciative bob. Your room is ready, Maelthor. Your drink, on the house.

As the night deepened and the patrons resumed their revelries, a figure watched from the shadows. It was Misfortune, now grown, her eyes a tapestry of stars and void. She had heard her tale told, her curse laid bare as a spectacle. Yet, she smiled, for in this place of dark revels, she found not scorn but a twisted kinship.

Maelthor, alone in his room, felt a chill as if the storm outside had whispered through his soul. He knew not why he had spoken of Misfortune, but as he looked out into the tempest, he saw, or thought he saw, her silhouette against the lightning-scarred sky.

In the common room, Crow polished a glass, smirking at a dragon's scale left behind by another patron—another tale for another night.

Thus, The Tavern at World's End thrived, a beacon of shadows in a world wild with magic and darkened by human hearts, each story spun within its walls adding threads to a tapestry woven with the darkest yarns of Grothgar.

The Smith Who Forged Nightmares

In the bustling outskirts of Grothgar, far from the eerie mirth of The Tavern at World’s End, the village of Draven’s Hollow whispered its own tales of darkness. Here, the fires burned as fierce as the ambitions of its folk, and the clang of hammer on anvil never ceased, for this was the domain of Ealdwine, the blacksmith renowned across the realm for his otherworldly craftsmanship.

Ealdwine was a giant of a man, with muscles coiled like chains and a beard as wild as the wolves that prowled the surrounding forests. But it was his skill that drew souls to his forge—a place where magic and metal danced under his hammer. Ealdwine forged weapons that weren’t merely tools of war but vessels of doom, imbued with curses and blessings alike.

On a day shadowed by ominous clouds, a figure cloaked in tattered robes approached Ealdwine’s forge. Her eyes, hidden beneath her hood, gleamed with a strange light, reminiscent of starlit voids. She was Misfortune, the cursed child grown into a sorceress whose very presence made the air shimmer with dark potential.

I seek a blade, she spoke,