Basilah

There was a stretch of land, in the middle of nowhere. Between two mountain peaks. hidden in the backroads of Dragonhome stood a settlement that was as good as forgotten by the rest of the world. It was no major port for trade or transport. It didn't have the means to support rich farmlands or the open grass for large herds. At best, it was a stopover for caravans passing through to reach larger cities. The locals called it Hovel, with fondness, but what they really meant was home.

You do not cause trouble on the roads of Hovel.

To anyone who listened, the locals spoke of strange enchantments and watching eyes, inexplicable disappearances and wailing noises, and only foolhardy travelers would let that lead them astray.

"Stay the path," they warned, with solemn eyes and bowed heads.

"No trouble finds the path."

What they didn't say was that keeping to the path discouraged bandits. Keeping to the cleared roads made for easier travels, and that the prying eyes of lawless highwaymen that would usually take advantage of that were soundly silenced whenever they tried to find pickings in Hovel.

What they didn't say was that the roads were patroled. Travelers, they had long learned, were foolish things, more likely to listen to superstition than common sense.

The Avariels have traveled far and wide, guided by paths set by living legends and stalwart heroes. But there are places where that fanfare matters as much as spoilt meat, places where the efforts of honest, humble hands is rewarded, even if only by an extra bushel at harvest. Places like that encouraged a different breed of heroes.