A resident of Candlehat, well, I shouldn't say Candlehat, but near enough there anyway. He has been called Dewey by his family, well, I shouldn't say family, but close enough anyway, for as long as he can remember.

He doesn't remember too much of his childhood. He remembers the farm, and the people who found him as a young boy. They taught him how to work the farm, fed him, and let him sleep in the small barn. Most of them are gone now.

On the whole, his life up to this point has been pretty simple. Tend to the farm, grow the crops, sell the crops, load up the wagon that will take them to the outer cities. Keep the farm running.

It's been tough, and his duties have keep him tied to the farm.

Goodmaiden Farm (while primarily supplying wheat, grain, and other staple crops to the people of Candlehat) is known in much further places as a reliable supplier of rare herbs. The climate and soil content there supports the growth of a small variety of fruit, herbs and flowering plants that are sought the area over for their use in healing salves and balms. Legend has it, in the time the Old Ones were angry, a thunderstorm roared across the land, and a single mother gave her life to protect her children. As lightning bolts spat from the sky, she arched her body over her two sons. She was struck, and immediately her body was immediately reduced to ash. The legend continues that the two boys fled to a nearby tree hollow, to ride out the storm, and later went on to establish the small farming village.

The oldest farmworkers on record believed that she is the reason the soil is so fertile, that the farm was built around her flowery grave. Although you'd be hard pressed to find anyone around who actually believes that tale these days, let alone anyone who has even heard it.

Dewey doesn't care much about the legend. The farm has been good to him, and he has learned how to work the land. Even in the current drought, he has still managed to produce a decent yield.

On the day a cart load of herbs was supposed to be delivered to Pyre, a horse drawn carriage rolled up to the farm. It stopped just outside the sorghum crop, the horses munching furiously. As Dewey approached, he saw Jorkut, a man who was basically his brother, collapsed in the driver's seat, clutching a half empty bottle. He was gone.

At this, he didn't feel sadness. He felt anger. Gromun, the eldest on the farm had returned dead, the exact same way, just a season ago...preparing for a delivery to Pyre.

This was it. Jorkut was it. There was no one left. Dewey would leave the farm. He would take the delivery to Pyre, collect the money, and set out to find some answers.