The Stolen Lands are a vast expanse to the south of the nation of Brevoy. Many have tried to settle the lands, but they've proven to be impossible to tame so far. Brevoy is currently on the verge of a civil war between the northern half of the nation, Issia, and the southern half, Rostland. The city of Restov, seat of Rostland, recently put out a call seeking adventurers to explore the Stolen Lands. Rostland plans to send four groups into the area to settle it and build up nations, hoping to increase their power as they prepare for the inevitable war with Issia.
Five adventurers answered the call to explore the area of the Stolen Lands known as the Greenbelt. Their journey was to begin on 25 Calastril 4711 when they were scheduled to set out by foot to Oleg's Trading Post, a remote trading post that straddles the border of Brevoy and the Stolen Lands. On the 30th day of Talistril, on the road outside of Oleg's Trading post. About 100 miles from Restov. They arrived.
The party of five have finally come to their destination. It's been five long days on the flat dusty road, with the plains land south of Restov being relatively featureless. A border of calm between Brevoy and the unstable Stolen Lands. This group of men is one of four chosen to tame the country. To strike it of it's impurities and ready it to be forged into a kingdom. At this point it seems appropriate for them to review the charters granted by Lord Mayor of Restov.
The rugged fort stands tall with it's front gate open wide. A keen eye might recognize this structure as a military one. An abandoned border fort from one of many failed attempts to colonize this territory. The walls are ten feet tall and repairs can be seen all along them. At the four corners are twenty foot square watch towers. Dilapidated catapults peak over the edges. A thirty foot gate is opened wide. Drifting on the breeze is the smell of baking bread and the sound of hammering.
When the five of you enter the gate on foot, you're met with a homely sight. Inside the fort are three buildings. A large one to the west which closely resembles a stable, a medium sized structure to the east faces a small barrack. From the house a thread of smoke rises being carried away by the wind. Standing at the top of the ladder is a stern looking man busily repairing the roof of the barracks.
As the party enters the central yard he looks over wiping his brow, "Ho there, about time you fellows show up."
While he climbs down the ladder a fetching middle aged lady exits the house carrying a clay pitcher. She spots the adventurers and runs hastily over to his side, a warm grin spreading on her face.
"My name is Oleg leveton, this is my wife, Svetlana," he says shortly, "Welcome to my trading post."