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The wind always breezes softly in Atamora, gliding up onto the hill and through the city, despite the harsh denizens inside, with weapons and sunlight aplenty. The old dwarven settlement has become an alcove of criminals, those who have endured and forgotten their journeys of long ago. Days come and go slowly in Atamora, leaving the forgotten memories of the aging adventurers who now live there.  Many soup their sorrows, wishing about the things they could and should have done. Many consider Atamora a place, not too far from Alasantine, but just enough, to enjoy the quietness and serenity of nature. However, most people living in Atamora won’t enjoy the company of another interfering.  



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