Tom Cashel
First Post
It is the month of Tarsakh, the “Claw of the Storms,” by the time you return to the once-great city of Arabel. The weather is damp and foul, and impenetrable swaths of fog cling to the green hillsides of Northern Cormyr. You are escorted the last few miles by a grim patrol of Purple Dragons, who warn you that the open lands are not safe; roaming bands of goblins have been sighted in the past week, harassing travelers and traders alike. Soon the eastern gate of Arabel looms up from the thick mist.
Despite the oppressively chill fog, crews labor upon the many breaches that still remain in the city’s walls—evidence of the Devil Dragon’s passage less than two years ago. Although the great red wyrm was slain even as she took the life of King Azoun IV, it is widely rumored that her horde has yet to be found. Adventuring bands have crisscrossed the Storm Horns for the past two years and none have brought back anything but tall tales.
The city is rebuilding—slowly—and many avenues are deserted, or worse, lie in rubble. But work crews, Purple Dragons, citizens and War Wizards can be seen often enough in the fog, going about their many errands, to remind you that Arabel is slowly returning to life. Soon you have arrived at the Inn of the Fortunate Minotaur, proprietor Danaan Tencoin.
There you are met by the thick-bearded Lord Tahgor Ironcrest and his retinue. Lord Ironcrest surveys you all with his intense, darting black eyes. “Well again,” he finally blurts with a smile, as he signals mead be brought for everyone. “It is fortunate indeed to find you safe.”
“We are less one,” says Kaemris. He tells of the valiant fall of Lenet in battle. “In the final gamble, Tymora saw fit to take what she was due.” He has kept Lenet cor Tarak in a state of gentle repose since her demise at Ossington, and she now lies in state in one of the guest rooms. “We will tithe what is necessary to have her raised at the Lady’s House.”
Tahgor listens with great interest to your tale of magical standing stones, transformed animals, demons and deceptions. He is glad that the ordeal is over, and pledges to send aid to the struggling Grugach. “Perhaps if they learn to use the Stones for noble purpose,” he suggests, “it will ease their troubles somewhat.”
When mead has opened him to conversation, Tahgor grows somber. “Hard times have truly returned to Cormyr. We face nothing less than open rebellion against the Crown. The suspicions of my Order concerning the Dauntinghorn and Tathcrown families—namely, that they tended toward rebellion—have proven correct. It is reported that all the lands from Eveningstar west to High Horn are bloodied by civil war. Now a rumor has surfaced that the lost riches of the red wyrm Nalavara are close at hand. I have reason to believe it might be true. The Crown has desperate need of those resources.
“If only civil war were all the difficulty we would face this spring. But the gods have more in store for us: a whole litany of woes. The dwarves at Spellforge are quite enough trouble, with their endless demands for better protection of their new trade route with Thunderstone. Perhaps your recent success will placate them! But now vicious goblins—no less than Grodd goblins, I am told—have returned to the Northlands, roaming and pillaging where they will.
“The good priests of the House of Morning have reported that countless graves have been defiled recently, and the corpses stolen, both from the churchyard and old cemetery northwest of Eveningstar. Strangers speaking an unfamiliar tongue, wearing cloaks and flat-topped, wide brimmed hats, have been seen at the Thayan Enclave purchasing all the magics they can lay their hands upon.
“On top of it all, many of the folk of Cormyr are discontented and ready to strike out for new lands. A small caravan of wagons and draft horses—roughly fifteen families—has settled temporarily in the market square at Eveningstar, and they say their destination is the Silver Marches. I cannot stop them from leaving if they wish to—Azuth knows I’ve told them how perilous their long journey will be—but I can at least try to protect them. I’ve convinced them to wait until skilled guards can be spared to act as escort. I hope it is soon…because they can’t wait long if they expect to reach the Silver Marches before winter sets in.”
Tahgor sits back and drains his mead. “I apologize for burdening you with my troubles. A Lord should not complain. But my resources are stretched to the very limit! I ask you humbly, since you have done so much for the Crown already, would you be willing to undertake any of these tasks?”
Despite the oppressively chill fog, crews labor upon the many breaches that still remain in the city’s walls—evidence of the Devil Dragon’s passage less than two years ago. Although the great red wyrm was slain even as she took the life of King Azoun IV, it is widely rumored that her horde has yet to be found. Adventuring bands have crisscrossed the Storm Horns for the past two years and none have brought back anything but tall tales.
The city is rebuilding—slowly—and many avenues are deserted, or worse, lie in rubble. But work crews, Purple Dragons, citizens and War Wizards can be seen often enough in the fog, going about their many errands, to remind you that Arabel is slowly returning to life. Soon you have arrived at the Inn of the Fortunate Minotaur, proprietor Danaan Tencoin.
There you are met by the thick-bearded Lord Tahgor Ironcrest and his retinue. Lord Ironcrest surveys you all with his intense, darting black eyes. “Well again,” he finally blurts with a smile, as he signals mead be brought for everyone. “It is fortunate indeed to find you safe.”
“We are less one,” says Kaemris. He tells of the valiant fall of Lenet in battle. “In the final gamble, Tymora saw fit to take what she was due.” He has kept Lenet cor Tarak in a state of gentle repose since her demise at Ossington, and she now lies in state in one of the guest rooms. “We will tithe what is necessary to have her raised at the Lady’s House.”
Tahgor listens with great interest to your tale of magical standing stones, transformed animals, demons and deceptions. He is glad that the ordeal is over, and pledges to send aid to the struggling Grugach. “Perhaps if they learn to use the Stones for noble purpose,” he suggests, “it will ease their troubles somewhat.”
When mead has opened him to conversation, Tahgor grows somber. “Hard times have truly returned to Cormyr. We face nothing less than open rebellion against the Crown. The suspicions of my Order concerning the Dauntinghorn and Tathcrown families—namely, that they tended toward rebellion—have proven correct. It is reported that all the lands from Eveningstar west to High Horn are bloodied by civil war. Now a rumor has surfaced that the lost riches of the red wyrm Nalavara are close at hand. I have reason to believe it might be true. The Crown has desperate need of those resources.
“If only civil war were all the difficulty we would face this spring. But the gods have more in store for us: a whole litany of woes. The dwarves at Spellforge are quite enough trouble, with their endless demands for better protection of their new trade route with Thunderstone. Perhaps your recent success will placate them! But now vicious goblins—no less than Grodd goblins, I am told—have returned to the Northlands, roaming and pillaging where they will.
“The good priests of the House of Morning have reported that countless graves have been defiled recently, and the corpses stolen, both from the churchyard and old cemetery northwest of Eveningstar. Strangers speaking an unfamiliar tongue, wearing cloaks and flat-topped, wide brimmed hats, have been seen at the Thayan Enclave purchasing all the magics they can lay their hands upon.
“On top of it all, many of the folk of Cormyr are discontented and ready to strike out for new lands. A small caravan of wagons and draft horses—roughly fifteen families—has settled temporarily in the market square at Eveningstar, and they say their destination is the Silver Marches. I cannot stop them from leaving if they wish to—Azuth knows I’ve told them how perilous their long journey will be—but I can at least try to protect them. I’ve convinced them to wait until skilled guards can be spared to act as escort. I hope it is soon…because they can’t wait long if they expect to reach the Silver Marches before winter sets in.”
Tahgor sits back and drains his mead. “I apologize for burdening you with my troubles. A Lord should not complain. But my resources are stretched to the very limit! I ask you humbly, since you have done so much for the Crown already, would you be willing to undertake any of these tasks?”
Last edited:
