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The Dalelands, a bountiful realm of rolling fields and lush forests, the soil rich and the weather fair with the welcoming kiss of the sea to the east - it is as if all the good gods smile upon this land. Many, many folk call this ample region their home, the Dalelands hosting numerous city-states and lordships that despite their differences cooperate and stand together in times of plenty and crisis alike. This bond among the Dalesfolk as well as their close friendships with the elves of Cormanthor and the benevolent Harpers serve the Dales well and protect them in the face of danger - and there is much danger to be seen that threatens the Dales.

The Zhentarim are a constant threat, coveting the abundant lands and rich trade routes of the Dales. And when not the Zhentarim it is the drow - the swarthy elves of the Underdark, beings that fill the nightmares of children. And when not the drow it is the beasts of the Thunder Peaks and other dangerous places that blot the otherwise wondrous Dalelands. The Dalesfolk are always wary of outsiders for they have suffered their share of hardships over the centuries.

In recent years none in the Dalelands have suffered like the people of Scardale - a small, rugged region that lies against the Sea of Fallen Stars near the border with Sembia. In the last generation Scardale has endured war, occupation by cruel invading forces, political dispute, and most recently a terrible plague that lead to thousands upon thousands of deaths. In the wake of the plagues’ end chaos ensued, criminals and other armed bands preyed upon Scarsdale’s weakened capital - the city watch began to desert and order crumbled as the capital was ravaged from within. The city leaders fled the destruction and established their new capital in the nearby trading settlement of Chandlerscross as Scardale Town burned against the eastern horizon.

The folk of Scardale are at an impasse. While some say that Scardale Town is lost and should be cast to the wind others insist that the capital must be reclaimed. Since the city was abandoned criminal syndicates, mad cultists, and other vile organizations have taken up residence within. The danger of leaving Scardale Town to those of ill intent is too great they say. Governor Khelvos Dermmen stands conflicted, not willing to begin a bloody campaign against Scardale Town but also aware of the threat of letting the city fester in corruption and evil. Day after day he sits in his keep, wringing his hands and praying to Torm for answers but receives none as the provisional council bickers endlessly.

One ambitious man, Berald Hastlon, seeks to break this deadlock and see Scardale Town reclaimed from its’ current state. However, unable to rely on the limited resources and manpower at Chandlerscross, Berald has put out a call for strong and resolute souls - promising great boons to those who would answer his summons. Would-be heroes and mercenaries quickly flocked to Chandlerscross from the nearby regions and were guided to Berald’s estate where the nobleman prepares to address them…

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NIGHTAL 1, 1372 DR
CHANDLERSCROSS
HASTLON ESTATE

So, let us see what this Lord Hastlon has to offer.

“I hope this Lord Hastlon does not keep us all waiting much longer, it has been a long trip up here and I would like a stiff drink and a warm bed after the journey I have had.”

Iliskra’s eyes darted around, the half-elf’s gaze settling on the man that had just uttered the bumbling complaint. A heavily armored brute of a human with a broadsword hefted over his shoulder, on his head sat a helmet ornamented with spiraling horns and from his back hung a blood-red cape which was frayed at the bottom. Iliskra felt a smirk tugging at the right corner of her mouth. She could not see his face but by his way of speaking alone Iliskra had a feeling the lampoonish oaf breathed through parted lips more often than not.

“Cease your complaining.” Said another voice, higher pitched and silky. Iliskra’s eyes swiveled towards the owner - another human, a golden-haired woman in a suit of scalemail with a kite shield perched upon her left arm emblazoned with the symbol of Helm. “I imagine Lord Hastlon is a busy man and he will be with us as soon possible.” she stated.

“One would think he would handle his regular affairs so he might address his new army of fools posthaste.” came a third voice which prompted a couple of stray laughs.

From her place in the shadow of a nearby corner Iliskra turned her head to give the host of folk she stood with another looking over. Including herself there seemed to be just over twenty people gathered in the very lavish foyer of Lord Hastlon’s mansion - all newly arrived and answering his call for capable swordarms for some expedition of sorts. There were some among them that made her smile in amusement such as the helmeted clod that did not know how to even grip a sword, or the wide-eyed young man in the brown jerkin armed with a hunting bow and a dagger that shined like new. And then there were those that Iliskra could immediately tell were not to be lightly trifled with, such as the listless bearded man in robes that Iliskra immediately marked as a wizard, or the grizzled dwarf that stood at the back of the crowd - two ruddy, wicked hand axes hanging from his waist. Most of those gathered were humans, the dwarf graced by the presence of another of his kind and Iliskra had also spotted a pair of halflings standing together at the front of the assemblage. From what she could see she was the only elf-blood in the room - which was hardly a first time happening. Several of the fellow arrivals were sipping away at silvery goblets of wine, served to those who so wished when everyone was allowed inside the mansion. Iliskra had declined, choosing carefulness over expensive wine freely given out. Iliskra doubted there was any malicious intent and Lord Hastlon had simply wished to butter up his guests before presenting himself. Still, it was always better to be safe than sorry. And if Iliskra wanted fine wine she could just steal some later.

Iliskra glanced out of a nearby window. The sun was setting and snow was falling, delicate white flakes blanketing the outside of the mansion and the whole of the town of Chandlerscross. Midwinter was just weeks away and the Dales were already enveloped in snow and ice as this was looking to be a bitter winter season. Thought not inclined to complain Iliskra hoped that their host did make his entrance very soon, for if she were to stay at an inn tonight she would rather not try to find one after dark while trudging through shin deep snow.

Leon drifted through the crowd of mercenaries, a half-full silver wine cup in his hand that always seemed to dodge any attempt to refill it and an easy smile on his face that hid as much as the bronze mask at his hip did at times. His blue eyes scanned the faces and helmets all around him with interest. Lord Hastlon had gathered quite the menagerie of 'ne'er do wells' into his not so humble home tonight for his grand call for action. And grant it would be, for the Maskarrans to send one of their own to this particular masquerade.

If only they weren't all so dreadfully boring, Leon thought to himself, even as he feigned an interest in the immaculately maintained armor of a human male that clearly thought themselves some dragon slaying knight out to find their princess. The man put on a brave face, recounting the story of their last adventure into some dreadful sewer and fighting off a wererat infestation. Leon kept an easy half-smile on his own face, nodding through the story, but also seeing the slight wince of pain in the other man's eyes. You fought near the back of the group... and someone died. No, the pain is too recent. They were bitten. And so you freaked out and spent your life's savings on armor that will be stripped from your body ten minutes into Scardale...

"It is good to hear that I will be in the company of such heroes," Leon said, "hopefully your companions meet with similar success. Pardon me."

And so he continued the dance, flitting from one group to the next, always looking for the true players of this game. The ones with skill, intelligence, money, and/or strength to draw his attention. There were a few faces in the crowd that he took note of, but none that seemed to trigger what he was looking for. That special blending of shadows, that whisper heard only in the darkest of alleyways, the touch of his god upon his shoulder. He learned names, let others brag of their talents, and even made a few simple offerings of his own services in exchange for appropriate payments. He had received two offers of employment so far, but had turned both offers down sensing that their idea of loyalty didn't quite match up with his own.

His patience was already beginning to wear thin after two different passes through the 'adventurers'. If necessary, he would carry out his temple's mission himself, but there was a nagging feeling in the back of his neck that he was missing something... someone. Muttering a prayer to Mask under his breath as he swung through the next group of fools, several people seemed to move in just the perfect way so that he caught sight of a lone figure that he had somehow been missing on his previous trips. An elven woman, possibly a half-elf since her skin was a little lighter than the wood elves he had seen in these parts, graced with curves that drew attention away from the telltale musculature of someone who performed acrobatics as part of their daily routine. She held the ethereal beauty most elves could lay claim to, but even Leon's brief look was able to see the intelligence that hid in those eyes. The shadows seemed to welcome her, and one of the first tenets of Mask's faithful came to his mind.

Mask sees everything that happens in the dark. Trust the darkness, for those in the light are easy prey.

The crowd moved again and he lost sight of her, but he would remember her face. Even as Lord Hastlon began to call for attention, he couldn't help but throw subtle glances around, wondering if she was still lurking in the crowd somewhere.

“Oi’, is that Lord Hastlon?” asked one man.

“No, you bucket, that’s the steward or… whatever e’ is.” snapped another.

Standing now at the diverging platform of the upward staircase at the back of the foyer was a rotund man of modest height with a short-cut white beard and poorly combed thinning hair to match. His cream-colored jerkin laced tight enough to present his girth in full and the golden breeches and sequined shoes he wore making him look quite dandyish. He was the one who had first allowed the armed arrivals into the mansion just short of an hour ago after everyone had been standing out in the cold for who knows how long. As all eyes rested on him the man raised his arms up halfway, palms facing downward. “Good evening,” the man began, his voice smooth and tone practiced, “I know you are all eager to see Lord Hastlon, to hear of this grand foray of his and the rewards to be had.”

Scattered grumbles flitted about the room.

“I apologize for my lord, he had a sudden affair that needed to be tended. He shall be down straight away. Your patience has been greatly appreciated as his lordship knows that this has been a long journey for some of you, particularly in this treacherous winter. I hope you all have enjoyed the wine, a well-aged Arabellan Dry!”

Damn, Iliskra thought slightly woefully, I do adore Arabellan Dry…

“Lord Hastlon has plenty more hospitality to offer, rest assured -…”

“That will do Virjas.”

The portly man’s voice stopped, his head turning to his right toward the top of the stairs - everyone else in the room following in suit. There stood without a doubt the man that had to be Lord Berald Hastlon, patron of the Hastlon noble house and one of the nine councilmen of the Scardale’s provisional government - known to many as the “government in exile”. Iliskra knew somewhat about the councilman and frankly his appearance fit quite well with the scattered murmurings and passing conversations she had picked up on him since coming to Scardale. He was tall and sturdily built, his wide shoulders and chest noticeable even in the heavy green dress coat and light brown vest he wore. His face was expressionless, cold one might even say. His sharp, thick brows, half-lidded eyes, and strong jaw gave him the look of an uncaring type. His neatly trimmed mustache and goatee painting a sort of refinement about him. He descended down the stairs, brisk but not in a show of hurriedness. Everyone had gone quiet, even the more mouthy of the mercenaries present.

The steward Virjas dipped his head humbly and stepped back as the nobleman took the center piece of the stairs. His narrowed eyes passed over the mottled collection of warriors, mages, rogues, and other sorts - his face betraying neither dissatisfaction or impressment. He simply took a moment to observe those that had answered his call for able venturers. The sun was nearly set and the small amount of light that bled through the purple stained class behind Lord Hastlon washed over him. This and the great chandelier that hung just overhead gave him an even more regal appearance.

“I see my call did not go ignored.” Hastlon stated the obvious with a wry half-smile, clasping his hands behind his back. “I am of course Lord Berald Hastlon, and I am the reason you are all here. Rather, I have a reason to have all of you here before me.”

Lord Hastlon let the sharp end of his opening remark hang over the crowd before continuing, “My reason for having you all here is because… there is a matter of grand import to me. Me and the folk of this dale.”

Another pause, and then he continued, “I have need of… worthy and capable sorts for an expedition, if you will. Perhaps it is better to call it a ‘plot’, but that is an ugly word, isn’t it?”

A stray chuckle from somewhere in the foyer.

“My interests lay in Scardale Town. Which some of you most likely know, if you pay any mind to affairs of the dale these days.”

Stray grumbles around the room, several people, including Iliskra, knew that Lord Hastlon and others on the council had been chomping at the bit ever since the fall of the dale’s capital - Scardale Town. Iliskra remembered two years ago when word spread of the plague that had stricken the coastal city and killed half of the people there. Not long after that chaos broke out, criminals and other armed sorts took to the streets and the government was driven into exile as it were - albeit an exile just up the river, here in Chandlerscross. Some were content with abandoning the city and leaving it to destroy itself in its’ current state of endless gang war and whatever else was going on within the wretched confines of the place. Others, such as Lord Hastlon, had been trying to stir the good people of the dale to retake their capital. Currently things stood at a standstill with the weak excuse of a governor unable to commit to a final stance on Scardale Town. Iliskra suddenly felt butterflies in her stomach and her heart quicken, Hastlon’s next words making her tense up greatly.

“I will spare you all the pomp and grandeur. I am sending this little… ‘effort’ east, into Scardale Town. That is of course, those of you who think yourself capable and willing of such a dangerous undertaking. Dangerous but very profitable, I assure you.”

Hastlon paused again, his eyes taking in every reaction he saw.

Leon began to quietly move through the crowd, feeling the pull of Mask as Lord Hastlon began his speech. To those nearby he was simply another face in the crowd, perhaps a guest suddenly feeling a need for the bathroom or moving for a better vantage point, but it was the whispers he left in his wake that began to separate the wheat from the chaff. It was a simple skill, looking like you were speaking to someone else deeper in the crowd while allowing your words to overheard by those around you.

“My reason for having you all here is because… there is a matter of grand import to me. Me and the folk of this dale.”

"More like important to his pockets. He'll always be the man in charge, collecting his dues from those who break their backs doing the work," he said, leaving the poisonous words in his wake as he passed by some of the more shifty looking individuals.

“I have need of… worthy and capable sorts for an expedition, if you will. Perhaps it is better to call it a ‘plot’, but that is an ugly word, isn’t it?”

"Ugly, but accurate. What goodly god or man would approve of this shadowplay?," he muttered as he passed by the human who's shoulder bore the symbol of helm.

“My interests lay in Scardale Town. Which some of you most likely know, if you pay any mind to affairs of the dale these days.”

"The old capital? He must be mad, the shaking plague is still ravaging the city!," another whisper left drifting into the ears of the man he had spoken to earlier. The rumbles of whispers were already gathering in his wake, and like a conductor he slowly let them build, overlapping stories and voices until they built into a symphony of stressed whispers that plucked at the minds of the weak. It wouldn't do much, but for those on the edge of the fence, it would give a good shove over the edge. Already he could hear the boot heels of at least two people beginning to head for the doors. Good riddance.

“I will spare you all the pomp and grandeur. I am sending this little… ‘effort’ east, into Scardale Town. That is of course, those of you who think yourself capable and willing of such a dangerous undertaking. Dangerous but very profitable, I assure you.”

Leon turned back to face Lord Hastlon, though his own face was lost in the crowd. He took this opportunity to do his own scan of the crowd, watching their face and body language as individuals began to clump into groups. The small smiles on some of their faces spoke of the great greed that motivated them, others displayed wider grins showing their teeth and outwardly displaying their taste for violence. Very few actually seemed excited for the prospect of helping their beleaguered town, and Leon would be lying to himself if he couldn't help but share a similar sentimentality. It was a remnant of his old life before the temple. Of a man who existed only as a mask now.

His eyes settled once more on a face in the shadows. The elven-blooded woman he had spotted earlier was curiously standing alone, no companions or bodyguards nearby from what he could tell. Following his earlier instinct he made his way back towards her, stepping out of the crowd and then turning back to face Lord Hastlon as though he were the primary focus of his attention.

"Do you believe him?," he asked, "Scardale is a mess right now both in terms of man and monsters."

He pulled a single gold coin from his pouch, the simplest sleight of hand making it appear between his fingers and roll over the back of his knuckles like a common street magician. "Coin for your thoughts? You look like the only other person here with a far bit of sense."

“You should not speak into an empty corner, people might think you are mad.”

The lithe form of the woman suddenly faded inwards as if she were stepping back into a dark shadow before disappearing right before Leon completely. The man would feel a slight sting as the right side of his neck was suddenly flicked by the unmistakable shape of a finger.

“Nor should you speak to a stranger in the shadows so carelessly, it is not a safe thing where I am from, human.”

The woman stood now behind Leon, completely disinterested in him for the most part - her eyes lain on Lord Hastlon as he spoke further, “Over the past several weeks I have dispatched agents to Scardale Town. They have… sent word on the goings on in the fallen city. The good people of the dale have no idea the danger and evils that fester within. Thieves and street gangs are the least of concerns now. I have since approached the governor and members of the council with this information and still they remain noncommittal.” Hastlon’s upper lipped and inner brow crinkled into a sneer. “I can no longer sit idle while gods-know-what stirs within our capital. And there are many others that feel the same.”

“And so you seek to hire adventurers and mercenaries to destroy the growing threat you speak of in Scardale Town.” the Helmite woman pointedly stated, many heads in the room turning to her and then back up to Lord Hastlon expectantly.

“Yes.” Hastlon replied flatly. “I wish it were something I was not compelled to do. I do loathe going beyond the governor and my fellows. But I cannot waste time appealing over and over while we sit vulnerable. I am a man of action.” A pause. “I do not expect all of you to reclaim the city entirely on your own. You will, should you all accept to be part of this, have my support and the support of my agents in this difficult endeavor. Not to mention there are many in the city itself who wish to see it free of the chaos that has gripped it so. And you have my word that you will all be greatly rewarded for your efforts and successes.”

“What are these ‘dangers’ and ‘evils’ of which you speak?” came a voice from the crowd followed by grumbles of added interest.

“I will leave the deeper details to my agents whom you will all meet when you arrive on the outskirts of the city,” Hastlon said carefully, “but I will tell you that there is a particular criminal organization that have quite ambitiously begun taking over the entire city in the past two months. And then there is also report of a new cult and wizard activity.”

More grumbles of uncertainty followed by a third person turning on their heels and marching toward the far door. Lord Hastlon stiffened visibly, eyes darting about the room, obviously looking for anyone else who may turn to leave. But no one did which made the noble relax after a moment.

He is keeping something from us all, Iliskra thought, I just wonder the gravity and implications of whatever it is.

“You should not speak into an empty corner, people might think you are mad. Nor should you speak to a stranger in the shadows so carelessly, it is not a safe thing where I am from, human.”

"Funny, where I come from, shadows are the only things you can talk to that would tell you the truth," Leon muttered just loud enough for her to hear, his hand having flow to his mask the moment she disappeared. For a long moment he was tempted to call upon Mask's favor, but there was little need and such things would simply draw undue attention.

"It has been a long time since I played Tag, Does this mean I'm 'it'?," he cast a look over his shoulder at her, his voice empty of fear and a wolfish grin on his face. Regardless of how she seemed to be ignoring him now, he tucked away the interaction into the corner of his mind and simply contented himself with listening to Lord Hastlon finish his speech.

Maskarran contacts within the city had reported much of the same as what Hastlon spoke of. Power abhors a void, and so what had once been a town split by hundreds of smaller gangs, cults, and individuals was now becoming more consolidated. Some did so in the natural way, outwitting, outfighting, and outstealing their competitors until the remnants had only two choices, death or submission. Others were new faces in the city, but had arrived with their own backers and powers beyond what any person should be capable of wielding.

Loosing a volley of arrows into the dark, just to see which ones stick, Leon thought, not a bad plan, but there are better ways of investigating a city. Why send so many of us? And from the way he stiffens up when someone leaves, he doesn't think he can afford to lose many of us either.

Whereas before, he used his talents for speechcraft to weaken the resolve of those around him, now when he spoke it was with the voice of a professional. Someone who could connect the dots for those less intelligent in the crowd and still sound natural along the way.

"So... you get the glory of returning the city under the banner of the government," Leon called out, "and we get a fair price for having returned it to you. Hells below, how much does a city go for these days?"

He could almost hear the clink of gold coins radiating from the minds of those who were motivated by such things. No matter how you cut it, that was retirement in Waterdeep levels of cash flow.

"Or perhaps you might be willing to negotiate a place in your cabinet when the time comes? After all, with the effort we might be expending, it would be a shame if we weren't there to ensure it did not fall once more into the dark afterwards." An appeal to those of higher moral standing, and a test to see how much power Lord Halston was willing to offer those without morality. He would be a fool to deny it out of hand, after all, no one in this room knew who was going to live long enough to see Scardale returned. The fewer words he used though, the more he meant to keep his little arrows from ever becoming associated with him. Which meant they were all screwed when the job was done.

Show me, Lord Halston. How good is your mask?, Leon thought to himself.

Lord Hastlon’s hands came unbound from behind his back, his arms dropping at his sides. A glower creeped to the edges of his face though it did not overcome him, the nobleman remaining calm and prim at the direct and barbing question aimed at him. “If you wish for me to proclaim a set amount of gold that you will be given for assisting in the efforts of reclaiming Scardale Town then I am afraid I cannot do that.” Hastlon’s tone was flowing but tense. “I would not wish to pay a modest amount and then you all go above and beyond in your expected service. Of course I am hardly going to promise you bags of finely cut diamonds and rubies and your efforts be unworthy.” Hastlon ended with a smirk.

The nobleman was this time expecting perhaps two or three more of the arrivals to turn and leave, but none did - a welcome little surprise. Perhaps they for the most part appreciated the forwardness? Regardless, Hastlon immediately followed up this statement with another honeyed assurance. “I give you my promise that you will be paid handsomely in coin, and perhaps there are other rewards to be had if things go even better than I am so greatly hoping. In fact, an up front payment awaits you all just outside of Scardale Town.”

“What?” blurted out a warrior up front followed by several murmurs of both disbelief and curiosity.

“Indeed,” Lord Hastlon smiled, clasping his arms behind him again, “I sent a large shipment of supplies out yesterday to a small encampment that my agents have set outside of Scardale Town, which you will all use as a base camp for our efforts in the city. Among those supplies was a large shipment of gold - up front payment for those willing to hire on.”

“How much?” the heavily armored brute from earlier barked out.

Lord Hastlon smiled, “One thousand gold per hireling.”

Not at all bad. Iliskra thought to herself with an arched brow.

A clamor began to spread among the near twenty in the foyer to which Lord Hastlon sharply raised both hands up in a “halt” motion. “No more questions this eve. My steward, Virjas, will see you to the guest quarters for the night. As we speak proper meals are under preparation for you all and will be brought to your rooms. The added hospitality aforementioned by Virjas.” Lord Hastlon smiled crookedly. “Come morning you will assemble here again and have a proper sending off and then you will be guided to my agents’ encampment. From there they will direct you in the days and weeks to come. You will receive your tasks, expectations, and regular compensations from them.”

Lord Hastlon paused one last time, eyes passing over the crowd of hirelings. None turned to leave once again, all would remain it seemed. Most now had looks of contentment or at least calm reservation on their faces which suited Hastlon just fine.

“Follow Virjas then. Enjoy your meals and sleep well this night, for tomorrow you are in for a long, cold day. And… just know that the grounds are watched closely and my estate heavily guarded - by men and magic alike. Any thieves present will do well to remember this.” Lord Hastlon turned on his heels and with that dismissed himself, clomping back up the carpeted stairs as the heavyset steward scuttled down into the foyer and with a clap of his hands and a single waving indicated for everyone to follow him.

A thousand gold. Not bad just for showing up for work, Leon thought to himself, and from the way the crowd rippled around him he clearly wasn't alone in that thought. Of course, he also wasn't alone in thinking that if some of these sellswords never quite made it to the promised agents, that might just leave a little bit more in the treasury for his own use. When Hastlon ended his speech, cutting off any follow up questions it did leave Leon feeling more than a little curious as to what kinds of questions he was afraid of answering. It was an effective tactic to dangle riches before the eyes of sellswords, but only a fool rushed in to grab them without doing a bit of poking around.

“Follow Virjas then. Enjoy your meals and sleep well this night, for tomorrow you are in for a long, cold day. And… just know that the grounds are watched closely and my estate heavily guarded - by men and magic alike. Any thieves present will do well to remember this.”

Only someone with something to hide felt the need to state the obvious, Leon thought to himself, frowning. He reached down and touched his mask, reaching out for guidance from his god but finding no pull from the shadows in either direction. It apparently matters very little, for now, at least. Leon stayed back as most of the adventurers began to fall in behind the chamberlain, only joining in with the final dregs of the group.

The room he was assigned wasn't terrible, a converted office of some kind that likely temporarily hosted the work journals of Hastlon's visitors. Thoroughly cleaned out of course, without even a shred of evidence as to it's last occupant. Had Leon been more schooled in the faith, perhaps he could have divined some of the room's secrets, but for now they would have to stay within Mask's shadows. One did not walk the shadows without learning the truth of paranoia and how to use it to protect yourself, and so he set about securing the room before he slept. Strings and bells were carefully laid across the doorway and window, with objects set precariously against them so that the slightest outside movement would send them tumbling to the floor. Even then he still pulled out his chalk and traced a large Glyph of Warding around the bed, storing a paralyzation spell that would activate if any person other than him entered the space. He could always get rid of it in the morning. Only once these basic measures were in place did he finally strip out of his arms, leaving himself bare chested in the night air and begin his nightly offerings to Mask. As he offered up the secrets he had uncovered, the lies he had spoken into being, and the truths he had hidden, his mind turned back to that curious elf woman he had met in the gathering.

On a whim, he pulled out another curious set of runed dice covered with Maskarran symbols. Offering another prayer to mask, he reached out and grabbed onto his divine connection, speaking his questions and throwing the dice to see what answers his god could provide. When he finally went to sleep, it was with a strange sense that some grand joke was being played on him by his own god.

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NIGHTAL 2, 1372 DR
WEST OF SCARDALE TOWN

A night as a guest for one of the most prominent men in Scardale was a welcome occurrence for a hotchpotch of wayfarers, mercenaries, and common brutes. The evening meal was nothing short of delectable and was served with more Arabellan Dry - the servants politely encouraging the visitors not to overindulge, which most avoided doing. The beds were soft and comfortable and every room had a fireplace that burned through the night keeping the cold away. A pleasant change for those accustomed to camping in the woods or sleeping in cheap, ratty inn beds. Throughout the night the guards kept close watch over the guest house and grounds and much to Lord Hastlon’s contentment there had been no sign of thieving efforts and nothing was missing come morning - the nobleman’s guests taking his words of warning close to mind it seemed. That and he imagined there were some among them who, while daring by nature, decided that filching trinkets from nightstands and drawers was not worth the trouble given what Hastlon had promised them.

Early the next morning after a short breakfast everyone had as expected assembled again in the foyer where Lord Hastlon went over things a second time. The nineteen of them would set out together heading east in the direction of Scardale Town where they would be met just a few miles west of the city by one of Lord Hastlon’s agents. The agent would direct them to the nearby base camp that would be used for staging actions within the city. When asked who would the lead of everything Lord Hastlon revealed that a man named “Breck” was in charge of overseeing efforts in Scardale Town. “You will receive your orders and tasks from Breck, who will in turn send progress reports to me as necessary while I handle affairs here in relation to Scardale Town. Breck will also be the one whom pays you all your coin and keeps the camp supplied, just something to note.”

“All you must do,” Hastlon explained, “is get to the base camp together. And from there Breck will be your guiding and financing hand alike.” When asked by the Helmite woman why they should all travel together, as it would slow them down, the nobleman pointed out that the closer to Scardale Town one got the more dangerous the road became and that he had no interest in casualties before the band even reached their forward encampment. “Once you pass the crossing near Scarsdeep the surrounding woodland and hills are infested with brigands and other refuse that were run out of the capital by more powerful forces. A large, heavily armed group of which there are also magic casters will prove far more intimidating than a small group of four or five.” Lord Hastlon stated. It made sense of course.

The band left Lord Hastlon’s estate soon after, dispersing among the streets to avoid drawing heavy attention as they all moved toward the eastern gate of the city. The morning air was bitterly cold and a light snowfall added some cover as few of the commonfolk were out in the city streets. The sun was just peeking over the far horizon as all the hirelings reassembled outside the city gates where they met with a large supply wagon which would accompany them to the encampment - a parting bit of information that Virjas had shared as he had seen everyone out the gates of the Hastlon Estate. The wagon driver was one of Hastlon’s men and assured the group he would deal with any guard patrols or overly curious passerby’s. The fact of the matter was that Lord Hastlon was quite obviously interested in keeping things under wraps, which Iliskra and many of the others found themselves in a way appreciating - even if guarded. The point of query was just who the noble Hastlon was keeping out of the know when it came to this whole matter.

The journey out across the dale was not quite as arduous as many had expected. The snowfall had ceased not long after the small company and the supply wagon were beyond eyesight of Chandlerscross which helped visibility. The snow that covered the ground was wet however which had formed a slush along the road and more than once the wagon had gotten stuck forcing several of the hirelings to push it free from the icy mud. The air was bitingly cold but the wind had ceased late in the morning which had made the lingering chill more tolerable as the day passed. The large group had just passed the crossing near Scardsdeep - a trade post that had in recent years begun to grow into a sizable settlement, particularly after Scardale Town descended into chaos. With the capital lost Scarsdeep had become the closest settlement in the dale to the sea - along with being so near to Sembia - and the population swelled. A patrol had met the group on the western side of the Scarsdeep crossing, the wagon driver lying and telling the six men they were heading into Scarsdeep after the patrol leader warned them to avoid the eastern reaches of the dale. Once the patrol was out of sight the wagon and accompanying mercenaries pressed on ahead. It was mid afternoon by now and everyone was keeping their eyes out for the agent that was supposed to guide them to where Hastlon’s men were encamped.

Leon kept moving through the cold air of the dale, his boots crunching through the slush and the frost tinging his hair. He drew his cloak closer around himself, instinctively changing his position in the caravan twice an hour. Not only did this allow him to monitor some of the other agents, but it allowed him to strike up half a dozen conversations and make some interesting contacts along the way. He had yet to speak with the elf-blooded woman from the previous night, but if his augury was correct, that situation would sort itself out in time.

He just hoped they would both still be alive to see it. His augury had also predicted danger from the hidden places of the trail on their journey, though he lacked the deeper understandings of Maskarran ritual to read more information from his god. When they came upon the patrol he considered the idea of traitors in their midst, but that made too much sense if anything. No, the danger would come from somewhere else. And so he dedicated himself to keeping aware of his surroundings. If the herd was to be thinned, he would see to it that he was among the survivors.

The whispers he spread were of danger, every conversation an opportunity to make people just a bit more nervous of the shadows around them, to remind them of what they had to lose if they didn't pay attention. It didn't make him a popular man around the wagon, but popularity can always be fixed if he decided it was of use to him. After all, nearly everyone here was motivated by greed so spreading around some coin and pleasant whispers would see him back into their good graces.

As the day wound on, Izaac fell into pace with the wagon driver. The supplies in the wagon were the priority in the caravan, second only to his own life and perhaps a few of the more useful mercenaries here. He tried once more to reach out for Mask, but out in the open like this, the connection to the shadows of his god's realm was weaker. Still he did his best to keep watch, one hand resting on his mask to call upon Mask's power should it become necessary.

Iliskra inhaled and exhaled sharply, ignoring the blistering cold that passed over her teeth and down her gullet making her chest burn. She turned her head round and about, looking over her company as the ragtag band trudged on steadily with the rumbling wagon. Most everyone maintained the steely faces and silence they had shown since leaving early that morning. What idle talking that had been done was mostly earlier in the day, and mostly between the strange man with the mask at his hip and whomever would entertain time with him. The brute with the large blade had apparently made an impression on several of the younger sword-arms in the bunch, three of which were gathered near him and spoke amongst themselves during the trek east. The Helmite woman kept to herself much like Iliskra did, eyes steely and focused on keeping watch on the roadside and along the River Ashaba that currented several yards out from the road. The two halflings stayed shoulder-to-shoulder as did the two dwarves. The grizzled wizard and most of the rest of the hirelings kept a distance among them. Everyone for the most part it seemed was solely focused on finding Lord Hastlon’s man and getting to the encampment soon, a sentiment Iliskra shared. Though she did not let it show Iliskra’s legs were growing weary due to the hard march through the slick snow, having to keep her footing firm and putting extra weight into her steps to avoid slipping and falling. The twenty travelers had not made it far past the crossing to Scarsdeep before the first complaint was heard - bursting from the mouth of one of the swordsmen that trudged along near the heavily armored man.

“How much further can it be? This man we’re looking for surely couldn’t be anywhere near to the city…”

“Hopefully nothing happened to him,” said another, “I don’t want to have to go tramping through these hills and thickets looking for a hidden camp.”

“He should be somewhere near.” the wagon driver spoke up for the first time in a while. “Everyone just keep your eyes wide.”

Iliskra’s head swiveled on her shoulders, her keen eyes darting in their sockets like minnows in the shallows as she looked over every bramble, grove of trees, and row of bushes she could see. Something felt wrong. Iliskra could not say what but her instincts were on edge, she immediately noticed the lack of any noticeable sounds around them. The chirping of birds and tittering of squirrels that had been a constant since leaving Chandlerscross had ceased rather suddenly it seemed. Everyone else noticed it too, the driver yanked the reigns of his pull-horse making the overly piled wagon come to a groaning stop. Iliskra and all the other hirelings stopping in unison, hands coming to rest on weapon hilts and shafts.

“Something’s wrong.” Said the huntsman in brown that had joined the band, stating the obvious. “The woods are suddenly so still.”

“Maybe it’s us?” grunted one of the mercenaries inquisitively.

“So suddenly the woods do not take to us?” the Helmite woman asked with a raised brow. “After the whole of the day?”

“There is someone… or something… nearby.” said one of the halflings carefully.

Iliskra heard a sharp whistling sound - her hair prickling - followed by a thunk. A sharp cry of pain tore out from among the band, Iliskra’s mace and dagger coming free from their sheaths as the half-elf crouched into a defensive posture - turning her head towards the source of the scream. It was the wagon driver - the man lurched forward suddenly in his seat before tilting off to one side and falling down into the snow with a sploosh near Leon. From the drivers’ chest, right over where his heart would be, sprouted the unmistakable shape of a crossbow bolt.

“Ambush!” someone yelled. Swords and other weapons came up as everyone scrambled about, looking for where the shot came from and preparing to defend themselves. Iliskra heard more whistling sounds followed by the Helmite woman shouting, “Watch yourselves!” She raised her shield, two bolts ricocheting off and landed in the snow. Two bolts hit the wagon missing their mark - the man with the mask. One of the mercenaries near the heavily armored man crumpled to the ground suddenly - a bolt lodged between his eyes. The young huntsman took a knee and hastily strung his bow, looking the treeline off to the left of the road where the first bolt seemed to have come from. Iliskra saw as the young man’s head suddenly tilted back, his bow dropping to the snow as his arms flailed and he shouted in frightened confusion. It was as if some unseen force had grabbed hold of him. A red slash appeared across his throat and blood began to pour down across his shoulders and chest, the young man collapsing over to one side gurgling as the life seeped from him. As she saw the unmistakable scurrying of something moving in the snow away from the dying man Iliskra shouted, “Invisibility, they’re using invisibility magic!”

A crossbow bolt struck the side of the towering swordsman’s helmet, bouncing off with a pang and causing the oaf to stumble forward by three steps. “Cowards!” he bellowed as he steadied himself, “Come and face us!” As if in response there was a sudden cacophony of shouting as ten figures came charging out from the treeline toward the road with swords and maces raised over their heads. Eight humans and two very large orcs with ruddy-tan skin. Brigands. Iliskra thought, noting their mismatched assortment of leather and mail armor and the unkempt, shaggy appearance of the humans. The orcs bared their upward jutted tusks, their beady yellow eyes filled with savagery as they lead the howling charge down the small ridge. The oaf swordsman raised his broadsword and dashed forward to meet the attackers directly, followed close by half of the hirelings - the rest staying back near the wagon. Iliskra caught site of a line of footprints streaking across the snow with no feet to make them - the invisible attacker. And they were moving straight for the mask-bearing man and the wagon. Iliskra shouted a warning as she would not reach the unseen foe in time before they reached him.

“Invisibility, they’re using invisibility magic!”

Leon's hand shot down to his mask, pressing it up to his face and pulling up the hood of his undershirt to clasp it into place. He drew his longsword and held it one handed for the moment, peering through the mask's eye holes as he surveyed the ambush. It wasn't going well at all, but few ambushes rarely started in the defender's favor. His gaze slid over the downed bowman, noting the same scurrying marks Iliskra had seen. If this was to be a game of hide and seek, this ambusher had chosen the wrong opponent.

Leon prayed briefly, calming his adrenaline accelerated heart and trying to tune out the noise of the ambush around him as he sought his divine connection. To others, it might look as though he were standing still like a fool, but his defenses were still in place as he turned the flat of his sword to deflect the lined up shot of another crossbowman.

Mask, there is a rat here that hides by bending light. Let me show him why the shadows are stronger, he prayed, feeling the divine power pulsing from his mask and shaping it with his will. His shadow pulsed, suddenly seeming to enlarge as it subtly grew into a circle on the ground around him. Leon knew that, even if they were invisible, any competent ambusher would still launch their attack from behind and so he moved forward, the shadows sliding along the ground along with him as he put his back to the side of the wagon, yet left more than enough space for an attacker to slip into the space as he pretended to prod the air in front of him with his sword.

The slight gasp of surprise was like a warning bell as Leon turned and swung hard with the blade. His spell had worked exactly as he had intended, the shadows from the ground latching onto the feet of the invisible halfling and pouring upwards along his entire body like someone had spilled ink over the invisible man. Leon could see him perfectly, and though the halfling managed to duck the first swing, he had nowhere to escape pinned between Leon and the wagon. Leon's larger weapon and size gave him far too much of an advantage over an opportunistic killer like the halfling, and the still bloody dagger was sent spiraling through the air along with the hand that held it... followed soon after by the man's head.

The shadows still writhing beneath him, Leon began to hunt for any other invisible killers in their midst. As he did so he reached once more for the power of his god, summoning an old friend that would hunt alongside him. The shadows writhed once more, deepening into a pit that seemed to go to the plane of shadows itself. Rising from the darkness came a vicious wolf with blood red eyes, it's fur as dark as the shadows that summoned it and it's fangs dripping with saliva.

"Kanos, be a dear and show these fools what it means to hunt prey," he muttered, and the wolf bounded off towards the engaged fighters, its teeth and claws ripping into the line of bandits and offering distraction for any fighters that could take advantage of it.

Impressive. Maybe there is more to that chattering man then. Iliskra thought with a raised eyebrow.

“To the right!” the Helmite woman shouted from where she stood not far from Iliskra.

Iliskra turned her head spotting two crossbowmen standing off the right side of the road, risen up from behind a fallen, rotting tree that was just large enough for the pair to hide behind. There were two low thunks, Iliskra reacting fast enough to duck to her left side as a bolt whisked past, the other bolt bouncing off of the front of the Helmite’s raised shield.

“I’ll take the right!” the Helmite woman shouted, she and Iliskra surging forward, weapons raised. The two men cast aside their crossbows and drew their short-swords, leaping over the log to meet their opponents. The Helmite slammed her shield against her opponent’s chest, sending the brigand stumbling back as she moved it to strike. With a savage shout the other man swung at Iliskra, the half-elf brought her mace up to block his strike successfully. With a graceful spin Iliskra twirled behind the man and brought her left arm around and plunged her dagger into the his right shoulder blade. The bandit shouted in pain, managing to cling to his sword but buckling at the knees and impulsively grabbing behind himself as Iliskra pulled her blade free. Iliskra raised her mace up and then swung it down hard and with a sick crunch cracked open her foes’ skull, blood pouring as he weakly groaned and collapsed into a heap. Iliskra knelt down, slipping her dagger down against the fallen brigand’s neck and with a sharp jerk slit it open at the side.

Iliskra looked around, watching the Helmite woman slay the other crossbowman with four savage strikes to his chest - the man’s last sound a wheezing cry for mercy. With a quick glance between them the two women rushed back in closer to the wagon, Iliskra looking over the scene of the battle. Another of their number lay dead, the other male dwarf lay in a puddle of blood amidst the clash along the left side of the road - his kinsman madly swinging his twin axes nearby splintering through a brigands’ rickety round shield. Two of the bandits lay dead, Iliskra watching as the shadowy wolf-thing that the masked man had summoned tackled another of the brigands down into the snow, pouncing on the screaming man and tearing at his face. The large human in the horned helmet and heavy armor was locked in a vicious duel with one of the half-orcs, both grunting and growling fiercely as they swung their broadswords at each other in a flurry of both well-performed attacks and wild flails like a greenhorn woodsman at his first tree.

Two of the mercenaries rushed at the other half-orc, both armed with longswords and sturdy kite shields. The half-orc’s long, strong arms gave it the advantage as well as the reckless charge of the two humans - with a single two handed swing of it’s broadsword the half-orc cleaved one of the mercenaries’ heads clean from his shoulders, his head then flying free from it’s helmet as both sailed into a snow patch. The other man hesitated as his fellow was so easily felled, giving the half-orc an opening. With a snort the brute swung his sword - once, twice, and then a third time, each blow barely blocked by the humans’ shield. Using the pommel of his sword the half-orc batted aside the shield and with two more savage strikes flayed open his smaller opponents’ chest killing him.

Iliskra suddenly heard a chanting-like sound from nearby. She turned her head to see the wizard standing at the front of the wagon making a spiral-like motion with his hands that resembled a spinster working her wheel as he chanted some incantation. There was a bright flash and the wizard made an outward thrust with both hands in the direction of the melee, a dozen or so bluish “darts” of magical energy burst forth into the air and raced toward the cluster of fighters. Several people on seeing the incoming magical attack leapt into the snow for cover only for the bolts to pass them by and race straight for the half-orc that had just killed the two swordsmen. The brutes’ yellow eyes widened as he stood frozen in place his hands gripping his sword tightly - he had no idea of what to do. The blue bolts all slammed at the same time into the brigands’ chest with a crackling flash of more magical energy - the half-orc bellowing in pain as his feet was lifted from the ground and he flew back into the snow with a loud whump. The half-orc did not move, the wizards’ spell striking him down with ease.

A wave of dismay seemed to wash over the brigands as they realized their numbers had quickly shrunk and their advantage was lost as the mercenary defensive line rallied together and began to drive back their attackers. Two more of the brigands were quickly cut down by the invigorated defenders and the shadowy creature that the masked man had summon had finished off his first victim. Now all that remained were three of the human brigands and the other half-orc that was completely focused on bringing down his sizable adversary.

Leon grinned beneath his now blood splattered mask, flourishing his longsword in a complex twist to send the remainder of blood along the blade flying into the snow. Taking a moment to survey the situation, he noted the survivors of the marauding band were down to less than a handful. Somewhere in the distance, Kanos had claimed another kill for his own and had begun to stalk back towards his master. Three of the remaining brigands were facing off with a line of defenders, rallied by the turn in fortune.

He unslung his shield from his back, switching the longsword to a one handed grip and laying the blade along the top of his shield as he joined the line of defenders. As the defenders surged forward, blades flashed and Leon used his own shield to deflect a diagonal slash aimed at a defender skull next to him. Sliding his sword up along the shield, he carried his opponent's weapon high and created an opening for the man next to him to run the enemy through with a solid thrust to the heart.

Concentrating on a flanking enemy left him partially open to assault from the brigand he was directly facing, earning a pair of shallow cuts to his leg and arm. He relished the pain, using it to focus his wrath as he whipped around with the back edge of his blade, smashing his enemy's sword towards the ground and smashing his shield into the man's face. As the man crumpled, he followed through with another flourish, stabbing downwards and silencing the man forever.

The last brigand's morale broke when he saw his closest allies fall, the defending mercenaries barely taking wounds in exchange. Outnumbered, outarmed, and out of other options he broke away and ran for his life, his weapon dropping from his grasp.

"Quickly, after the runner!," one of the survivors shouted, starting to stomp off after the man that had been frightened by Leon's spell.

A howl, followed by a blood curdling scream of pain and fear sounded out in answer.

"No need, Kanos found him," Leon said, a dark chuckle slipping through the mask as a bloody mouthed Kanos came running back. Leon reached out and scratched the shadow wolf behind the ears, a disturbingly happy noise coming from it's snout before it began to fall into Leon's own shadow, the magic that summoned it weakening and running out of time, "we need to see to the wounded. I have some power left to heal wounds, but we should save it for the worst cases that are still alive."

As he said this, he was already reaching into a pack on his belt, taking several cloth strips and stuffing them into the armor to staunch the bleeding from his own wounds. The pain would serve as his punishment, he would be faster next time, or fight smarter.

There was single loud roar of pain as the last of the brigands fell, the larger half-orc that seemed to have lead the murderous bunch crumbled to the snow - blood pouring out from a gaping wound in his chest. The heavily armored swordsman had finally broken through the orc-blood’s armor and at his first opening delivered a deep wound that brought down the fiend. With a savage shout the man swung his blade down and with a keen slice cut the half-orc’s hideous head from it’s shoulders.

“Is that all of them?” asked one of the halflings, gripping tightly on his twin daggers as he looked around. Everyone was breathing heavily and a veil of paranoia hung low in the wake of the clash. After the loud - if short - cacophony of battle the sudden silence was rather jarring.

“I believe it is.” said the golden-haired Helmite as she sheathed her weapon.

“How can we be sure?” barked one of the swordsmen, eyeing the treeline like a hound watching for a fleeing hare.

“If there were others they would have joined their fellows,” the Helmite said loudly, “it seems these blackguards intended to overwhelm us quickly and precisely.”

“Which they failed to do.” chimed in the other halfling.

“We should not be so self-assure,” said one of the other hirelings, “we lost four of our number and the wagon driver. And we have several wounded.”

Everyone moved in close around the wagon, keeping their eyes peeled for any movement in the trees or along the river. The wounded were few, aside from Leon the large swordsman had a long, deep gash on his left arm which he gingerly tended on his own. Two of the other mercenaries were lightly wounded, one with a painful stab in his right forearm and the other with a deep bleeding gash on his forehead. Tending their wounds took just a few moments while the rest stayed vigil, once that was done however a heavy blanket of uncertainty seemed to fall on the whole group.

“What do we do now?” demanded one woman.

“We find this man of Hastlon’s.” grumbled the towering swordsman, still fussing with his freshly applied bandages.

“And if we cannot?” asked the wizard.

“Then we find the camp.” snapped the brute.

“It could be anywhere in these woods or hills.” protested the Helmite woman. “We cannot just blindly start wandering through the wilds!”

“You would rather we slink back to Chandlerscross like whipped dogs and turn away from the gold?” spat the armored man with a shake of his fist, followed by grumbles of agreement from those that stood near him.

“I do not fight for gold.” the woman retorted with a smirk and squinted brows.

“Fine then. I will take your share!” guffawed the large man.

“We must do something and soon, before darkness comes.” said one of the halflings.

“Silence.” hissed the wizard. “Do any of the rest of you hear something?”

Hands drifted to hilts and shafts as everyone began to look around, expecting another attack. There was the snapping of brush nearby and Iliskra turned her head to see a lone cloaked figure stumble out from the treeline just ahead of where the ambush had been staged. The figure looked around and spotted the wagon and the accompanying group just as one of the mercenaries raised a crossbow and took aim.

“Wait, no!” the figure shouted in a panicked voice, a man. The mercenary hesitated on pulling the trigger. By now everyone’s eyes rested on the new arrival and everyone was prepared to strike. Surely this one man was not so stupid as to try anything while so greatly outnumbered - unless this was a trick.

“Who are you?” demanded another of the sellswords.

“I would ask the same of you,” the man shouted back even as he raised his hands in a passive gesture, “I am in the employ of Chandlerscross, I was scouting these woods for bandits. And it seems…” The hooded man’s voice trailed off, Iliskra could see him looking over the scene of the fight from the short distance.

“It seems bandits there are.” the Helmite woman bluntly stated.

“Indeed. I heard the fighting from a short ways out. I arrived late to the fray I see.” the man nodded, “Now… who might you all be?”

“We too are in the employ of Chandlerscross,” the Helmite had taken it upon herself to be the lead it seemed, “a nobleman from the city asked that we deliver this wagon of supplies to an encampment just past Scarsdeep.”

“A nobleman from Chandlerscross… and an encampment.” the hooded man repeated.

The Helmite and several other stray members of the group nodded.

“I see.”

“Might you know of such an encampment?” the woman queried, “It will most likely be rather hidden, perhaps in the woods very close?”

“Well, actually, truthfully,” the man said carefully, lowering his hands slowly, “I am also supposed to be keeping my eyes out for a wagon and a group of hirelings meant to deliver it to an encampment that I happen to know of - aside from hunting for bandits. Of course my lord was very clear that I needed to be sure and not accidentally lead any strangers or undesirables to his… hunting camp.”

“Might your lord be Hastlon?”

Iliskra could see the man smile beneath his hood, “That he is.”

Convenient, he arrives too late to risk his life, but just in time to guide our suddenly rudderless ship, Leon thought to himself, eyeing the scout warily, and the Helmite just gave him all the answers he needs to pass a cursory probe into his objectives.

It wasn't as though they had any choice though, the only other option would be to divvy up the supplies in the wagon and go their separate ways. A tempting option, but a short sighted one he admitted to himself. Looking out over the dead he wondered how many more traps they would find themselves in before the trip was over. He unclipped the mask from his face, returning his holy symbol to his waist and wishing he knew more about their destination.

As everyone got ready to get on the move again, Leon checked his equipment, cleaning off his sword and checking his wounds to be sure they were clotting appropriately. He adjusted the potions clipped to his waist, checking the seals and ensuring none were broken or tampered with. "We should take a few minutes to at least see what assistance the dead can still provide," he said, crouching down next to the wagon driver's body and checking through his pockets. He wasn't interested in the coin, making a show of tossing any coin pouches in the back of the wagon, but sometimes an extra waterskin or potion on the road could save your life.

"The dead want for nothing anymore, and by the time any allies can reach here, half the bodies might be gone to the wolves or whatever else wanders these lands. Better by far that their gifts help the living," he said, his only real answer to any protesting voices, "take notes of their faces. Lord Hastlon I'm sure will have an interest in the fates of his mercenaries."

The grim task completed, Leon swung up into the wagon, taking the reins in one hand and looking at the scout. "Can you drive, scoutling?," he said, distrust slipping into his voice more than he intended, "if so, you are welcome to take the reins. I will provide some protection to the next driver, but I will need to be close to do so."

A lie, but one that seemed reasonable enough. The fact it would also put him in a place to be sure the scout died first was pure coincidence, or so he wanted it to seem. For everyone's sake, he hoped he was just being overly suspicious and was indeed wrong about the man.

The scout said nothing, merely acknowledging with a nod of his head as he mounted the wagon and took the drivers’ seat next to Leon. - Though it was clear he was skeptical of the other man. The horse that pulled the wagon was naturally quite nervous after the battle and it took a few moments to calm it while everyone gathered close around. Several had taken the time to loot the bodies of the bandits, leaving their fellow hirelings unmolested and to be seen to later on. Once the horse was fine and ready to move again the hooded man slapped the reigns and guided the band on away from the grizzly battle scene.

---

The hooded scout guided the wagon further along the road eastward. A heavy bank of clouds had begun to move in as new flurries of snow began to fall and nestle against the ground and treetops as the sun was blotted out by an ocean of grey. Iliskra kept track of where and how far from the scene of the battle they had traversed, her mind also lingering on how they had just lost four of their band to a brigand attack. We were caught off guard, and those who died were among the fools of the bunch. The rest all handled themselves and we prevailed. Iliskra thought to herself as she plodded along through the soppy, icy mud of the road. She knew there would be some among the hirelings that would be less than competent. Just as she knew there were those she would need to be mindful of, such as the brute with the broadsword and the do-gooder Helmite. Both could prove to be problems in their own way. And then there was the man with the mask, the one who had seemed to think of himself as a mover among the motley assemblage - the way he had so swiftly put down that assassin and then summoned that shadowy beast. Iliskra would be watching him. He could prove to be a powerful ally or an unwelcome adversary.

It did not take long to reach the encampment. Not far from where the fight with the brigands had taken place there was what looked to be an overgrown hunting trail just off to the left of the road. In the distance, over a small hill on which the road lay, one could peer the shape of the great keep of Scardale Town along with various other towering structures. The man at the reigns sharply yanked them, steering the horse and wagon to the left onto the hunting trail. There was audible confusion among everyone as just a few paces ahead into the trail there was a heavily overgrown thicket nestled amongst three towering oak trees with no signs of anyone or anything passing through as of recent. The horse whinnied and jerked its head nervously as it sensed it was being forced into an overgrowth that it could not fit into. Iliskra had felt a rising suspicion in her gut, her hands moving towards her weapons when suddenly there was a strange blurring in front of the wagon and its cohort. Like heat waves rising above a burning campfire. With a magical twinkling sound the three oaks and the brush all flickered away like a dream upon waking making several of the hirelings exclaim and stagger backward. Illusion magic. I should have known. Iliskra had thought as the driver for the second time calmed the horse and urged it forward, the mercenaries all carefully following in behind the wagon.

There sat the encampment within an open circular grove surrounded by dense, towering tree formations. While not particularly large it was quite well fortified. A single palisade made of sharpened logs that stood about the height of two men surrounded the campsite in a square-like perimeter. A ring of vicious-looking stakes protruded out away from the palisade all the way around save for the single front gate opening. Each of the four corners of the encampment had a tall, wooden tower with a thatch roof atop them. Iliskra could see the shadowy forms of sentries within the enclosed tower tops, as well as the telltale glow of torchlights inside the camp. A solitary man stood just outside the gate, encased in a full set of chainmail armor with a shield and a spear at the ready. As the wagon came lumbering towards the rickety-looking front gate the guard raised his shield and spear.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“We are delivering these supplies to the encampment. These are also the new hirelings Lord Hastlon sent this way.” the hooded man next to Leon quickly said.

The guard hesitated, seemingly recognizing the man driving the wagon. “Why are you driving this supply cart? Lord Hastlon was supposed to have sent a man with them…” the guards’ eyes narrowed behind the T-shaped visor of his helm.

“He is dead. They were attacked by bandits just up the road. Several of the hirelings were killed as well but they wiped out the bandits.”

The guards’ eyes shifted to Leon, then back to the driver, then to the wagon and those who stood behind it and back to the hooded driver. “Where are the bodies?”

“Back where the battle took place,” came the patient reply, “I had planned to go back with maybe one more man to collect them and their possessions and equipment.”

The guard nodded, “Well… Breck has been expecting you. I’ll pass word that you plan to do that. Unless of course our ‘new recruits’ will share that with him once they get inside.”

A skilled illusion, Leon noted as he watched the telltale shimmer waver in the air as the horses and wagon passed through a space which moments ago seemed blocked off an inaccessible. Whomever placed the enchantment had an eye for detail, they had used the right type of plants so as to not seem out of place, and simulated wild growth rather than just make it seem impassible. It's greatest defense was that unless you were aware of -something- being in this are, you wouldn't even think to probe for an illusion this far away from civilization. A wizard's tower, sure. Ancient ruins, maybe, but such enchantments required upkeep or a powerful source to replenish the magical energy. He wondered if they had been wise enough to cover the encampment from the sky. Ground illusions did little to deter flying familiars and other spies.

Palisades, small towers, and decently armed men and women. Something still did not sit right within Leon, how much of a personal interest had Lord Hastlon invested into this venture... and why. It would certainly be a nice feather in his cap to restore Scarsdale or at least bring it back under the fold of the Dalelands government in exile. This was a bit over invested in his opinion though, if it weren't for the fact that none of the hirelings had obvious ties to Hastlon, he could almost swear this was a more militaristic effort than he had been led to believe.

In the end it mattered very little, he believed Mask had guided him here for a reason. He just had to uncover that reason and see it to the endgame.

“Well… Breck has been expecting you. I’ll pass word that you plan to do that. Unless of course our ‘new recruits’ will share that with him once they get inside.”

"You might instruct your scouts to search for a camp," he said offhandedly, his eyes not even looking towards the guard, "there were at least a half dozen of them, I sincerely doubt they were all on a random stroll when they happened across us. And unless such men prefer to sleep in a giant fleshy pile, they'll have more valuables with the rest of their band at their camp. Hopefully we killed the warriors among them."

He was making some assumptions, but they were solid enough with the evidence at hand. Besides, the more these scouts killed, the less might have a chance to correct the missed crossbow bolt that had nearly smashed his own skull open. He waited until the wagon passed into the encampment before jumping down from his post, rolling his tense shoulders and neck to relieve the stress of having kept a strict watch for the short journey. He fell into pace with the rest of the hirelings, taking the third or so place in line behind their guide as they were herded into their meeting with Breck.

“So, these are what Lord Hastlon sends me.”

There was a heavy groan as the supply wagon and weary horse were taken away. The supplies would be offloaded and placed with the quartermaster and the horse and wagon kept at the camp for the time being. The fifteen hirelings all stood in a muddled bunch in the center of the camp now, an open area large enough to fit four tents and encircled by a small formation of crackling torches. Aside from the on-duty sentries, who all remained at their posts, the occupants of the camp had gathered round - most coming in behind Breck who stood facing the assembled adventurers and mercenaries. Some of Breck’s men wore casual clothing, tunics and breeches suited for a commoner after a long days work, though most were fully dressed in their armor with their weapons at hand. Iliskra could see they all wore the same standard suits of chain mail and scale mail typical of men-at-arms of the Dalelands. Some stared and cocked their heads in curiosity while others narrowed their eyes in suspicion beneath their hoods and helms. Iliskra’s head turned slightly as her eyes passed over as much of the camp as she could see. It was surprisingly organized; walking paths were clear and wide, crates, barrels, and trunks all neatly stacked under sheds and lean-to’s, and the tents were all adequately spaced while not taking up excess room. Camp fires were kept low to avoid billowing smoke clouds and the men and women visible to the eye all looked fit and ready for whatever might come their way.

Breck himself was an imposing man, even given his otherwise unremarkable appearance. To most he would pass as a common ranger or trail scout. Iliskra had learned a long time ago never to judge a person by what was on the outside. The humblest and most fragile-looking maid could be a witch, a brawny and jovial woodcutter a master assassin. This whiskered, cowled man before Iliskra and the others had an “air” about him, he was not to be toyed with or taken upon without sincerity. It was not so much a threatening aura as a simple unspoken reality of “do not test me”.

“Well, I must say I was expecting a few more of you.” Brick said in a voice that was low and raspy, the corners of his mouth turning down somewhat.

“We were more in number,” the Helmite woman spoke up, “but we were ambushed on our way here by a band of thugs. We lost four of our own and the driver was also killed.” Several others nodded in affirmation.

Breck’s heavy brows raised up beneath his cowl, “I see. Well, you all are here and alive which means those thugs lie dead in your wake. But now I must send out scouts to search for a bandit lair anywhere nearby. This camp remaining safe and unfound is my grave of concern.”

Breck turned to face a pair of men nearby, both adorned similarly to the one that had crossed the hirelings’ path earlier after the short battle - studded leather armor, heavy cloaks, and lightly armed. With a few short waves of his hand Breck said something just short and low enough for Iliskra to miss, the two men nodding together and scurrying past in the direction of the front gate.

Once the duo were out of sight Breck looked back to the new arrivals, clasping his hands behind his back.
“I will give you a formal enough introduction,” Breck said levelly, “I am Breck. I am the ‘commander’ - as it were - of this encampment. I direct and oversee all actions within this area and in relation to Lord Hastlon’s endeavors in Scardale Town. I send him regular reports of our efforts here and his guiding hand from afar directs me in the greater prize that is reclaiming our dale’s capital from the malignant and chaotic forces that have claimed and defile it.”

Breck took a moment of pause, all eyes looked to him - even those of his own men. “Those here in this encampment, which now includes all of you, take orders from me. You will perform what tasks you are given, regardless of how big or small they may seem to you, and in turn you will receive regular pay for your successes. Just know that you will be paid by merit and not by your mere presence here.”

Another pause, Breck then continued, “I expect the fullest discipline in my camp. Food, water, and ale will be evenly rationed. There will be no revelry or raucous behavior that may draw attention from afar. And there will be a sundown curfew barring those standing guard or handling a special task. Anyone caught stealing, stirring up trouble or attempting subterfuge, or otherwise being a dangerous nuisance here in my encampment will be executed.” Breck smirked, stopping again and surveying those before him as his words hung in the air.

Leon listened to the speech, staying near the back of the assembled hirelings and often looking around the camp to see who else might be watching the 'newcomers'. He had heard similar speeches a dozen times over the years, usually a bit cruder and consisting more of amputating body parts or being tortured as opposed to official execution. Do what the big dog said, when they said it, and to the best of your ability. Or else.

Being paid by merit had little draw for him, as long as he had access to food, water, and a protected space where he could catch some sleep, he knew Mask would provide everything else he needed. He cast a look over his fellow hirelings, idly wondering how many of them were trying to wager the odds of being caught thieving against the stashed loot of a bunch of soldiers hiding out in the woods. Fortunately, the ambush with the bandits would serve as an early reminder that few individuals could prosper out here on their own.

"Coin or glory, we're all here for our own reasons," Leon said, speaking up a bit, "and I'm sure those reasons are the same as any upstanding citizen of the Dalelands looking for an honorable way to restore the proper order... Regardless, we are here now and after the events on the road are eager to see this job get started so we can begin counting our coin or the many ways we are so proud to serve Lord Hastlon." There was a touch of sarcasm in his voice, but never more than a touch.

"Where do we bunk? And when do we get our new orders?," he asked.