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…
A C T O N E
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.