The Curse of the Nentir Vale (closed)

[RawDog33]

It has become a rare thing to find a merchant caravan leaving Daggerdale to head north along the old King’s Road. Years ago, the Road had been a safe route, connecting the great coastal port city-state of Neverwinter to the Dalelands. The King’s Road starts at Waterdeep, and bisects the Dalelands as it heads west. At Daggerdale, the Road heads north, through the woodlands of the Harken Forest and into the sparsely populated Nentir Vale, before heading west again, crossing the Stonemarch Mountains and descending into Neverwinter.

In the Dalelands, the Lords and Ladies have a long history of bickering, backstabbing, and political intrigue, and tensions between the houses have been rising of late. They turn a blind eye to maintaining security along the Road in the Nentir Vale, as they have recalled their troops and civil war amongst the houses grows imminent. Meanwhile, Neverwinter’s presence in the Vale has dissipated, and it is rumored that the great city-state has been laid low by a vicious plague. Monsters, bandits, and warlords have laid claim to more and more of the Nentir Vale, and travel along the King’s Road has grown treacherous.

The recent assassination attempt on Lord Cyril Darksteel of Daggerdale was a marked escalation of tensions in the Dalelands. War is coming, and a number of merchants know that great profits could be reaped if the trade route to Neverwinter is reestablished. They are offering very good pay for anyone good with a sword and willing to brave the three hundred mile journey.

The old wives’ tales warn folks to do no harm to the trees of the Harken Forest, and to never stray from the King’s Road. The cursed druids of the woods do not take kindly to axes.

There are three towns along the King’s Road in the Nentir Vale: Harkenwold, which is really more a grouping of small villages; Fallcrest, at the intersection of the King’s Road and the Nentir River; and Winterhaven, at the foot of the Stonemarch Mountains.

 

[BernadetteRochelle]

It was raining lightly as Moira trod into town. The journey from Daggerdale had been punctuated by a brief downpour that had soaked through the warrior woman’s traveling cloak and down to her chainmail armor. To make matters worse, she was exhausted from skirting the King’s Road to avoid detection. The rains had reached their full force as she cut through a gully, washing clay muddy water across and inside her tall, leather boots. Twice she thought she had spotted one of Lord Darksteel’s men and now she had been careless enough to get herself cornered in Fallcreast. And there was a sizable stone in her boot.

Moira, thought of abandoning her cloak but thought better of it. “Why not look muddy and miserable like the locals, that should draw less attention.” She thought. Her soldier’s instincts told her to find an ambush site to hole up in should the man she assumed was tracking her really was but Moira heaved a sigh and entered a nearby tavern instead. Taking a seat near the edge of the room while leaving herself a clear path to the door, Moira pulled back the dull green hood of her cloak revealing a cascade of auburn curls.

The ten gold coins she had stolen from her former barracks were a leaden weight in the purse at her waist. She was hungry, but taking stock of the area was the more pressing concern. She surreptitiously eyed the taverns few other patrons for any telltale sign of trouble; someone paying her too much attention, someone paying her to LITTLE attention, a flash of an insignia, the pommel of a dagger. Having satisfied herself that she was safe for the moment, Moira tugged of her boot with a resounding grunt and called for an Ale.

It had been days since she had proper alcohol. Her thoughts strayed to a ten-day ago, maybe less, when she had killed the assassin as he thoughtfully basted the pheasant Lord Cyril had demanded for dinner with a sweet, viscous paste. His blood was not yet cool on her sword when Chadwick, her superior in the Lord’s guard, arrived to take charge of the investigation, and credit for saving Cyril’s life. Had Moira not insisted in enlightening his Lordship as to the actual events of the evening, she would doubtless still be in a small but dry castle with no stone piercing the sole of her foot or any other area of her flesh.

She had been too lost in memory for she had not seen the figure approach. “What in the Nine Hells could go wrong NOW?” She thought.

 

[RawDog33]

The approaching figure was holding two mugs of ale. He was a tall, grizzled man with grey stubble on his face and a jagged scar that ran along his cheek and above his left eye. “Welcome to Fallcrest,” the man said, placing one mug in front of her. “I am Damien Crow, one of the wardens of the woods around Fallcrest. It’s not often we get visitors here, as the roads have grown dangerous in the past year. May I join you for a moment?” he asked.

A couple of soggy townsfolk entered the tavern, shaking the rain off their cloaks before sitting at the bar and ordering dinner and drinks. Behind them, two more travellers entered, bearing the navy blue cloaks and silver insignia of Daggerdale. “Friends of yours?” Damien asked, raising an eyebrow, and turning to face the two newcomers.

“Welcome to Fallcrest,” he greeted them, standing between them and Moira. “What business brings Daggerdale soldiers to our small town?”

The two men scanned the room. “We’ve tracked a deserter here,” one of them said, gruffly.