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Storm King's Thunder
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[div class=text][div class=txtheader]Nightstone[/div]
Late autumn wind chilled to the bone as the caravan slowly dragged itself further and further up North to the direction of Waterdeep. It felt as if with each milestone they crossed the temperature was dropping a couple of degrees. And it was barely after the harvest! It was not even winter!
It was the usual way of travel: following the caravans. Some people joined them for safety, others were providing this safety for food and a potential discount. The latter was probably not going to happen here. Many people joined a long string of brightly-covered wagons with painted wheels and ornamental armours on their sides, going along the road, and being dragged by almost giant-sized white bulls, phlegmatically chewing dry grass as they walked on the stone track. The caravaner's name was Fahrida Zaira, a black-furred tabaxi, whose slightly darker spots flickered on her fur on direct sunlight, and her amber eyes glowed each time they made a stop for the night. The tabaxi huffed, and puffed her whiskers, wrapping herself in a warm fur coat of a disgusting brown colour. "I hope we reach Waterdeep soon. I'd kill for a warm bed!", she kept saying, but the city was nearing all too slowly. "Come!" She was telling in her low, nasal voice to every new face joining her travel, brightening up each time she sensed a deal. "Why not share safety of the group, and have a nice bargain? It's so cold in your lands - I can see you trembling from over here! I have a few exquisite coats of llama fur - soft and fragrant, and as warm as a summer's evening!" She usually went on with her tirade about the silk embroidery and copper buttons, telling stories of the faraway lands, and the travel the fur made from far south-east to the white sands of the south, before getting into these barbaric lands, explaining what a llama was and how these noble creatures feared ho cold, neither heat - all thanks to their amazing, cream-coloured curly fur worthy of a king. "You will not get another chance! I have but a dozen left, and rest assured, the noble lords and ladies of Waterdeep won't let them stay on sale for longer than an hour! You can't just walk away thinking 'another time' - there won't be another time! I know it's hard to sustain yourself in winter over these parts, but I promise you'll regret it if you won't spend a few golds on yourself!" Her southern accent was warm, welcoming. It reminded so many of exquisite wines and exotic fruit. Needless to say, some of the people have bought a coat or two, and seemed to be quite happy with the purchase, even if it hit their pockets hard.
Her caravan was filled with spice, cloth and cheap, but exquisite jewellery, however, after a few nights of chit-chat among the travellers, it appeared that they all were fellow venturers, while she was travelling alone. How did she fend for herself, was a mystery, but, luckily, along the wide stone tract there was no one to put her security to the test. Highwaymen knew better than to try and rob people along the Trade Way - not with caravans moving from Calimport, guarded by spirits and genies, and dark worshipers of Shar. Some looked at large, colourful bottles with suspicion; others - at filigree rapiers and sabres, as if a djinni would pop out any moment now, grab a weapon and slay them where they stood. That, however, never happened, the wagons providing for good shelter, and their hostess - with weird spice each time someone would cook a stew. They burned their throats, leaving them warm and cosy, while the taste turned from sharp and spicy into sweet and thick, like cold mead being drunk after a spoon full of warm jam.
"Some of you headed to Nightstone, friends?" Was heard Zaira's voice one early morning, jolting some of the travellers awake, lulled by a measured, regular creak of the wagon wheel. When the group that headed there was in her vision, she pointed to the road to the right of the caravan, jumping off her seat. This was a warmer morning, and Zaira was in her happy mood. "It is just uphill!" She declared, pointing along the road, as the caravan was slowly passing her. She wasn't a proud owner, and didn't mind running after the wagons when she had to walk off-road for one reason or another. Indeed, on the crossroads stood a sign. One pointer marked the road north with 'Waterdeep' carved into it, another showed south: 'Daggerford'. And the third one, smaller one, was pointing to the hills. 'Nightstone'. "Few hours on foot, and you will get there, friends." She sighed. "You had been a curious company to travel with, and I hope to meet you again this winter..." her amber gaze lingered over Iris, as if she Zaira had specific plans for the young woman, but she said nothing, shaking her head as if trying to get rid of a pestering fly. "I am travelling through Waterdeep, far, far North, all the way to Luskan, and then east... east, east, east to Everlund through Triboar. Do not be shy to keep me company." She gave a group a polite foreign bow. "But you. You should stop playing that blasted thing." Tabaxi's ears pressed tight to her skull, as she eyed the bagpipes.
The hill road, indeed, went up, the end of it being covered by green and yellow grass, peppered with late-blooming flowers of blue and purple. The group heading to Nightstone was relatively large, somewhat familiar after the travel, and all coming for the same thing: the hunt. This was a hunting season in these parts, and Nightstone was the jewel for hunters. A resort, if you will. A small town, built around a mysterious black obelisk it took the name from, ruled by a generous and kind Lady Velrosa Nandar, who sent messengers to all the surrounding towns looking for help. The advertisement told of a group of wood elves that decided to make old elven ruins in a nearby Ardeep forest their home, and were threatening noble lords and ladies each time they went hunting. A large tavern usually hosted no more than half a dozen of nobles to hunt magnificent deer in these parts, and the city lived from their generosity. With the elven clan being dead-set on claiming the forest for their own, and not desiring to negotiate, it was going to be hard to keep every hunter safe, and so, the High Steward Lady Nandar - a well-known Waterdhavian noble - was looking for daring adventurers to wield whether a mighty sword, sorcery, or the power of negotiation to keep the lords company. It was a good deal that promised tips twice as big as the payment, as well as good food, fancy alcohol, and the thrill of hunt.
Soon, however, the group perceived a strange noise coming from far ahead. It echoed around, reminding of a blacksmith shop... or rather, a dozen blacksmith shops, surrounding them from each side. As the road straightened up, and the walls of the city became visible, it became clear what this noise was. It was a loud Bom! Bom! Bom! of the church bell. Three rings. Silence. Another two. Silence. Another three... It went on, and on, and on... it was no time. It was no prayer. It was no alarm. It was something else. Something else entirely.
The closer the group got, the clearer it became that something wasn't right in town. The drawbridge over the mote was lowered, yet there were no people outside, no children playing in the fields. There were no voices, no music, no guards on the towers - their tall walls flanking the gap in a short - no higher than fifteen feet tall - palisade of dark wood. To the right - south of it - a cone-shaped flat-topped hill, and on it, overlooking the village, stood a keep enclosed by a wooden wall. A long bridge, connecting the town to the keep... broken. Huge chunk of it collapsed into the mote, and was now floating somewhere south, down the river. Bom! Bom!, the bell rung, and stopped once more. But just for a few seconds, before drowning the surrounding area in its ringing once more.
[/div]
Late autumn wind chilled to the bone as the caravan slowly dragged itself further and further up North to the direction of Waterdeep. It felt as if with each milestone they crossed the temperature was dropping a couple of degrees. And it was barely after the harvest! It was not even winter!
Her caravan was filled with spice, cloth and cheap, but exquisite jewellery, however, after a few nights of chit-chat among the travellers, it appeared that they all were fellow venturers, while she was travelling alone. How did she fend for herself, was a mystery, but, luckily, along the wide stone tract there was no one to put her security to the test. Highwaymen knew better than to try and rob people along the Trade Way - not with caravans moving from Calimport, guarded by spirits and genies, and dark worshipers of Shar. Some looked at large, colourful bottles with suspicion; others - at filigree rapiers and sabres, as if a djinni would pop out any moment now, grab a weapon and slay them where they stood. That, however, never happened, the wagons providing for good shelter, and their hostess - with weird spice each time someone would cook a stew. They burned their throats, leaving them warm and cosy, while the taste turned from sharp and spicy into sweet and thick, like cold mead being drunk after a spoon full of warm jam.
"Some of you headed to Nightstone, friends?" Was heard Zaira's voice one early morning, jolting some of the travellers awake, lulled by a measured, regular creak of the wagon wheel. When the group that headed there was in her vision, she pointed to the road to the right of the caravan, jumping off her seat. This was a warmer morning, and Zaira was in her happy mood. "It is just uphill!" She declared, pointing along the road, as the caravan was slowly passing her. She wasn't a proud owner, and didn't mind running after the wagons when she had to walk off-road for one reason or another. Indeed, on the crossroads stood a sign. One pointer marked the road north with 'Waterdeep' carved into it, another showed south: 'Daggerford'. And the third one, smaller one, was pointing to the hills. 'Nightstone'. "Few hours on foot, and you will get there, friends." She sighed. "You had been a curious company to travel with, and I hope to meet you again this winter..." her amber gaze lingered over Iris, as if she Zaira had specific plans for the young woman, but she said nothing, shaking her head as if trying to get rid of a pestering fly. "I am travelling through Waterdeep, far, far North, all the way to Luskan, and then east... east, east, east to Everlund through Triboar. Do not be shy to keep me company." She gave a group a polite foreign bow. "But you. You should stop playing that blasted thing." Tabaxi's ears pressed tight to her skull, as she eyed the bagpipes.
Soon, however, the group perceived a strange noise coming from far ahead. It echoed around, reminding of a blacksmith shop... or rather, a dozen blacksmith shops, surrounding them from each side. As the road straightened up, and the walls of the city became visible, it became clear what this noise was. It was a loud Bom! Bom! Bom! of the church bell. Three rings. Silence. Another two. Silence. Another three... It went on, and on, and on... it was no time. It was no prayer. It was no alarm. It was something else. Something else entirely.
The closer the group got, the clearer it became that something wasn't right in town. The drawbridge over the mote was lowered, yet there were no people outside, no children playing in the fields. There were no voices, no music, no guards on the towers - their tall walls flanking the gap in a short - no higher than fifteen feet tall - palisade of dark wood. To the right - south of it - a cone-shaped flat-topped hill, and on it, overlooking the village, stood a keep enclosed by a wooden wall. A long bridge, connecting the town to the keep... broken. Huge chunk of it collapsed into the mote, and was now floating somewhere south, down the river. Bom! Bom!, the bell rung, and stopped once more. But just for a few seconds, before drowning the surrounding area in its ringing once more.
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