Abductions Throughout Dargarth
Within the very heart of the Explorers Guild’s strength a strange thing was happening. Lord Bastion Demont, a noble who had helped found the guild years ago and who was something of a legendary figure to its members, was under attack. The night had been peaceful. A summer breeze blowing the scent of flowers and alleviating the stifling heat of the season had been no herald to bloodshed. Lord Demont had no idea there could be trouble until he heard the ring of steel on steel just outside his door and a sharp outcry, quickly silenced.
Demont reacted instantly, refusing to allow the panic that welled up from within to seize him. In a few quick strides Demont made his way to the wall where a pair of sabers, ore ornate than practical, hung. There he wrenched first one, then after a moments hesitation the second as well, down from their crossed perches. Outside he could hear men talking.
“They weren’t supposed to be here… Go… go… Damn it all.” Then the same voice spoke in harsh grating words Demont could not later recall and the door flew inwards as though kicked by a giant, miraculously undamaged aside from the hinges. In seconds they were upon him.
Three men came at Demont in a rush, frantic to win and win swiftly as alarms began to ring out in the castle around them. Demont skewered the first man with a smooth thrust but felt his blade lodge in the unnamed assailant’s ribs while his second weapon was battered contemptuously aside as he weakly slashed for another opponent. The final assailant slammed the pommel of his blade into Demont’s temple and he knew only darkness.
“MORE GROG I SAYS!” Gragas the Gut’s voice boomed, bellowing through the ship like a storm’s wind. Of all the reavers who fought beneath Mardur’s banner Gragas was the largest and most feared. An Ogre whose life was saved many years ago by Tyrent, Gragas had later allowed himself to be sworn into the service of the Goblin Queen.
Gragas had one great gift that set him apart from all other ogres, and sadly it was not his swift wit. Gragas was enormous. He towered over his brethren, a titan of his kind. In a pitched sea battle he had once stepped alone onto the enemy boat and swept the deck clean of foes, cutting through them with a massive halberd like a farmer slicing wheat with a scythe. So the men did not hesitate to fetch him more grog. More grog, more grog, with each of Gragas’ cries they brought him a special brew.
Eventually even Gragas exceptional fortitude could no longer withstand the poison and he smashed, face down, onto the table and began to snore.
“Okay… Now how do we move him?” One of the servants said. Not Gragas’ servant, as he had thought, but servants of the Lords of Bitter Peak.
There was something wrong within the forest, and Hale Briarwood knew it when the wolves stopped singing. The finest of the Briarwood Clan scouts, Hale knew his homeland so well that every chirping bird and scampering hare held special significance to him.
The wolves had been singing gleefully until they smelled something. Something that had frightened them, and there were very few things that could frighten the savage wolves that lived in the forests of the Briarwood clan. With silent steps Hale slipped the forest, bow rising to the ready in his hands as he heard the sounds of armored men. Metal scraping against metal and a softly muttered oath as one stumbled.
Before Hale could determine a course of action a voice behind him spoke. “He’s right here.”
Hale whirled, bringing his shot to bear on the figure that had, despite all of his woods craft and care, been able to sneak up behind him. “Who are you? What do you and your men want in this forest?” Though he forced a false bravado into his tone, Hale did not like his chances against several armed and armored men in the forest, alone. He began to scan for escape routes.
These men were ready though, sent with the sole purpose of finding and holding Hale as a bargaining chip to be used against his clan. So when the Lord of Thorns spoke oh so calmly the four warriors with him charged and the single shot Hale was able to loose into the Lord of Thorns chest withered to dust while the head bounced harmlessly off of his chest.
In moments Hale was surrounded and summarily beaten unconscious. His limp body was dragged through the forest to the coast, and then onto a boat bound for a port on the shores near Bitter Peak.
In Langerhausen, Ulrich the Red slew three men before being captured, strangled a fourth during an escape attempt during his time on the ship, and attempted a second escape upon docking that resulted in a man drowning.
As of yet the Alliance Company waits, tensed and poised for action. The abducted have all been tracked to a single location: The jagged slopes of Bitter Peak.
See also: The Lords of Bitter Peak