Mug Bearers of the Oaken Table

On a Winter's Night...

The vampire stepped out into the moonlit courtyard. It had snowed several days prior. Snow blanketed the square; the streets of Winterhaven were mostly undistubed save for the occaisonal footsteps that marked the passage of some shambling or loping creature.

Lord Blacktongue took a deep breath and exhaled, and lamented that he could neither feel in his lungs the bite of winter’s cold, nor produce the misty vapor of a warm breath. Blacktongue pondered the irony of power some of the smallest moments had…

His thoughts came back to the present, as he sensed the arrival of his leiutenant. Moments later she appeared, kneeling before her Lord and Master.

“Report” he commanded

“Cormyr knows there is something amiss in the Dale” the vampiress Kat replied. “However their military is already stretched too thin. They will provide no assistance until the snows thaw.”

“The Winter belongs to us, my lord” the vampiress declared

“And soon…” Blacktongue added, “So shall the city of Fallcrest”

. . . . . . . . . .

Lord Markelhay looked over the balcony. Winter had arrived on schedule, however the winds and snow did little more than to add complication to the already growing problem.

Overpopulated and under-stocked, the lord warden’s concerns for his city were well founded.

“Heroes…” he muttered… ’Where are they?!" He looked out the balcony again, as if expecting to see them appear. And where was Belford, his most trusted advisor? Or Naerumar? Even that rogue Catfish was nowhere to be found. The Lord Warden felt alone and vulnerable. Problems…

Plated footsteps signaled the approach of his Captain-at-Arms.

‘My Lord,’ the captain saluted, ‘another pack has approached the South Gate. Ghouls m’lord’.


’Waxford and Rimbly", the captain replied. Markelhay did not recognize the names, guards most likely.

‘See to their families, Captain’ the Lord Warden ordered. The Captain saluted and turned to leave.

‘And Captain’, added Marklehay, "Pray we do not count Waxford and Rimbly among our enemies tomorrow!’

. . . . . . . . . .

She feasted this evening on succulent lamb, as she had the night before, and before that even.

The great dragon regretted devouring the tasty herdsmen so quickly, but an angry and hungry god has no patience. “Foolish elf, wicked dwarf, false-kin!” the wyrm snorted, “Your kinds will suffer for your insolence to the Dawn!”

Toxic fumes burned snow and pine, leaving caustic patches in its wake. The dragon pondered its revenge; and the many, many humanoids it will devour as tribute and repayment.

Such thought eventually brought the Dawn a blissful slumber…


jrdinapoli jrdinapoli

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