In the light of the setting sun twenty-one individuals, each with spiteful evil dispositions, were seated at a long ornate twenty seat banquet table. They wore black, carried weapons crusted with old blood, and had an insatiable hunger for food and lust. Lying on the table, in various stages of consumption, were steaming foods, cold fruits and cheeses, and various loaves of warm bread and dinner rolls; a Year’s End feast. Wine glasses and goblets of mead were quickly and continuously refilled by seven topless bruised and beaten servant women; fear, deep and permanent locked in each of their rustic eyes.
Music, although it barely qualified as such, carried on the air like a jagged blade across stone. Dark clad warriors keen on showing off their ‘talent’ picked up instruments from some of the debris and began to play… horribly. The torture on the servants knew no bounds it seemed.
“Ale!” Came a table-pound and command witch prompted a servant into movement, but as she did a black cat scampered across her path causing her to lose her balance sending her sprawling into a large debris pile left behind when these evil men took control of the northern till of Goldenfields. The sound did well to mask a larger crash outside the banquet hall from the majority of the company who were laughing and jeering at the prone woman, but the Sinister Seven were not so easily distracted.
“Now what?” The normally composed Lord Ferestian asked Maskul; the all too familiar sounds of mortal
Maskul Mirromane looked to Rikusand Wijon, “You two check it out.”
“At once!” but before they could execute a thorough investigation the problem presented itself….
Yamun Kahan was at first a convenient distraction to Boris Nahal’s infiltration of Goldenfields and the undermining of Tolgar Anuvien: Yamun’s Great Wyrm tribe considered civilization a sickness and fought to restore the North’s natural skyline and return man to the natural order. According to Vicarzo DeMarcian, Yamun had amassed many riches for his crusade; held three divine aspects, hidden from all inspection; and most odd, seemed to take counsel from a feverish demihuman follower of Set.
Assuming control was effortless while the Harvest Lords and Spring Ladies of Goldenfields fought Yamun’s horde and within days Lord Fesestian controlled most of the food coming into Waterdeep while Yamun’s horde and the Earthmother’s clerics fought over the remaining tillage.
Moments later the Sinister Seven found themselves fighting barbarians who were seemingly on the run, a fighting retreat on ground that was becoming rough and unsure making tactical movement during swordplay near impossible. The precarious balance of power and control shared with the Sinister Seven, Earthmother clerics, and the Great Wyrm tribe has been upset by something terrible and powerful.
Divine horns blasted in long succession washing fear and certain death over Ferestian’s company; these blasts heralded the arrival of the Old Ones: Uthgar and the Earthmother, Fatherbattle and Mother of the North.
Lord Ferestian felt suddenly alone among his company of Zhents. What this what doom felt like? He called for his closest comrades to organize an escape.