Taking a long pull on his tankard, Old Nars stared into the fire for a moment and, clearing his throat, began to speak. ‘It was fifty summers ago, before the barbarian tribes came down from the mountains and fought the Lords of Neverwinter. It was a bad time and a gang of ruffians had set up shop in Phandalin. Foul beasts they were, bullying and stealing and….murdering folk.’ A sigh passed through the crowd as they remembered that Old Nars’ own father had been killed by the brigands, just for trying to defend his family. ‘Me, my sister and my mother were taken prisoner by the Redbrands, as they liked to call themselves. We were to be sold off as slaves or worse to the goblins that plagued us then. There we were, sat in a cell under the Manor, waiting for whatever evil fate lay in store for us. Two of the scum were sitting guard over us, playing dice and telling us horrible stories about how we’d probably get killed and eaten, in that order if we were lucky!’ Again, the crowd shifted restlessly; mothers hugged their children closer and would-be warriors bragged about how they’d have escaped and taught those beasts a lesson or two. Old Nars just held up a hand and cupped his ear as if listening, and the crowd again fell silent. ‘And then we heard it. At first, it was just a dull clattering as if someone had dropped a pan somewhere. The brigands didn’t hear anything at first, as my ears were younger than theirs. But eventually, the sounds became louder and they stopped playing dice, their faces becoming paler by the minute. A dull clattering became the clash of swords on armour, the sizzle of magic and the thud of crossbow bolts hitting flesh. Louder and louder it became, as if the very hounds of hell were charging through the corridors under the Manor. But the worst of it were the screams. The brigands began to look at each other as they began to recognise the voices. ‘That was Brin’ they said, referring to a long-drawn out screech ending in a wet gurgling cough. ‘Brin’s as tough as nails!’. Next came sounds that reminded me of a butcher’s shop on slaughtering day, with shouted pleas for mercy that were suddenly cut off. The thieves guarding us dropped their dice and drew their weapons, backing away from the door.’
Old Nars took another deep draught of his ale. ‘But what came next was the worst. The noises and begging and pleading had stopped right outside the door to our cells. The silence went on for what seemed like forever and the Redbrands crept forward to the door, fearful expressions on their faces. Suddenly, the door burst open and the Dark Heroes burst in. Course, we didn’t know them by that name then, but you could see what lay in their future even then. Covered head to foot in blood most of them were. Two huge half-orcs charged into the room, a Cleric of Blessed Helm coming after them. All of them had a killing gleam in their eye and the Redbrands charged them hopelessly, knowing their fate was sealed. Behind the warriors and the priest lurked a mysterious fellow in foreign robes, an inscrutable look in his eye and a soul-blasting spell on his lips. And you all know who else was there, don’t you?’ The crowd roared back as if they’d been waiting for this bit, which they had. ‘Abba the Cruel!’. Old Nars continued. ‘Yes, they were all there. Honest Abba, Stone-Hearted Grax, Kang the Mysterious, Dulron the Lost and Og Just-Og. With a spray of blood, the first outlaw was cut down!’ At that, a cheer went up from the crowd. ‘Seeing there was no hope, the second outlaw threw down his arms and begged for mercy, which he got.’ The crowd booed. ‘After freeing my family, the Dark Heroes locked the miscreant in the cells. But as we left, he began to cry and shout for us not to leave him there alone in the dark, where there were things that could eat him or worse’. Old Nars looked around the suddenly quiet common room once more, into the eyes of the listening townsfolk. ‘Honest Abba stepped back into the room for a moment, and then the brigand was silent. That was the mercy any could expect of the Dark Heroes, then and afterwards’.
He continued on with his story, of how the Heroes had led him and his family to safety through corridors strewn with Redbrand dead with wall sprayed with their blood. But anyone taking the trouble to look into Old Nars’ eyes would have seen that, beneath his bluff and jovial exterior, Nars had been changed by what he’d seen under Tresendar Manor. Many was the time he’d woken in the night, shouting in terror for what Young Nars had seen all those years ago. The Heroes had freed his body, but his mind was still locked down there in the dark, where there were things that could eat you…or worse.
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But back to the present. After spending a couple of days in Phandalin, recovering and taking advantage of their new-found fame as the ‘Heroes of Tresendar’, the party made their plans. The lure of the gold that Sildar Hallwinter was offering for the destruction of the Cragmaw Goblins was too much for them. They’d had enough of being poor and, whilst fame was all very well, a large bag of gold was much the better. With that in mind, they’d decided to head for the ruins of the town of Thundertree which lay some three days journey to the north. According to the Halfling Quelline Alderleaf, a druid named Reidoth had last been seen there. He knew the surrounding lands better than anybody, and he might know the location of the Cragmaw’s lair. From there, surely it would be a simple matter to storm it, slaughter everyone they found and claim the reward. Also, the Dendrar woman had said there was a fine jewel hidden beneath the floor of the ruined herbalist’s shop somewhere to the south of the ruined town. Abba for one would not be so careless as to leave such a treasure unclaimed.
And so it was that the Heroes set out one fine morning, their feeling of optimism only dampened by Kang’s passive-aggressive asides. Whilst they were set on their course, Kang was still keen on dealing with the banshee of Conyberry, far to the west. Somehow, he’d got it into his head that the creature knew the location of a powerful spellbook. Promising for the thousandth time that they’d get around to it eventually, the party headed out.
They travelled for three days, sticking mainly to the same road they’d taken south on their journey from Neverwinter. Lone travellers or small groups such as theirs were rare; the lands were dangerous, and travellers usually gathered into larger caravans for protection. They passed a couple of these, but stayed at a safe distance; they knew that caravan guards were paid a bonus for the head of every outlaw they came across, and were not above treating any small group of tough-looking travellers as outlaws regardless of the facts of the matter. So it was that, discounting a run-in with a marauding group of Goblins, their journey was uneventful and they arrived at the ruins of Thundertree on the afternoon of the third day.
Thundertree itself was a mess; a jumble of ruined buildings and some that were intact with shuttered windows. The Heroes soon discovered that the ruined buildings were infested with horrible, man-shaped beings formed of stinking plant matter. Also, they found that the intact buildings had been shuttered to keep things in rather than out; a nasty encounter with a group of foul undead creatures had proven this, their dead flesh sending out plumes of choking dust with each blow. But it was Kang who discovered the worst thing about Thundertree; the ruined tower in the center of the town harboured not undead or plant-creatures, but a slumbering dragon! Fear coursing through their hearts, the Heroes pushed on, but very quietly indeed; even Kang kept his complaints to himself as they moved towards a shuttered building…
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