It is Higharvestide, 1378 Dalereckoning, the Year of the Scythe. It has been 20 long years since the Fall of the Gods. Daggerdale, the dale you are in, has been free for 23 years, but the smell of the Black Network will forever hang above the heads of this dale. Zhentil keep has been all but destroyed from the inside during Cyric's cleansing, and is just now rebuilding. The Red Wizards of Thay are in the midst of a civil war, and are not a threat. it seems peace has finaly settled over the Dalelands.

It is a brisk autumn day, and it seems the entire dale has gathered for the feast to celebrate the harvest. A caravan has been brought in from far off Waterdeep just for this occasion. They are selling the famous Wine of Waterdeep, spices from Calimshan, Cormyrian boar, and a hundred other delicacies you have never even heard of. Randal Morn, the ruler of Daggerdale, is even setting places on the giant tables brought out on the street for this feast. Now this is a celebration. This is what this Dale needed.

As you sit at a table, your mouth watering at the feast before you, you pick up a slight electricity down the back of your neck. At first, the familiar feeling escapes you, here, in this peaceful setting. But then you recognize it as the sixth sense that has saved your life a hundred times over. Danger is near. Then you smell the smoke. You look about, searching for the source of the scent. You wish you hadn't. A pillar of smoke reaches to the sky many miles to the south east. As you turn you stunned eyes tword the sky, a dalesman raises his finger tword the sight. Several gasps and screams go up from the crowd. Women pull their children close. Randal Morn stands and states what everyone else prayed was not true.

Return to Maximum Role Playing

This page hosted by Get your own Free Home Page