West Marches at the Board N Brew

We all received a mysterious message from R, indicating that someone benevolent or otherwise was keeping an eye out for our actions near the vale. We set out toward Witchcross hoping to make some headway in discovering the goings on with the mysterious hooded figures seen nearby. We heard from Lt. Greystone that forces near the fort were spread thin, and offered to stake out the clearing in hopes of catching the hooded figures in their nightly jaunts. Upon seeing us they split, running to the woods, but with Tulgeys speed as a fleet footed stallion and Haakon's tracking we followed them into the woods as the winter weather became colder and a snowstorm began. Forced to seek shelter, we found a craig in the nearby mountains, and driving deeper, we discovered that the hooded figures were darklings, fey that had forsworn the sun and turned to the dark. Though Echo tried to reason with them in their Sylvan tongue they cast darkness upon us, and only Tulgey was able to draw near, a

Tordek was just in the middle of an awkward exchange with a former student in the shanty tavern of Drellin's Ferry, a town struggling to reestablish itself in these frigid times, when ol' Delly Mullaney burst into the place. She was screaming and hollering that something come out of the woods beyond the cabbage field and that Mr. Mullaney was facing it down alone. Two of the townsfolk immediately leaped to Mrs. Mullaney's aid, as did Tordek, Kornak and the ranger Milo. They may have finished their drinks, first. Hearing the commotion in the road as folks bolted for the farmhouse, Mermur left her clandestine meeting to see what opportunities might arise. At the farm, the band put their lives on the line to defend the precious Mullaney cabbages , cajoled to slow growth by mundane and magical means and protections from the elements. First, the party fended off bears, then the hobgoblin hunting party that pursued their ursine quarry out of the forest. Mr. Mullaney and th

Chatter at the Stonehill is turning to the domestic this day. "I went down to my cellar yesterday to get a squash and four of them were frozen. Ruined!" one citizen of Tempered Vale complains. "Half a sack of our potatoes were ruined, too," another commiserates, "frozen where they leaned against the cellar wall. The missus is terrified 'bout how we'll make it to spring if our root cellar don't do its job." Anecdotes of spoiled stores are rippling through the tavern, now. "Harumph!" A surly dwarf shakes his head. "What is it, Bristletuch?" a balding man snaps, "You have something you want to share?" "Ye with yer heads in the clouds," Bristletuch grumbles, "Ye don't know anything about the earth below your own feet!" "What're you on about?" Mrs. Grundley shouts from the back of the room. "Yer root cellar works 'cause it stays just out of frost

"I swears I seen 'em," Mullaney pleads in earnest. His voice is an echo of the angst obvious in his eyes. "The cabbages, they need to stay out in the field fer jus' a wee bit longer, would they can, an' I got all the protections from the cold I could on 'em, but somethin' is in the woods out yonder. Stirrin'." His eyes widen as he coarsely whispers that last word. He gulps and wrings his hands. Like everyone, Mullaney is probably thinking of the stories going around, the stories of monsters driven here by hunger from the new tundra to the north. He reckons he's got one on his back stoop. Cabbages never made a very prestigious showing at market, but this season has been the worst yet. Mullaney's farm is in the regional minority in that it's not yet barren. In the depths of this winter, those cabbages may be the only thing staving off scurvy. Or death. "Now, we all gotta be able to hold our own to live out nyar, in the R

"They come in, take what they can, and get out, fast," Sildar confirms. "Nobody's come to irreparable harm, yet. Two of the sentry were cut up pretty badly in one raid, but nothing Maelgrove couldn't tend." In spite of its tactical value as a control point for defending the greater Vale to the south and east, the restoration of Witchcross after the Great Razing languished for one reason or another over the past five years. Conventional wisdom says both "one reason" and "another" hold seats on the Tempered Vale town council. Politics aside, Witchcross isn't making any better progress with goblinoid raids wearing away at its supplies. "These days, it's more important than ever that we hold that point firmly," Sildar declares, indicating Witchross on the map spread out on the table. "We have scouts confirming sightings of second-grade threats here, and here." He points north of the Darkinwood and at the eas