Red Hand Holdouts?

"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 eastern edge of the Swamps of Rhest. "That one was an owlbear.

"As those threats advance, we'll experience even more pressure at the 'Cross. And you can bet there are far more coming."

Sildar stands quietly, contemplating the map. The grey that started at his temples is creeping further across his scalp.

Resources are scarcer than ever before and Witchcross is faltering just as the Vale calls on it once more. These raiders are turning a nuisance for a time of prosperity into a full-blown crisis in this time of shortages. It takes food as much as steel and fletching to hold the line.

"Are the raiders survivors from the Red Hand Horde?"

"They might be," Sildar replies. "Slipped into the Witchwood when the Horde broke, living off game and banditry for years." He nods solemnly. "Aye, it's possible. Not much game anymore, though. Maybe that's why they're daring enough to raid the 'Cross."

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