Emperor Lysander has a great deal of tools at his disposal. Vicious mercenary bands like the Iron Circle supplement the Imperial Army he is forming in the capitol city of Nerath. He also employs insidious spies, deadly assassins and priests of Bane. Some of his agents serve multiple roles, such as the author of the following correspondence. This report speaks of the foreign powers surrounding the Empire and seeks to inform and advise the Emperor, even as he considers how to weed out the dissenting element in the Nentir Vale: Andrasian the elvish warrior, Krillorien Brightsong the eladrin priest of Pelor, Melanie Good-Melons of the Arcane Tower, and Lyria Thorngage of the Junction Thorngages.

Your Most Exalted Majesty,

What follows is my accounting of the foreign powers that lurk on the outer fringes of our mighty Empire. Rest assured that I have done all in my power to bring to you any and all answers for questions I anticipated you having. Should you find this information inadequate or incomplete, allow me to first convey my sincere apologies and know that I will either answer whatever questions remain vague in your mind or hunt down further expansion upon the information provided. But I ramble overmuch. Let us begin.

The dwarves of Hammerfast remain the most credible threat to the Empire. While they remain quiet within their underground city for now, they made it no secret that they do not recognize your legitimate claim to the lands of the Empire, nor your audacity and courage in crushing all who oppose you. Were our Imperial forces in stronger, better-trained numbers, I would recommend an immediate invasion to excise this dangerous, festering postule from the underside of your Empire. However, seeking new recruits for the Iron Circle and your own Imperial Guard has taken precedence, which I completely understand. To strike without our full strength would be foolish.

To the west, the elves of the Feywood have kept their own counsel. We have taken pains not to encroach upon their forests and they in turn have not meddled in our affairs. It is an uneasy peace, and I am afraid I cannot accurately predict how long it will last. The deaths of many of the ‘free land owners’ who traded with the elves has deprived them of certain goods and crops, and while we have provided them many opportunities to purchase these goods (albeit with an appropriate amount of Imperial taxation) they seem more interested in brooding in the boughs of their trees. Should they become an irritant I recommend as much magical and alchemical fire as possible lobbed into their woods from a good safe distance.

Their cousins, the eladrin, continue their practice of trade with the likes of Daggerport and Southport. Their ship captains are courteous to our customs agents but reports indicate that any stoppage beyond a routine check raises a considerable amount of ire. This has lead to a handful of ships being impounded by the Imperial Navy. To their credit, the customs agents are as expedient as they are thorough, and only a few eladrin have been held indefinitely while most are released after receiving a heavy fine and probationary status. I have it on authority that dignitaries from their cities, Meloravia and Sehavia, will soon be in the capitol to discuss the held eladrin with Your Majesty.

TO the north the situation is more vague. Beyond the Nentir Vale is a harsh, unforgiving tundra and several rocky passes leading into the Frostjaw Peaks. It is said the Peaks are ruled by a figure known only as ‘the Winter King,’ and a cadre of frost giants do his bidding. There is also a large tribe of orcs in that area that once swept down the passes into the Vale but have not been heard from in some time, since before Your Majesty made the crossing to reclaim the Empire. As I was unfortunately unable to treat with any of these orcs, I cannot say how willing they would be to assist Your Majesty and Lord Vhynnk in conquering the Nentir Vale.

I know you await the return of our ambassadors from the Caliphate of the Seven Stars to the south with as much eagerness as I.

In closing I would once again voice my opinion to Your Majesty on the subject of the Iron Circle. You are the final arbiter of who serves the Empire and in what capacity, and Bane shows His favor to those who are uncompromising in their conquest of the weak. But Lord Vhynnk and his converts are not followers of Bane. His patron, Asmodeus, is a dangerous and ambitious god, an aspect shared by the Iron Circle. Should he gain enough numbers and favor, I fear he may move to depose Your Majesty. I feel I would be remiss if I did not mention that Vhynnk was overheard expressing dismay at your agent dispatching the troublesome Dar Gramath and nearly slaying the quartet of troublemakers who came to the aid of the Harkenwold.

Rest assured that my next task will be to seek all I can on these four, and discern fact from fiction for Your Majesty. You should know at full who might stand in the way of your rightful conquest. If they be a worthy challenge, we will bring them to Your Majesty to further prove your might. And if they seem too dangerous, Bane will see them cleared from your path before you ever leave the capitol.

I remain your humble and devoted servant.

Quenora of Avernus
Sworn Sword of Bane
Imperial Mistress of Whispers

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It takes more than a few individuals to run a keep of any size. The small cadre of dwarves from Hammerfast have outdone themselves rebuilding the former Keep on the Shadowfell, its ten mighty towers rising up above the village of Winterhaven in the northwest reach of the Nentir Vale. A few volunteers have come to support, maintain and defend the Keep, which is now held by four known throughout the Nentir Vale as heroes: Andrasian the elvish warrior, Krillorien Brightsong the eladrin priest of Pelor, Melanie Good-Melons of the Arcane Tower, and Lyria Thorngage of the Junction Thorngages.

The sun rises above the westernmost Frostjaw Peaks. There is a light coating of snow on the ground, a testament to the odd weather of late. While much of it will melt even as more falls, it adds an extra layer of chill to the men and women standing at uneasy attention in the courtyard in front of the main hall. As the sun’s light spills over the walls and across the assembly completely, the doors open. Instead of the castle’s masters, four unfamiliar individuals emerge. Leading them is a tall, broad-shouldered dragonborn, clad in a suit of plate and carrying a sword at his side and a shield across his back. His scales look as if they were hammered out of pure mithril, the way they catch the dawning light. Cool, emerald eyes look from one face to the other amongst the volunteers before him. When he speaks, his voice is rough and heard easily in every corner of the courtyard.

“All right, recruits, listen up! My name is Silverscale, and you will refer to me as ‘Captain Silverscale’, ‘Captain’ or simply ‘Sir.’ I have been given the great honor of putting the defense of this Keep in order. You may be here because of the heroes who made this Keep their own, or because you’ve heard of the snow orcs or frost giants or the Winter King to the north. Frankly, I don’t care why you’re here. What I do care about is your performance as guardsmen, your dedication to the defense of this Keep and your willingness to die to defend those that dwell within it and in Winterhaven below us. If you don’t believe you can do that, the gatehouse is immediately behind you. I’d rather see your backsides now than see them running away from us on the battlefield!”

After a moment, Silverscale nods and looks down. Directly in front of him, arms crossed, is a dwarf in a very fine suit. His beard is immaculate, with a number of braids containing delicately-spun gold thread. He is, if possible, even less impressed with the would-be guardsman than Silverscale.

“Immediately in front of me in Bensun Stonecarver, the Keep’s seneschal. His dwarven crafts and craftsmen made this Keep what it is today. I’m sure a couple bards you might have heard may refer to Seneschal Stonecarver as a ‘butler.’ But he is in charge of the Keep when its masters are away, so when he tells you to do something, YOU DO IT.”

Bensun nods solemnly. Silverscale gestures to his left, where a young human stands, his face the only sympathetic one the recruits will find. Dressed in a smith’s apron, a roughspun shirt and dark gloves, he looks like he was pulled away from either a hot forge fire before his work was done, or his bed at too early an hour.

“His apprentice, to my left, is the young man who will be tending to your arms and armor when you go and get banged up. He comes to us from the Harkenwold, as do many of you. His name is Alton Gramath. He’s also joining us on the Guard, but don’t take it easy on him just because he’s our smith or because his father died for defending your homes. You should be so lucky to leave this life the way Dar Gramath did!”

Alton looks a bit sheepish at the mention of his father. He runs a hand through long-cut dark hair and manages to smile a little. On Silverscale’s otherside is an older human, his grey-white beard spilling down to the embroidered breast of his arcane robes. He leans against a tall staff topped with a faceted crystal and decorated with runes another eldritch symbols.

“To my right is Quillion of the Tower. He’s a mage, a scribe and our Keep’s local herbologist. He’s here to study the interesting phenomena in the Keep’s bowels, which brings up another point of order. The subterranean levels of the Keep are off-limits for those not on duty to guard the mage or any of his guests. If any guardsman is found below ground afer hours for any reason, you will answer directly to ME. Is that understood?”

There’s a murmur from the assembly. Silverscale scowls.

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Yes, sir.” The response is half-hearted. Silverscale roars.

“LOUDER!”

“YES, SIR!”

The dragonborn crosses his arms and nods.

“Welcome to the Tower Guard. Your training begins NOW.”

All locations, NPCs, spells and equipment copyright Wizards of the Coast unless otherwise noted.

What follows is the account of a conversation had in the Blue Moon Alehouse in Fallcrest. Three men, a stonecutter, a tailor and a city guardsman, gathered over mugs of ale to discuss the odd events befalling the Nentir Vale. Despite differing professions and opinions, each man knows the names and deeds of their heroes: Andrasian the elvish warrior, Krillorien Brightsong the eladrin priest of Pelor, Melanie Good-Melons of the Arcane Tower, and Lyria Thorngage of the Junction Thorngages.

“If I mention the weather,” the tailor began once they were served, “are you going to hit me?”

“Gods, you’re paranoid.” The stonecutter’s beefy hand wrapped around the mug and he took a long drink of frothy ale. “No. I’m not going to hit you.”

“It’s on everybody’s mind.” The guardsman had unbelted his sword and it leaned against the table beside him as he nursed his drink. “You can’t help but notice the snow coming out of the sky.”

“In this season!” The stonecutter shook his head. “It’s bad for business. I can’t be up the side of a building carving gutters or fixing shingles when it’s like this.”

“You’d think I’d have an easier time, but everybody’s asking for furs I don’t have, when they manage to leave their hearth fires.” The tailor sighed and took a drink. “What do we know about this?”

“It’s snow. What is there to know?”

“Perhaps one or more of the gods have been offended, my granite-minded friend.”

The guardsman shook his head at the tailor. “The only god I know of with such power over the skies is Kord, and he’s more likely to smite us with lightning than sprinkle snow on our heads. No, this is likely something else.”

The stonecutter belched. “What, then?”

“Many and varied are the magical artifacts at the disposal of our benevolent dictator. The defeat of his Iron Circle in the Harkenwold cannot have endeared him towards us. Perhaps this is Emperor Lysander’s subtle revenge, or a tactic designed to bring us to heel.”

“Codswallop.” The stonecutter took another drink, then wiped the foam from his beard. “Lysander’s a boy in a man’s clothes playing at war. He would not use such subtle means. He’d smack us with every Iron Circle fist at his disposal were he truly interested in direct conquest.”

The tailor nodded. “Besides, the Lord Marshall pays the Empire their dues on time. Lysander would have no cause to subject the entire Vale to his wrath if it’s the Harkenwold that’s offended him while Fallcrest remains loyal, at least in word.”

“All I know is the Lord Marshall and some of the other nobles have left for Winterhaven to seek aid from Ten Towers.”

The stonecutter snorted. “They haven’t dreamed up a better name for it yet?”

“Well, it beats ‘The Keep We Reclaimed From The Heretics Trying To Open A Portal To The Shadowfell And Still Creeps The Folk Of Winterhaven Out’, doesn’t it?”

“Who asked you, tailor?”

The guardsman rolled his eyes, and waved the barmaid over for another round.

All locations, NPCs, spells and equipment copyright Wizards of the Coast unless otherwise noted.