The Chronicle of the Forbidden North
Our journey began on the salt-sprayed decks of a merchant vessel, the horizon of the Forbidden North beckoning with equal parts promise and peril. When we finally set foot in the bustling port of Valkengard, the city greeted us with its true face: a den of opportunists. No sooner had we cleared the docks than we were set upon by common thugs. They sought easy coin but found only the hard edge of our resolve; we left them bruised in the gutter and made our way to the Brick Mammoth, where the warmth of a hearth and a locked door offered a brief respite.
Peace, however, was a fleeting luxury. Several mornings into our stay, the Mammoth’s walls shook as we were targeted by Zarkcan, a dark mage whose ambitions were as black as his arts. The battle was desperate, spilling through the corridors of the inn, but after a grueling struggle, the sorcerer lay dead. In the aftermath of the violence, we secured our official delving permit—a blood-earned ticket to the secrets of the north.
Zarkcan’s death left behind more than just a corpse. Among his effects, we discovered a chilling trail leading to Sutter Izen and the Graven Wolves. Notes spoke of a woman and a boy—the family of Lord Emmotatch—targeted for the Shahn black market. We learned the Wolves haunted a dive called the Winking Barnacle, and the name Sutter Izen began to loom large over our path.
After a long period of preparing and resupplying in the city's markets, we took the fight to the den of vice. At the Emperor’s Fancy, a gambling hall where fortunes and lives are traded like cards, we found Izen. In a high-stakes game of chance that held more tension than any blade-crossing, we won the freedom of Lady Thora, Lord Emmotatch’s wife. But the victory was bittersweet; Izen revealed the boy had already been sold to an unknown buyer, his trail growing cold even as we warmed to the hunt. Seeking a new lead, we turned to The Gooch, who pointed us toward the Beavered Battleaxes, a group last seen near the Gjole bridge.
Eventually, the stone walls of Valkengard were behind us as we ventured back into the frozen expanse. The wilderness was harsh; we hunted moose for sustenance and trade, but the land held older, hungrier things. We stumbled upon a barrow mound that we hoped was the fabled Tomb of Morkaal, only to be met by a tide of the walking dead. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of zombies, we were forced to beat a harrowing retreat, the stench of decay lingering in our cloaks for days.
Our northern trek continued for days until we encountered the Zecko Kobold Team within a series of catacombs. Rather than blood, we found a bizarre opportunity. The kobolds, flush with pearls they had scavenged, gave us the location of our next target: Cyrus the Outlaw. The rogue has holed up in a tall tower at hex 12,22, bristling with arrows and arrogance.
We have struck a deal with the kobolds. As I write this, we are preparing a ruse. We will approach the tower under the guise of simple wine merchants, a "gift" for Cyrus and his men. When the corks are pulled, the steel will follow. With the kobolds at our back, the attack begins at dawn.