It’s always been hard to travel between the Ten Towns - the bitter cold and the harsh landscape testing the hardiest of adventurers. Lately though, with Auril’s chill magic shrouding the land, it’s deadly. The ferry routes from Easthaven to Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval have long ceded to the frozen lake. Dogsleds overland are the only way to make passage across the tundra.
Three adventurers gather in the Northlook tavern in Bryn Shander, each waiting for a guide to take them north to Caer-Konig. It’s a seven hour journey overland - too much for a single leg. They’ve arranged a rest stop in Caer-Dineval, a little over four hours away.
Lucas, a red-skinned teifling warlock, is juggling a number of leads, all pointing north. A missing youth from Targos who left the town suddenly in the company of teiflings heading for a castle somewhere. Caer-Dineval maybe. A dog, Boy, now his loyal companion, searching for his master thought lost in an expedition to Kelvin’s Cairn. And, rumours of an abandoned wizard’s tower and a guide who can take a party there from Caer-Konig.
Eifira Galaran, a barbarian elf, seeking only to get to the furthest place away. Away from what? Just away.
And Veomileana, a short-statured Goliath wizard, with a secret agenda. Perhaps he too searches for the tower. Perhaps not.
Their guide arrives, Nebmara, from Farfrozen Adventures. Their dogs are fed and waiting and they encourage the party to leave rightways. “We should easily make Dineval by night-fall. If we don’t run into trouble…”
Two hours into the journey and all is quiet. Veomileana and Nebmara handling the cold as if they were born to it. The elf, Elfira, clearly suffering the effects of exhaustion. She’ll be fine holding that great axe of hers, but she’s slow to move and clumsy with the cold.
Something on the road ahead. Keen eyes pick out a large white cat and two smaller ones, not kittens but not yet fully grown. They’re feeding on another animal - carrion or prey, no-one can tell. Circle of life. They’ve not seen the party.
“The dogs won’t be able to take the sled overland - we need to clear this road.” Neb isn’t phased which gives everyone confidence. Eifira strolls forward, no attempt at silence, readying that great axe for the fight. The cats hiss and bridle, showing sharp claws and even sharper teeth.
It’s over quickly. Eifira, consumed by the anger that barbarians have learned to channel, dispatching the mother and one of the cubs. Veomileana stays on the sidelines firing bonfires towards the cat and sending his familar, a small owl, in again and again to distract the cats. Lucas is pounced on by the smaller of the cats but shields the attack with a flash of magic. Nebmara stays back at the sled, causing any creature that comes near the dogs to flee with dissonant magic whispers in their heads. Occasionally Neb shouts encouragement to the others - lacing their words with a sliver of bardic magic.
In the frozen north, nothing is wasted. The cats’ bodies will provide for other animals here, the adventurers take the pelts. Prized for their thickness, they’ll do to keep someone warm in this arctic hell.
They’re an hour or so from Caer-Dineval, their first stop, when the small lantern Lucas has strapped to his belt starts glowing. It was given to him by an academic in Targos who’s hunting for the mythical Chingwa spirits of the north. It glows when they are near. Persuading the party to stop, he fashions a quick pull-trap from a box, stick and string and puts it on the road ahead. Cutlery that he ‘borrowed’ from an inn set inside as bait. The party wait, and wait. The elf again feeling the effects of the cold. “Enough” says the Goliath, “I’m going to send my owl up to search for these creatures. We can’t wait here forever”.
The owl circles, spotting some odd stones to the North East. The party heads to investigate. “Not a good idea,” says Nebmara “I’m staying with the dogs.” They search, the cold wracking their bodies, but nothing. Returning to the sled they set off again towards Caer-Dineval, what passes for night now approaching and the temperature dropping fast. As they pass the trap, keen eyes notice that the cutlery is gone and there are what could be tiny footprints around it.
The tower of Caer-Dineval in sight, a bloodcurdling howl comes from the tundra and then another. Two terrifying creatures break forth - these are the fables yetis that the Reghed talk of. There’s no way they can fight these, not in their exhausted state. “Faster, faster,” says Nebmara, urging the dogsled forward - the last push before the town walls. It’s a bumpy ride, everyone hanging on for dear life. Neb loses their grip. They’re thrown from the sled towards the terrifying, charging beasts.
Suddenly, their familiar, a large orange owl is there. Catching them in a practiced manner and lifting them high out of the yeti’s grasp. The yetis turn to follow the flying creature. “Keep the dogs” Neb shouts to the adventurers “they weren’t mine anyway.” As they are carried away, chased by the terrors of the snow, keen eyes would see their whole appearance change as some kind of magic gets dispelled. Who was this person? Were they even the guide we were expecting?
Three exhausted adventurers arrive finally at the gates of Caer-Dineval. The frozen lake below them, the old castle high on the bluff ahead. It’s always been hard to travel between the Ten Towns.
