Mistamere Castle

15th of Flemont, Nytdain, 990 AC. Near Mistamere Castle

The day has been peaceful, the sound of your boots crunching lightly against the gravel path along the Windrush River blending with the steady rush of water. There a subtle chill to the soft breeze whispering through the trees, a reminder that up here in the north summer is more like a fleeting season.

You’ve been walking upstream for hours, the river’s current pushing gently against your progress as it winds toward the vast expanse of Windrush Lake. The water here is clear as glass, almost unnaturally so, revealing the smooth stones beneath the surface. Tributaries feed into the lake from the steep cliffs of the majestic Black Peak Mountain range to your north, their jagged, snow-capped summits towering high above the land.

As you follow the winding path along the lake’s shore, Mistamere Castle appears on the horizon, its crumbling silhouette perched ominously atop a forested peak. By the time you reach the base of the mountain, the sun has begun its descent behind the peaks. The air grows colder still in the shadow of the mountain. It would take at least a few hours to scale your way up to the ruins, so making camp will give you some time to plan, rest, and to prepare for what awaits atop the mountain.

The night is colder than usual for summer, and the chill creeps through your clothes and into your bones. The fire Brother Yakov started seems to struggle against the mountain's grasp, the flames constantly flickering as if they are on the brink of being extinguished. The wind that howls through the trees carries a faint, distant screams that seem to come from the ruins above. You can see ghostly pale lights flickering atop the mountain as if someone still resides in those ruins.

Sleep is uneasy; the unsettling noises of the wind, and the occasional crackle of branches, keep you all on your toes.

The cold still hangs in the air when morning arrives, and the fire has almost gone out entirely, leaving only faint embers.

You begin your climb, the first light of the day offering little warmth, and once you reach the upper reaches of the mountain you spot goblin tracks. Scattered, but fresh. The trail leads toward the ruins, but there is no sign of the creatures themselves. The sun hangs high in the sky, and knowing goblins, they hate to venture out in broad daylight.

The first thing that hits Nightshade as he approaches the ruins of the keep is the overpowering stench. It's a nauseating blend of filth, rot, and something more acrid, like spoiled meat left to bake in the sun.

The source is not hard to pinpoint. The courtyard inside the crumbling walls is thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, decaying food, and the unmistakable scent of waste. Even from his position outside, you can see the filth that covers the ground within the keep’s broken walls.

Through the haze of the smell, you can pick out the figure of goblins. A handful of them stand on the crumbling battlements, squinting against the unforgiving sunlight, their eyes not accustomed to the bright day. They shift uncomfortably, oblivious to your presence, at least for now.

Inside the courtyard are the rest of the goblins—dozens of them, huddled together in small clusters, their emaciated forms covered in grime and pestilence. They scurry about, desperate to find even the smallest scrap of shade beneath the towering battlements. Their bodies twitch with the discomfort of fleas and hunger, scratching at themselves in an almost ritualistic manner, too worn down to care about anything except avoiding the sun.

You count at least sixty goblins, though the number is difficult to pinpoint with certainty. Only a handful seem capable of defending themselves—not more than ten or so. Among their numbers are two hobgoblins, seemingly more alert than the others, but just uncomfortable in the heat of the day.

But the most unsettling thing is the keep itself. Despite the goblins' aversion to the sun, none of them dare enter the keep. The large, shadowy doors stand ajar, but there is an undeniable tension in the air, the haunting presence of something malevolent lurking within. None of the goblins seem to want to get closer. Even the bravest among them shudder at the thought of crossing the threshold.