Winter is fierce in Haskar.

A bitter wind whips across the Sea of Drifting Ice. The frigid northern reaches of Xanthar are fierce and unwelcoming lands. In this daunting realm of dark forests, grim peaks and deep snow, Haskar is a bastion of hospitality – the last outpost of civilization.

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But this winter is deeper than most; the snow is thicker, the wind colder, the skies darker. The people of Haskar huddle around their fires and whisper: The war in the South has stirred up evil spirits. Shadows are seen in the forest, strange figures amid the trees. Wolves haunt the high hills, desperate and starving. The wind brings ill tidings and bad luck; for the Jarl has fallen deathly ill, and his life hangs in the balance. In this time of darkness, Haskar needs a strong leader.

Other things have blown in on the wind. Two strangers have arrived, somehow traversing the high passes in the bitter snow. They speak with foreign accents and wear strange clothes. Though Haskar is a trading town and outsiders not uncommon on its streets, more than a few make a sign to ward off evil as the newcomers pass.

The chill wind blows, the stars shine bright, and spirit-lights dance high in the sky. Strange omens have been read; the hand of fate rests on Haskar, and great deeds are afoot.

Xanthar The Brave

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