Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

Once again the Wytch of the Caves rustled to and fro within her lair, a purpose making her frantic and eager to wreak destruction. After belching forth a guttural cackle, she clambered one by one through the sweaty caves that housed her offspring, the Hagspawn. She rallied them into a frenzy, then drove them out of the lair, into the Cloakwood and beyond until within a stone’s throw of Beregost.

Soon, in a dark copse south of the town there was a large gathering of the armored and wicked prodigy of the fiend, and the one who rustled them there, the Wytch. In a short time the place smelled of offal and rancid meat from their numbers and tendency to turn places they visit into dung piles. In a burst of crackling energy a glowing portal appeared through which walked a band of foreign raiders. Knowing of they’re coming the Wytch brought the groups of her spawn toward them, “Slay all of them, ambush them.” Masked and hooded they crept alongside the Wytch and began to lead squads of the Hagspawn toward the town bearing down on the soldiers stationed there.

Lesser men may have fled in terror at the sight of this cohort, but these were veterans of the war, men who had learned to keep watch at the gates of the town very carefully. In fact they had spotted them as soon as they left the cover of the dark place they assembled. They had no fear of this Wytch and had seen her before, and driven her away. Before the raiders could get to the gate the Amnish veterans obstructed them; the spawn were caught off guard, and could not pass the town's threshold before being engadged by the defenders. The Amnish ambush had begun, but the raiders were the ones surprised.

The heavily armored Hagspawn fought with evil ferocity fueled by abuse by the Wytch and her subordinate hags, with the group of hooded allies that were a match for these soldiers as well; soon the field was empty. The Hagspawn were all dead, along with some of the foreign raiders, as were the cohort of veteran defenders. Word had spread in the town and soon reinforcements were called. Legionaries and Wizards, far superior to any Amnish veteran, were donning arms and beginning to muster.

The foreign survivors were not idle, and neither was the Wytch. Those who survived began to raise and heal their comrades. The Wytch wove a spell beyond the gate in the southernmost reaches of the town terrifying and instigating common folk in the town, who attacked at the sight of her; they had been fully induced by her dark magics. She was supported by the raiders as well and soon several dead folk littered the cobbles of Beregost. Concerned by the huge force the Wytch spied forming in the town’s center, she called for a retreat. They charged through the portal that quickly closed behind those who had fled.

Deep in the caves the Wytch whined to the others about her sudden lack of descendants. She then croaked at them in a bizarre attempt at charm, “Who among ye will sire the next generation of Hagspawn?” Most of them did not respond as she had hoped, though she bellowed out directions to her lair wagging her staff at those foolish enough to humor her deadly offer. Intrigued by her potential suitors, the Hag teleported to her empty home and made other preparations; curses and charms to cajole and forever captivate any suitors who would come.

A well armored, but bloodied man, flees South on horseback toward Nashkel. Broken arrow shafts protrude between shifting plates, his torso pouring blood from the wounds, and staining his horse's saddle. The pain is almost unbearable, but the quest is noble: by will alone he does not lose consciousness. He arrives at Nashkel, weak, and barely coughs out the words as he recounts his horrifying story. A crowd gathers at the grisly scene, circling around the dying man to better hear the tale. His audience does not move, does not blink, and the air is deathly silent except for the staccato rhythm of the brave stranger's final words. They offer water, which is refused.

He gurgles blood as it splashes out from the corners of his mouth, spitting out his message through grinding teeth, casting a look of horror on all those listening. Even seasoned adventurers pale at the description of the chaos and slaughter that befell Beregost. Hagspawn, numbering in the dozens, that could cleave armored men in half with one fell swoop. The man croaks as he relives how a Hagspawn tore a guard's arm off, lapping up the flowing blood like a dog by a river. However through sheer numbers alone, the guards were able to slay the Hagspawn, so the man whispers, but those barbaric yet simple creatures were not alone. . .

He speaks of a band of hooded figures who appear from a large portal, clad in dark and sinister colors: colors of death and rage. They command and bark orders toward each other and the Hagspawn, who were themselves, led by a Wytch. The group struck out with surprising ferocity slaying the guards like sheep, despite being outnumbered four to one. They fight effectively and as a unit, quickly outmatching and terrifying Beregost's militia.

The quiet sobs of children, women, and men are heard as the stranger slowly goes every confusing and gruesome detail of the lightening fast attack. The stranger's eyes well with tears as he relives the ensuing chaos, the hooded invaders pouring out onto the streets as the first line of guards fell, they slay those unfortunate enough to be walking in the streets, but inexplicably, children are spared. From his vantage point, behind one of gates on the East side of town, the man panics, takes a near by horse, and flees.

He explains that terrified, and thinking all hope is lost, he flees toward Nashkel in hopes of conscripting of spreading word of the attack to Beregost's ally. However, right as his horse bursts through the front gate, several arrows strike him.

The last words the man utters are of his last memories of Beregost: his memory of a dark archer staring back at him, the dark silhouette watching him flee. He describes, terrified, how the figure wordlessly lowers his bow arm, looking back at the galloping steed, his black cape fluttering in the wind.

The color quickly drains from the stranger's face and blood continues to pool underneath him. In one last act of desperation, his finger nails dig into the cobble stoned path, his groans growing weak as life leaves him after one, horrible, shudder.