In the harsh year of 1493 DR, when the winds of Icewind Dale cut sharper than steel and the mountains groaned beneath the weight of endless snow, three rival hosts crossed paths by fate—or by cruel design.
Two companies, both famed and feared across the Sword Coast, had long sworn to bring ruin to their common foe. The first, known as The Pretty Kitties, marched beneath banners stitched in velvet and gold, their elegance masking a ferocity few could match in open war. The second, The Dragonic Parade, boasted warriors clad in scaled mail and helmed with dragon crests, their processions so grand that villages trembled at the sound of their horns.
Both bands shared one purpose: the utter destruction of Agorath, a brotherhood steeped in shadows, whispered to consort with forgotten powers and weave schemes that threatened the balance of the North.
It is said that none of the hosts sought battle that winter day. Their ships, weathered by the sea and starved of supplies, had come ashore upon the frozen harbors of Icewind Dale, each captain seeking fresh water, firewood, and respite for weary crews. Yet as fate would have it, when the Pretty Kitties made landfall, they spied the bright pennants of the Dragonic Parade across the ice. And beyond them, like carrion crows circling the same feast, loomed the black sails of Agorath.
There was no parley, no words exchanged. The sight of Agorath was enough to ignite the wrath of both companies. Banners unfurled, war drums thundered, and steel rang out upon the frost. The Dale, quiet and cold for centuries, roared to life in fire and blood.
The battle raged for two long days and nights, a ceaseless clash of sorcery and steel, the snow painted red with the blood of countless soldiers. Neither side yielded, for the Pretty Kitties and the Dragonic Parade would rather perish than see Agorath slip their grasp. Yet Agorath, cunning and resolute, fought like a cornered beast, holding ground where none thought possible.
At last, on the dawn of the third day, the storm came. A blizzard so fierce that it swallowed men whole, blinded even the keenest eyes, and choked the battlefield in silence. The gale howled with such fury that horns could not sound, and rations, already scarce, dwindled to nothing. With no choice but survival, the hosts broke apart, retreating into the white void, their vendettas unresolved.
Thus ended the Battle of Icewind Dale, not in victory nor defeat, but in bitter stalemate. Tales say that the storm itself was no mere act of nature, but the will of some ancient power, unwilling to see the Dale claimed by mortal squabbles.
Yet the hatred between the three has only festered since. The Pretty Kitties and the Dragonic Parade still thirst for Agorath’s blood, and Agorath, unbroken, sharpens its claws in the dark. The winds may have silenced them once, but whispers tell that their feud is far from over.