AmphailThis village lies on the Long Road, a good three days’ ride north of Waterdeep. About 600 folk call Amphail home (850, if the population of outlying farms is included). Most are humans, but there are half-elves and a smattering of dwarves and halflings.
Amphail is named for one of Waterdeep’s early warlords, Amphail the Just, who had estates here. Though all traces of his keep are long gone, it is said that Amphail still rides the area in spirit form, frightening away trolls and hostile barbarians. In all seasons except deep winter, the village is patrolled by Waterdeep from an outpost in Rassalantar.
Amphail is ruled by a Lord Warder who swears fealty to Waterdeep. In return, the City of Splendors provides military strength, a Warder’s purse of 600 gp quarterly, and many orders for fresh mounts from local horse breeders, notably the Selember ranch.
Amphail is a quiet but beautiful place. By night or in a snowstorm, the traveler can mark it by the thick stands of dark duskwood and spruce trees that cluster along the road. This farming village is pleasant to the eyes of all. In hot summer weather, though, it is only pleasant to the noses of those who like horse manure. The folk of Amphail are famous for breeding and training horses. They have traditionally equipped the noble families and armies of Waterdeep and the armies of Neverwinter, as well as merchants and satraps of Amn and Calimshan. Fine horses are plentiful here.
However, those thinking to just ride off on some are warned that the Roaringhorn family maintains a patrol of 12 skilled knights to deal with horse thieves. This patrol is guided by the scrying of six youthful Roaringhorn sorceresses who dwell on the family farm. These young ladies often show up in the saddles of pegasi, wands at the ready, if the patrol runs into monsters or thieves using magic.
Amphail grays are famous across Faerûn as intelligent, loyal, and hardy personal mounts, but most soldiers prefer the larger, more powerful glossy black chargers bred in Amphail. Amphail is a small but prosperous place, the sort of town a hurried traveler can ride through without noticing much of interest, thereby missing a great deal.
Amphail covers hill after hill of rolling farm fields, but the settlement itself is quite small. The town is centered on an open space where the side streets meet the Long Road. This space is known as the Malanderways. It took its name from a butcher shop owned by the family Malander that used to stand on the corner. Sadly, the shop was destroyed by fire about a decade ago.
This open space is overlooked by a black stone statue of the Great Shalarn, a famous war stallion bred in Amphail 39 winters ago. Gelded long ago by a prankster, the rearing horse image is often painted various hues by high-spirited locals. There is a local rule that allows children to use slings, flung stones, or hand crossbows to bring down birds perching on the statue, so it remains free of the usual bird-droppings. The children often climb it themselves, and perch precariously in the high, tilted saddle, waving their arms and commanding imaginary armies into battle.
Local lore holds that if the grim, ghostly figure of the ranger Yarobyn Longarm, a long-ago hero of Amphail, is ever seen in the saddle, war will soon come to the town.
For a local spot of interest, you might try the Horse Pond. It’s a placid, muddy home to frogs and water-lilies, and it is said to hide the underwater entrance to a tomb.
Local lore tells of the Maiden King, a female human chieftain who ruled here an age ago. According to the tale, she sleeps forever on a stone bed, with a magical two-handed sword on her breast. Adventurers have entered the pool several times looking for her sunken tomb, and at least one band did not return. Some years ago, a number of undead skeletons emerged from the pond and stalked through the village, strangling several folk before the beasts were hacked apart. The truth about what lies in the depths of the pond remains to be revealed. However, it is used daily, without incident, to water dirty, thirsty horses.
There’s also the Old Dead Rowan, a leafless tree whose trunk is as large as some cottages. Its forked top serves the locals as a lookout to the north. The tree is a popular meeting place for locals, who sit on plank benches under its bare boughs and smoke pipes, sip cider, play at dice, or just chat. Legend says that a sorceress of great power is buried under its roots, and her power keeps the tree from rotting. Supposedly, this power sometimes heals sick folk who sleep atop the trunk’s fork. Locals swear that they’ve seen it happen.
Local law dictates that anyone caught chopping at the tree will receive the same number of axe blows that the culprit dealt it.
At the north end of the village stands the burned ruin of the Laughing Bandit Inn. It was destroyed in a wild spell battle three winters ago.
The battle was between a mysterious masked mage whose skin was inkblack (some folk believe he was a drow) and the wizard Thalagh Tarn of Tethyr who was blasted to bloodspray. It’s not clear if the other mage escaped the inferno of the inn. Many, many bones, cracked by the heat, were found in the ashes.
As the owner died in the conflagration, there is no great interest in rebuilding. Local children love to play in the ruins, where many"jools" of melted, puddled glass can be found. Somewhere under the charred timbers lie the inn’s cellars, which may still contain some valuables. There’s no way to get down there without doing a lot of digging that would have to be done in full view of the children and anyone passing on the road. To the north is a disused temple to Waukeen. It is rapidly becoming overgrown with ivy and creeping vines.