Deep within the winding canyons and claustrophobic tunnels of the Mountains of Triz, there lurks a name spoken with hushed awe and wary respect: Gurdalk’s Gang.
More than a nomadic goblin tribe, they are a legend etched in blood, brass, and clever cruelty. Feared by merchants, whispered about by guides, and studied (fruitlessly) by tactical scholars, Gurdalk’s Gang are masters of guerrilla warfare and theatrical engineering, turning the treacherous mountain range into a living trap.
Unlike ordinary bandits who steal and flee, Gurdalk’s Gang performs.
Their traps are not merely effective—they’re artful, expressive, and maddeningly unpredictable. A collapsing bridge may drop a caravan into a pit, only for a timed illusion to make the survivors believe they’ve landed safely—right before the real trap springs. Gold coins dangle like bait from tripwires. Arrows are sometimes replaced with whispering darts that sow panic and confusion rather than death.
Travellers have reported:
The terrifying part? No one ever sees the same trap twice. The gang never reuses designs. Each ambush is a bespoke experience.
Unlike most raiders, Gurdalk’s Gang doesn’t hoard. Instead, they leave treasure behind—shiny coins balanced on ropes, ornate lockboxes sitting atop unstable platforms, jewel-encrusted helmets placed just beyond a safe ledge.
To touch one is to gamble your life. Some traps are real. Some are fake. Some are both. Entire warbands have vanished chasing a single glittering lure.
As the saying in Triz Valley goes:
“If the treasure’s smiling at you, Gurdalk’s already laughing.”
Now that’s the question.
Stories conflict wildly:
The gang still operates, more active than ever. Traps grow more complex, tactics more brutal. Some speculate a successor, a collective, or even that Gurdalk’s traps have become self-aware—carrying on his legacy long after his death.
To the folk of Triz Valley, Gurdalk’s Gang is more than a danger—they are an unpredictable force of nature. Every missing caravan, every unnerved survivor, every guide that turns back early is linked to them, whether proven or not.
A few shops sell "anti-Gurdalk talismans"—feathers, mirrored charms, boots with reversed soles—but most are useless, and their sellers long since robbed.
Rumour has it the Flatstone family once tried to buy the gang off. Whatever happened, they never tried again.
What little is known of the gang’s internal structure comes from graffiti and intercepted notes—etched in smoke-ink or smeared in phosphorescent paste. These cryptic messages suggest a strange form of honour:
Some view the Gang not as criminals, but as artists—twisted architects painting fear across the mountainside.
Guides who’ve lived long enough to whisper advice will often say:
“If the rocks laugh, run. If the gold winks, pray. If the air smells sweet, it’s poison.”
And if someone asks whether Gurdalk’s Gang still rules the high passes?
The only proper answer is:
“You’ll know if they don’t.”