#2: Aryen's Hope

Weary from our endeavors in the High Forest and our encounter with the rotting wolf, we are glad to have been accepted into Aryen’s Hope.  Its tall wooden palisade and many bonfires give us comfort, and it is good indeed to hear voices and be among men and women again.

Iphan and those under his command are welcoming, and after a brief respite, he comes looking for news—and we are eager to share.  We make brief introductions before I ask if other visitors preceded our arrival, survivors from the wagon bound for Aryen’s Hope.  He informs us, sadly, that no others have arrived, and explains that he seldom knows details of shipments from Pelanor.  Deliveries, however, have been more or less regular, and he and the other villagers had begun, as had Sere, to worry that the time elapsed since the last delivery was sign of some problem or danger in the forest.

We share our tale, explaining how we found the wagon and its goods more or less intact, though we only found one of the guards slain among the wreckage; we had hopes that others may have made their way to Aryen’s Hope.  We show him the weapons we salvaged from the wagon, and he says that he can dispatch a team in the morning to seek out the remaining supplies.

After some conversation, Iphan leads us to the tent of a young woman, wearing what looks to be priestly robes.  She is introduced as Janna, the “Arm of the Morninglord,” and shares that she might be able to tend my wounds.  We exchange greetings warmly.  “It would please me much to receive such care.”  Her powers bring great relief, nearly completely stitching the ragged wound that Ged had done his best to poultice.  When finished, Ged steps forward to speak to Janna, asking if she has become aware of any “unholiness on the wind.”  He shares details of our encounter with the wolf, and with the queer witch we witnessed in Pelanor.

She seems concerned at our recounting of the encounter with the undead wolf, though knows little of such things.  Of the witch, however, she seems to know more, informing us that she is known to offer her “prayers” for coin or other favors, though doubts whether her abilities are of truly divine origin.  Though unsure of the nature of any abilities she may possess, she doesn’t consider her a malevolent force, merely a questionable one.

Our conversation is interrupted by calls from the northernmost border of Aryen’s Hope.  “The lights have returned!” is the cry, and a small gathering of people heads towards the ridge.  There is no wall here, the steep slope and jagged ridges providing adequate security.  Peering into the darkness, we’re surprised by the view—indeed, were it light, we could see for miles.  In the distance are small, flickering lights, though it’s impossible to discern any detail as they could be as far as a day’s travel from the camp.

“We’ve been seeing this for the last few nights,” says one of the residents of Aryen’s Hope.

“There’s something out there,” interrupts another.  It is clearly a source of great curiosity and some concern.

“Have the lights moved or come any closer?” I ask.  They shake their heads, indicating they have not.  Khadhras, standing nearby, peers carefully into the night, hoping to see details that may have eluded me, but seems disappointed in his efforts.

After initial excitement over the far-off lights fades, we excuse ourselves to discuss potential plans.  Escorting Iphan’s men back to the wagon seems like a convenient way to make our presence and purpose in the camp felt, and the following morning we seek out Iphan to inform him of our plans.

I let him know that I am greatly improved due to Janna’s ministrations, and that we are ready to assist Iphan and Aryen’s Hope in whatever way we may.  He relates tales of other recent troubles, chief among them the queer lights at night and a feral bear encountered to the northeast that mauled one of the residents, a ranger, and killed another—seemingly without cause.

Knowing how the wagon and its contents were left, we explain to Iphan that it might be of help for us to accompany his team, if nothing else to provide protection and to confirm that the belongings have not been disturbed.  Ged also points out that there are missing members of the caravan, and that a larger group might have better hopes of finding them.

We are introduced to a scrawny looking man, a teamster named Lenk.  There are two others with him, and their job is to handle the beast of burden and to repair the wagon if needed while we act as guard.  They carry bows and swords as well, which we are glad to see.  As we leave Aryen’s Hope and begin our trek, we explain the goods that we hope to find, the condition of the wagon, and answer any other questions they might have.  Our confidence this morning is high.

Our return to the wagon is much easier than our trip the previous night.  Tired, dark, wounded, burdened by the goods we hoped to salvage—indeed, our return trip is almost pleasant in comparison.  That is, of course, until we hear a rustling in the brush ahead, when our romp through the High Forest is brought to an abrupt halt.

In Bungo’s absence, I offer to scout ahead and investigate, but Ged suggests that perhaps we toss a rock instead.  Khadhras slings a stone into the underbrush, eliciting an entirely human shout of surprise or pain.

“Come out,” I command, shouting ahead, “and with your arms to the sky.”  A man emerges from the wood, following our instructions, and Ged begins to question him.

“I was on my way from Pelanor to Aryen’s Hope when I was attacked,” he explains, and Ged presses for more information without sharing what we already know in case this is some bandit or trap.  His answers seem reasonable, though—he describes the cart, the donkey and his companion.

“Who sent you from Pelanor?” Ged asks.

“Sere, the field marshal,” is his reply.  “And my father, Kayd.”

There is a mutual sense of relief as we invite him to join us.  He explains that he fell and injured his leg during the attack on the wagon, and that nearly a full day passed before he came to and could start to try and find his way to Aryen’s Hope.  His wounds are mostly superficial, dehydration being the greatest danger, though he seems both able and willing to accompany us in our quest, glad to have stumbled into us.

“Lord Iphan will probably want to speak with you,” Lenk injects, a clear sign that we should not tarry and be on our way.

“What actually attacked the wagon?” I ask, realizing we hadn’t broached the topic.  Kayd’s son, who is also named Kayd, explains that the wagon was overturned rather suddenly and without warning, unsure whether it was because of the terrain or some other force.  He remembers his companion shouting about wolves, they both ran, and that’s the last thing he remembers.

We provide Kayd the Younger what food and water we have to spare as we continue along the trail.  After the initial excitement and dialogue, we fall once again into a tense silence.

“What happened to the man I was with?” Kayd asks, his voice shaky as he realizes that we’re getting closer to the wagon.

Lacking nuance, Khadhras and I explain in rather blunt terms.  “He was killed, mauled by wolves.”  Blood drains from Kayd’s face.

Before long, we return to the site of the attack, and see the wagon ahead.  The stench of carrion persists, assuredly that of the corpse we left undisturbed.  The wagon remains overturned, supplies strewn about, and as far as we can tell, things are more or less as we left them.  We instruct Kayd to remain close to Lenk and his team, so as not to stumble upon the corpse of his friend in the forest nearby.

The crew heads forward to inspect the wagon, the glade eerily quiet.  Thankfully, there are no signs of threat.  Lenk asks for help in turning the wagon right, and with our combined efforts, we’re able to complete the task easily.  The wagon is, unfortunately, damaged and needs repair, so we make plans to watch over the area while they go about their work.

Khadhras proves a surprisingly able assistant, having some knowledge of engineering and the mechanics of such vehicles, and together they are able to expedite the repairs.  “We’re ready to return,” Lenk announces, asking if we have any further business.

Ged wants to check the body one last time, which seems to remind Kayd of his companion.  He asks, his voice shaking again, “We’re going to take him with us, right?”

I elbow Ged, asking him under my breath to say something about disease, but Ged has the situation well in hand, explaining that it’s impossible.  Ged heads over on his own, finding much what he expects—a three-day old, decayed body, rotting and surrounded by flies.  Having found nothing otherwise out of the ordinary, we depart and make our way back to Aryen’s Hope.

Once again we are reminded how different and difficult the conditions of our first trip were—the return trip to Aryen’s Hope is easy, and before long we are greeted by the gate guards, then by Iphan himself.  We linger to overhear Iphan’s conversation with Kayd—it doesn’t seem as if they know one another. 

That evening, we find time to speak with Iphan privately, explaining our intentions to help Aryen’s Hope, and indicating that salvaging the wagon was an effort done in good faith to show him our talents and prove that we’re honorable.  Iphan seems amenable to the arrangement, explaining that he could perhaps put us on a stipend to work directly for the camp, or pursue other agreements that would allow us more flexibility.

Unwilling and unwanting to give such control over our actions to anyone, Ged speaks for our group.  “If you have special needs, if you have something interesting for us and are willing to compensate us for our efforts, we are your men…but we are no one’s man.”

He seems to understand our intentions and is satisfied with Ged’s reply.  He explains that the ridge to the north and the mysterious lights are of special interest to him, enough to warrant a reward of 50 gold pieces for each of us if we can return with news of any potential threat.  We negotiate to include mundane supplies as part of the deal—rations, ammunition, and the like—as long as we’re working on behalf of the camp, he agrees to see that we’re well supplied.

Khadhras asks if there are any who know the territory, and we are introduced to Ureth, who was the man mauled by the bear.  Ureth is of an age with Ged, with shaved head and graying beard, and comes across as gruff but knowledgeable.  He explains that there are game trails that cross the territory and informs us of the various forms of natural predator that we should keep an eye out for.

“What special precautions can we take at night to avoid unwanted encounters with these predators?” I ask.  He shares that fire is both friend and foe—while it will keep away most natural predators, it also risks drawing the attention of any intelligent denizens of the wood.

“Don’t make assumptions about the natural wildlife,” he says grimly, fingering the scars on his face and neck.  “Something had that bear on edge like I’ve not seen before.”

With something on my mind, I ask to the group to humor me as we track down Janna.  Having told her of the undead wolf that attacked us, I say that I’ve heard tales that priests are possessed of the power to make water holy that it might be used against such foes, should we encounter them again in the wood.  “And are you possessed of such power?” I ask her directly.

She admits that she knows of the craft, though has not conducted it herself.  Knowing of Ged’s devotion to Shaundakul, she offers that the two of them might be able to accomplish the task together.  After giving it some thought, Ged agrees to lend his divine services to the effort.  The following morning, they disappear into Janna’s tent.  We wait outside but soon become bored as the minutes and hours pass. 

Meanwhile, Khadhras seeks out anyone possessed of arcane knowledge in Aryen’s Hope, though is disappointed in his efforts.  I do my best to assist with mundane tasks about the camp to pass the time, but make no meaningful contacts.

We are rewarded for their efforts, however, and Janna presents us with three vials of holy water with the warning that she can’t be completely sure that it will be effective.  Thankful nonetheless, we take the vials and store them away against future danger.

Ged looks to the skies, informing us that the weather should be relatively clear and cooperative in the coming days, so we make preparations to depart the following morning.

The beginning of our journey proves difficult—the ridge is complicated to navigate, so our going is slow.  There’s a light rain early in the morning and a chill rides the early spring wind—otherwise, though, conditions are reasonably good.  Getting lost in the wilderness is a real fear—fortunately, Ged has some skill in keeping us pointed in the right direction, and landmarks are plentiful enough that we are confident we can find our way.

Despite our best intentions and Ged’s skills however, we find ourselves on a meandering path through the woods that inevitably leads us back to the River Delimbiyr.  Fortunately, we find no sign of threat, natural or otherwise, and by the time we’ve passed our midday meal, we find what seems to be a good trail and follow it into the afternoon.

As with our trip to the wagon, we hear rustling in the brush ahead and come to an abrupt stop.  And as we did before, Khadhras launches a stone into the brush, though no further sound or movement is elicited by the action.  The woods are thick, and our path leads us right towards the source of the sound.

Swapping out my bow for my sword and shield, I decide to head forward cautiously.  Before I do, however, Ged stops me and works through a prayer, bestowing a blessing of Shaundakul upon us.  I don’t make it more than a few yards before a large black shape emerges from the brush—a black bear, standing on its hind legs and growling.  It is clearly disturbed by our presence.

I know little of such beasts, but having seen Ureth’s scars, I want nothing to do with a conflict.  I throw my shield over a shoulder and start digging in my pack with the intention of throwing rations towards it.   If it reacts naturally and investigates the food, we intend to escape towards the river.  If not, we ready ourselves to brace for combat.

It takes a few steps towards us as I hold out an armful of rations, hurling them as far as I can.  There’s a moment of apparent mental anguish or confusion as the bear stops to sniff the air.  Confronted by its options, it nonetheless ignores the food and closes most of the distance between us, it’s violent intents clear.

I stare down the bear—it stares down me—and I take off into the forest towards the river, away from the bear and the thrown rations.  I’m hopeful that it chooses food over a chase.  Khadhras and Ged move to follow.  Luckily, we seize initiative and the brush proves more an obstacle to the bear than a hindrance to us, and we are able to outrun the creature.

We keep up a rapid pace until we come either to the game trail once again or the river, stopping periodically to listen for sounds of a bear crashing through woods behind us.  We are hopeful we have left the threat behind.  We slow our pace to a more cautious speed so that we can have better awareness of our surroundings, and hear nothing of our would-be foe.

We manage to cover quite a distance over the course of the day as the sun begins to set.  Before it gets too dark, I look for a tree with limbs that look like they might support my weight to try and gain better vantage.  I find one and easily ascend to the lower branches where I am afforded a clearer view.  I’m not able to clearly make out the ridge, our destination, but I can make out where the land rises, and we determine that to be our best direction come the morning.

We camp with our backs to the river, building a bonfire for warmth.  We split into watches, and fortunately encounter no threat in the night.

The following morning, we discover several small game trails that head in what is seemingly the correct direction.  Most of the morning passes as we stalk quietly through the High Forest, and eventually are rewarded with a slight incline.  At midday, we find ourselves ascending a small ledge or ridge, and ahead we catch sight of an armored man with a bow.  It seems as if we caught sight of him as he us, and for the moment, his weapon remains at rest.

Keeping my bow out but not drawn, Ged raises a hand in greeting—the man returns the gesture.  We decide to approach slowly, Ged keeping his hand raised as a sign of trust.  We approach within a dozen yards, seeing no one else as we ascend towards him.

Ged makes a brief introduction, even going so far as to share news of the bear.  The conversation is one-sided, the man listening as Ged speaks.  The man is thin, athletic, and has the appearance of a woodsman.

When he finally replies, it’s in a language completely incomprehensible to us.  I slowly shoulder my bow, and from my pouch I withdraw a chunk of chalk.  On a nearby stone, I draw an exaggerated, angry bear, muttering the word to look for some recognition.

He replies with a different word, but otherwise seems unimpressed with my drawing.  The man tries uttering words in other languages, some of them seemingly a trade tongue, and we get the impression that he’s trying to express a single word—“lost”.

I draw a crude house and bonfire, pointing back towards Aryen’s Hope and in the other direction, my best guess towards the ridge where we seek the lights.  He either doesn’t understand or is unaware, instead seeming to communicate that he requires our help—or that he has friends that may need it.

We do our best to introduce ourselves by name, asking him what his name may be.  He replies, “Ailthar.”  Again using the chalk, I draw a figure and ask to the best of my knowledge how many others may seek our help.  He indicates that there are two others, and Ged asks their names.

“Ailthar, Pyr, Talas.”  We sense no duplicity in the man and are faced with a decision.  He points in the direction we were headed anyway, so our course seems easy to determine.  He leads the way up the ledge, and we follow behind.

As we walk, he keeps talking in a broken form of the common tongue, almost as if sharing a story.  We catch a few words in the otherwise unintelligible language—chief among them “Silvanus”, whom Ged knows to be a deity of nature.  We reach the summit of the ascent, and get the sense that there may be additional people ahead.  He holds his hands up as if we should stop, and gestures ahead of us as if communicating with others before beckoning us forward slowly.

Two figures emerge from the brush, one man and one woman—and both bear horrible scarring.  Half of the skin on the woman’s face is blackened as if burned or rotted, and one of her hands bears the same.  The man also has hideous visible scars, though neither seem as if they are in great pain.

“Help,” Ged says, pointing towards the woman’s scarring.  “Silvanus,” he says, hoping to make it clear that he wants to examine their scars so that he might ascertain their source.

The man points to himself, making a gesture with his hands reminiscent of a prayer.  He holds them towards the woman’s face, trying to convey something that we don’t fully understand.  Looking about, we see the remnants of numerous bonfires—and we realize that these are likely the source of the lights seen from a distance in Aryen’s Hope.

Whoever they may be, and whatever the cause of their scars, we have nonetheless completed part of our mission.  We are rewarded, however, with more questions than answers.

XP awards for session 1

Here are XP awards for the inaugural session, since Bungo may be taking some time off and I’d like to ensure we have a clean division.

• Slaying the undead wolf - 100
• Story award for sending news back to Pelanor - 1,000

Initial party totals are as follows:

• Khadhras - 275
• Phelan - 275
• Ged - 303
• Bungo - 303

The sidebar is updated accordingly. Please keep in mind that these awards, while small, are only for one session, wherein much time was spent on introductions.

#1: Stirrings

Throughout history, the Greypeaks have been home to all manner of creatures—goblinoids, orcs, giants and worse.  And throughout history, these creatures have struck out against encroaching towns and villages; sometimes these attacks are repelled, and the creatures sent back to their mountain lairs.  Sometimes, however, these onslaughts are successful and villagers are forced to either uproot and seek sanctuary elsewhere or die by the fangs, claws and swords of those that would do them harm.  The High Forest is littered with the remains of such battles, the soil fertilized by the blood of man, skeletons of abandoned huts and houses overgrown and consumed by the waxing and waning borders of the High Forest. 

The bustling camps, homesteads and buildings of Pelanor form one such village, and it is here where our tale begins.  Pelanor is not large enough to demand a proper inn—we are given area in the common mustering grounds east of the village where we can set up our tents and build our fires.  There are perhaps a dozen other tents, though not all are currently occupied—most are used by transients passing through, mostly tradesmen and travelers. 

As we arrive in Pelanor, the environment is tense with rumors of evil humanoids and creatures seen along forest paths or viewed from afar in the mountains, and the remote villages along the River Delimbiyr have become relatively crowded by the comings and goings of those seeking fame, wealth, and adventure.  We are one such band, and as I look to my companions, I am hopeful that we will make a reputation for ourselves in this harsh, unforgiving land.

Ged of Arabel is a priest, a Windwalker in service of his god Shaundakul.  He is the seniormost member of our company, older than me or Khadhras by nearly a decade.  More so than fame or wealth, this wandering priest seeks converts among the rough folk of the Delimbiyr Vale and seems most comfortable when out under the open skies.

Bungo Proudfoot is a halfling whose skill and agility belies his short, pudgy frame.  He is accompanied by his faithful hound, Furryfeet.  Little more is known of this halfling or his past, but I’d wager that we’ve run in similar circles.

Contrary to Ged, who seems at home in the wilderness, Khadhras is a traveling wizard and academic who appears completely out of his element.  Similar in age to me, he is well learned in the arcane arts and a historian of some sort, knowledgeable of the High Forest and its history.  Such knowledge and power could prove invaluable as we enter uncharted lands.

Our goal is to push through to the forest camp of Aryen’s Hope, established a year past, which lies a hard day’s travel through forest and hilly terrain north of Pelanor, along the River Delimbiyr.  The trails leading from Pelanor are rough, though should be easy for us to follow as long as we keep the river within earshot to our west.  The leader of Aryen’s Hope bears the title Lord Forester, and it is he with whom we seek audience.  Trade and travel through this dangerous terrain demands guardians with special skills, and we intend to perhaps apply ourselves profitably to such efforts.

Our preparations for camp are interrupted as Bungo tugs at my arm, pointing to a curious exchange occurring amid the village.  A tall, aging man stands near a bedraggled woman in filthy robes.  He passes something to her with a few words, perhaps a coin, and we watch as she draws a small knife and runs it across the flesh of her arm.  It has the trappings of some kind of occult ritual, and we look to Ged for enlightenment.  Ged shakes his head though, unfamiliar with rite—it is likely either a local custom, or something completely foreign to his knowledge.  Khadhras mutters something about “a backwards custom of an uncivilized village.”  The man takes his leave, and we return to our duties.

I ask those in the mustering grounds if other bands of adventurers or soldiers have been through Pelanor, either heading towards Aryen’s Hope or back from it.  A tanner is willing to share words with us, recognizing that we are new.  He shares the recent village news that a supply cart was sent north to the forest camp several days ago with two armed guards, and no one has yet returned.  This is longer than typical for traffic between the settlements, considering that there are no known human settlements beyond, and concern is rising.

As we are finishing our preparations, we witness a pair approaching our small camp with purpose.  We recognize one of them as the man from the ritual—he wears a broadsword at his hip, perhaps nearing fifty, though otherwise dressed in plainclothes.  His companion is a female, garbed in a suit of chain and armed, younger than the man—perhaps soon encroaching on middle age.  She carries herself with the air of confidence of an experienced warrior.

The woman introduces herself as Sere, field marshal of Pelanor.  The position is nominally in charge of security and safety of Pelanor, and her companion is Kayd, the village horsemaster.  We can tell that they are interested in hearing our business in town and they welcome us.  She reiterates the tanner’s news of the lost supply cart and asks if we might return word of any findings.  “The village would be in your debt,” she explains.

Speaking for the group, Bungo says that we will do our best.  With our destination obvious, I ask if there are any other services we can provide, perhaps other goods to deliver.

“One of the men guarding the supply cart was my son,” the older man reveals, “and I would like to see him returned to safety.”  The cart was carrying tools, dry goods, rations and a small assortment of arms.  We empathize with him, and with that knowledge, we convene as a group to discuss our plans.

Ged asks if there is anything we should be aware of, knowing the forest and region to be dangerous.  Sere explains that nothing outside of the ordinary has been reported.  “There are always going to be dangers,” she replies, but has no specific leads.

I ask if they would send a runner with us—we’re not likely to turn back if we find something just to report news, so having a runner seems a smart course of action.  She is amenable to the plan.  When asked about compensation for our efforts, the man steps forward.

“You may come and go as you please through our village,” he explains.  “We ask nothing of those passing through, and grant shelter and what services we can.  If you return my son safely, you will always have a place at my table.”  It seems reasonable given the meager wealth of this small village.

Reading the skies, Ged informs us that the weather ahead will be clear.  With that in mind, we agree to the terms of the arrangement, and we alert Sere that we intend to leave the next morning.  “Well met,” she agrees, and thanks us before turning away with Kayd to return to Pelanor.

* * *

We awaken early the next morning and head towards the northern edge of the village.  There waiting is Sere, accompanied by a younger man, perhaps three years my junior.  He is outfitted with a small blade on his hip and some ill-fitting leather armor.  He is introduced as Nulwen—he knows the paths near Pelanor and is knowledgeable of the forest but obviously green when it comes to combat.  She trusts our judgment in directing Nulwen and seeing to his well-being.  “We will take good care of him,” I tell her. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he chides Sere sheepishly.  She wishes us well, and we head north from the village towards Aryen’s Hope.  As the sun rises, we pass through the outlying farmsteads quietly, hugging the River Delimbiyr as we travel throughout the morning.  As we approach midday, the woods become thicker and the path more treacherous—the rising sun becomes obscured by the dense tree cover.  The difficulty of traversing this path with a small cart or wagon becomes apparent, and we keep a careful eye for any signs of recent passage, Ged surveying the path carefully at varying intervals.  Nulwen proves an able companion, if a bit shy in our presence.

I take point as we travel, with Khadhras and Nulwen behind me.  Ged follows them, and Bungo with brave Furryfeet guards our rear.  All is well until we descend a small, tree-covered hill.  Ahead, we see an overturned cart with a mule standing peacefully nearby, tail swatting at flies.  We’re not close enough to make out much more detail from this distance.  Bungo and I take point, relying on Furryfeet’s keen senses to alert us of any danger, and the others follow several paces behind.

The cart is tipped on its side, one of its wheels entangled in some large tree roots that cross the broken path.  Supplies are strewn about, racks of tools and small barrels.  Furryfeet’s ears lie back as the scent of death wafts towards us, and ahead we see a bloated body covered in flies.  Bungo & Furryfeet approach the corpse as I watch over the area—scavengers have done their work on the decaying body, but it does appear as if the skin is torn by claw or blade.  We call the rest of the group forward, asking if Nulwen can identify the body of the deceased as Kayd’s son.

Nulwen pales at the sight of the corpse.  “No,” he replies.  “It’s not his son, but the second guard.”  It doesn’t look like the goods or rations have been picked over, nor any of the weapons.  The mule, largely oblivious to our presence, is still bound to the cart and is wobbly with fatigue or malnourishment.  It looks like it has been stuck in the same spot for days.  Khadhras moves forward to cut the mule loose and care for it, trying to give it food and water from the mess of supplies available.

While he does, I scan the area for any signs of prints, especially any leading away from the cart towards Aryen’s Hope but am disappointed to find no discernable tracks.  As we are perhaps halfway or more to our destination, there’s as good a chance as any that any survivors may have continued ahead.

Ged speaks with Nulwen about returning to Pelanor, and Nulwen responds that he will do as we ask.  As he can likely make it out of the forest before nightfall, we decide to send him back to Pelanor with news of the cart and the corpse, in the case that Sere desires to reclaim the goods.  Nulwen pauses to express that he doesn’t have any news of Kayd’s son.

“Kayd’s son is secondary to the news that the cart has been found and one of its guards slain,” I explain.  “We will continue our search and send what news we can.”  He nods, and we send him on his way.

I take a few minutes to bind some of the weapons found, bows and swords, knowing their value and not wanting them to fall into the wrong hands.  Others do the same, and we decide to press on, wanting to arrive at Aryen’s Hope before nightfall.

Our pace is slowed somewhat by our burdens and by the mule, which Khadhras has seemingly adopted.  The forest feels like it’s getting darker as the afternoon wanes, but after several hours alone, we can’t help but jump at shadows and personify what’s likely the natural occurrence of the setting sun.  We trudge on until suddenly Furryfeet stands rigid, hackles raised, and even the mule seems to sense something unnatural, and I start to regret dismissing the darkening wood.

Bungo slips into some nearby brush while the rest of us form a circle, standing silently as we wait for any sign of threat.  Furryfeet seems focused on one of our flanks towards a nearby ridge, and in the shadows we see the silhouette of a large four-legged creature, perhaps the size of a wolf, that moves with an unnatural gait or limp.  I raise my bow, knowing of no benevolent creature that fits such a description.  Before firing, I send a questioning gaze to the others in the group, but Khadhras shakes his head.

He begins to chant, his hands making the complicated gestures of an enchantment as we wait patiently.  The air fills with the scent of ozone as he finishes the spell, but it seemingly has no effect.  Not wanting to let it approach, Bungo and I loose a pair of arrows, each one finding their mark.  The creature lets out no sound, neither cry nor growl—only the dull thud of arrows striking their target.  It begins to approach in earnest, silhouette more clearly now that of a wolf, as Bungo and I send another pair of arrows over the creature, missing their mark.  The others brace for its attack.

I put myself in the path of the creature as it rushes forward, Bungo letting loose another arrow and Khadhras slinging a heavy stone which crunches into the creature.  As it pierces the shadows of the forest, charging towards us, we see that one of its front legs is hanging impossibly by a few lengths of tendon, the bone shattered.  Its hide is ragged from open and decaying wounds, and there is an odor of death not dissimilar to the corpse we found at the cart, its eye sockets empty, but jaws full of sharp, gnashing teeth.

I swing out wildly with my sword but miss as it bears down on me, jaws tearing through flesh and armor as it nearly brings me down.  Ged flails at it with his mace, unable to land a telling blow.  Desperate to escape lest I suffer another attack, I spin around and bring my sword level, cleaving the creature in two, cutting through spine, hide and flesh to spill its guts on the forest floor.

Mule Lives Matter

While the others scan for other threats, Ged rushes forward to tend my wound, offering some slight relief.  The creature is a true horror, having defied a normal death, and lest there be other creatures like it in the shadows of the forest, we decide to continue hastily on.  There is some discussion over whether to leave the mule and what supplies we have gathered behind, but deciding their value outweighs the danger posed, we press on with our burden.

Eager to put the horror of the encounter behind us, we move as quickly as seems safe, eating our evening meal on our feet so as not to lose any more time.  The welcome sound of the Delimbiyr gives us comfort that we are still on the correct path, but the remaining sun quickly fades and before long, we are forced to pull out supplemental light sources.  Ged, calling upon Shaundakul, conjures a globe of divine light.  Perhaps by virtue of the light or even the presence of Ged’s deity, the forest seems less shadowed than before, and once again we can hear the natural sounds of the forest.

After an hour, the light from Ged’s spell fades and I pull out a torch and strike a small flame.  It is then, however, that we notice the scent of a campfire on the wind, though no light from such a fire is visible through the dense forest cover.  Bungo examines the nearby trees, choosing one to scale up nimbly, hoping that the increased height will grant him a vantage we are denied.

Over the next ridge, Bungo sees what appears to be a roaring bonfire behind a wooden palisade.  Having no reason to doubt that this is Aryen’s Hope, we press on as quickly as the light from my torch allows.  We discover the ridge that Bungo spotted and ascend, and once atop it we are able to discern multiple bonfires, tents, and lean-tos, and can hear the sound of voices and activity from within the walls.

We approach and hail those that guard the palisade, and are granted access to our destination.  A dark-haired and bearded man approaches us, sword at his hip and bow slung across his back.  He introduces himself as Iphan, Lord Forester.  We exchange his greeting eagerly, glad to be behind the walls of Aryen’s Hope.

Map of the High Forest and surrounds

Map of the High Forest and surrounding major settlements south and west, including Waterdeep and the High Moor. The village of Pelanor and forest camp known as Aryen's Hope are located seventy-five miles northeast of Loudwater, along the River Delimbiyr, roughly fifteen miles apart.

Click to enlarge

The Silver Prayer

The wahn lowered her head and bowed, the dregs of her cloak seeping into pools of filth-ridden water run off from the lone dirt road through the village of Pelanor. The man standing before her, sinewy and tall, with copper locks graying from the toil of almost fifty winters, brushed his rough hand past the hilt of the broadsword dangling at his hip to retrieve a threadbare pouch fastened around his waist. From it he produced a tarnished silver coin, its edges corroded and uneven.

He placed it in the woman’s open palm, the long strands of her dark, unkempt hair swaying in the subtle wind that breathed through the village like a hymn. She closed a fist of yellowed fingernails around the offering.

“A prayer for my son, departed into the forest, four days past,” the man uttered lowly, so that no one else around them could hear.

The wahn withdrew a small knife and raised the sleeve from the hand that held the coin, revealing a forearm raw with fresh scabbing and undercoated with old, deep scars. She slowly drew the blade across flesh, whispering words in a language he could not understand while blood trickled down to mix with the stagnant puddles where she stood.

“Llathlu blesses your son’s return,” she replied in a soft voice. “The Pale Hand guides him safely to the forest camp, so long as he remains in the Divine’s true path.”

“Thank ye, maiden,” he answered quietly, taking a step backward, his gaze drawn to the cowled woman’s rose-colored lips as she began to raise her eyes.

He turned and made quickly for the street, ere she pocketed the coin as crimson wept into the folds of her robe.

Looking ahead, and final XP totals for the Khedrun Valley

First-level characters. 0 XP. With as few as four meager hit points.

A single, well-placed hit could kill a party member outright. Zeb and Audric have become the stuff of legends. Level 6 may not have felt so high before, but now...

It may be hard to emotionally invest in these PCs, before any sessions have been played. I don’t expect anyone to. It takes time. Effort. Luck.

Survival.

But, for those who reach 2nd, 3rd level, and beyond... the attachment will start to form. The work you’ve put in will matter. The story will matter. The characters will matter. Taking a night off from being on your game will mean risking the loss of everything. Most of us have been there, know what it’s like. Every decision is important. Don’t hinge it all on a roll of the dice.

Read this post.

...and have fun. May it be a truly epic ride.

* * *

With all that said, I’ll soon retire the previous campaign’s XP totals from the sidebar. Here they are, one last time, for posterity:

• Vonn - 13,088
• Audric - 34,389
• Zeb - 3,000/56,869
• Selben (h) - 18,451
• Lom (h) - 10,730
• Zargon (d) - 14,789

Game on!

Map of PCs in the Forgotten Realms

I know I always kick around the idea of starting a new, homebrew setting, then keep coming back to FR anyway. While I have a lot of ideas for a custom world that I hope to eventually use, it's tough to start over when I have so much D&D history tied up in Faerûn. How much, exactly? Well...

Here's a map of every character played in campaigns I've run in the Realms (with close-ups of various sections), dating back to 2004. Each campaign is depicted in a separate color which shows (roughly) the region(s) it encompassed. This is pretty crazy to look at, all laid out at once.

The Sword Coast North and the Western Heartlands

Cormanthor and the Moonsea

The Vilhon Reach

Rashemen

Full map (attribution)

This doesn't even include my favorite FR campaign I've played in, a game run by Jason over twenty years ago. I thought about adding Cadazcar and Erik Estrada, but I don't know their geography perfectly, and I had to draw the line somewhere.

In addition to the visuals, a few fun facts:

• Total number of characters played: 52
• Total number of players: 15
• Most characters played by the same player: 7
• PC descendants of other characters: 2
• Total character deaths: 9 (seven in the last five years...)

Will this be the last new Realms game before I finally switch?

The Darkness Borne: Prologue

Born to winter’s clutches on a mountain in Icewind Dale,

Raised by wolves of the Beastlord in the vestiges of spring,

Perished on a hillside in the death throes of summer,

And on the first night of winter, reborn.

—Black-Blooded Fables

* * *

The Year of the Scowling Duchess (774 DR)

The High Forest

The raven-haired woman walked lithely amid the ruins, her dusk cloak flowing in ashen waves behind her supple form. Fetishes of feather, gutstring, and bone adorned her body, a chill wind severing the air through which she trod.

She had walked here before, lifetimes ago, had seen a city erected on this site and, years later, reduced to the wreckage that now remained. She had watched its founders traverse the Black Glade, had spoken with he who wrought the city’s ultimate destruction. Even now, as trespassers lurked across these wicked grounds, his essence loomed: unseen, undetected, unknown.

Not unlike her own.

Keravela was the name by which she was recognized, though the true origin of her people transcended continents, worlds, even time itself. Before her eyes would close for the final time, she would bear witness to hundreds of thousands more sunsets across countless planes of existence, to her mere doorways unveiled at the will of the gods.

Scant few could fathom the magnitude of her bloodline. Defier of ages. Defier of death.

That the men and women who traipsed hither and about thought this place a suitable refuge from the forest was a great irony indeed, she mused, watching the unassuming mortals with an idle curiosity. How frivolous it must feel to labor through their menial tasks and dealings, oblivious to the fell shadows that, even now, had begun to eclipse their diverging paths.

For calls to the darkness rarely remained unheeded.

* * *

The Year of the Groaning Cart (1267 DR)

Xantharl’s Keep

The boy rose to his feet, blood from his opened wrist streaming down his crossguard. The injury was superficial, would heal. He snapped back at his attacker, tasting a salty mix of sweat and grime. The ringing of steel echoed across the grounds as blades danced and clashed.

The sparring went on for quarter of a bell, until finally the two combatants lowered their arms, exhausted. A lone man stood in audience, hitherto silent, but watching, ever watching. He nodded his approval, gaze fixed on the dusty-haired boy whose sword hand still bled freely.

“A valiant effort, one to make your father proud. Your fathers, both,” he amended, regarding the second. “Go and clean yourselves, lest your mothers worry overmuch.”

The pair collected their halters and waterskins and tarried off. “Well fought, brother. Ye almost bested me,” said the bloodied boy, markedly. His smoke-gray eyes narrowed. “Almost.”

* * *

The Year of the Blade (1275 DR)

Delimbiyr Vale

Only by understanding the past can we hope to endure the future.

The words, scrawled on a weathered sheet of parchment stowed away somewhere in his pack, resounded in Phelan’s mind as he surveyed the roadside battleground.

A caravan had been set upon here, less than a fortnight past. More than a score men, women, and children, rich and poor, master and servant alike, had been ravaged and slain. Remnants of blood-stained clothing, pikes, and arrow shafts yet littered the site, the victims’ bodies having already been claimed, if not by passersby, then scavengers.

Phelan had studied the history of this land, knew well the cycles by which the road through Delimbiyr Vale, near the outskirts of the High Forest, grew more treacherous as denizens of the Greypeak Mountains pushed their way through the woodlands from the east, much like the waxing of the moon itself.

Some years hence, the evil tide would abate once more, but not without the help of those fearless, or foolish enough to counter its advance. And, this time, Phelan and his new companions would find themselves among the worthy or misguided, as they made their way over the southern foothills to the forest camp known as Aryen’s Hope.

As the reddened sun began to set over the trail to his back, he felt a subtle twinge of pain from a scar above his wrist.

Should we talk about the weather?

I wrote this post before we played the last session. Seems a shame not to publish it, even though things took an unexpected turn.

This is an awesome book. I recently dug out my copy to help preparing for sessions again:

AD&D Wilderness Survival Guide

While technically a 1e resource, much of the content in the WSG is edition-agnostic... not to mention that many of the bits that aren’t, like encumbrance, are direct predecessors to out-of-the-box rules in 2e. All in all, the WSG provides tons mechanical depth to the perils and nuances of overland adventuring. This is the stuff that turns drab, handwavy periods of travel into immersive, challenging, and memorable game experiences.

Some of the rules dealing with things like being under- or overdressed in extreme temperatures, though useful, are only occasionally relevant, but the weather system presented in the WSG is pretty much always of benefit. Without going into detail on how exactly it works, here’s a look at the weather forecast I used it to predetermine for session #45. This is based on both the general climate (the Frozenfar is considered subarctic), terrain (hills surrounding the mine, forest surrounding Fireshear itself), and time of year (late summer into early fall):

• Day 1: 50 degrees Fahrenheit (high) to 30 degrees Fahrenheit (low); no wind or precipitation. Even during the ninth month of the year, we’re hitting a point below freezing at night. This is something the miners didn’t have to deal with in midsummer; the party, however, finds itself in a situation where at least one campfire is needed, heightening the chances of being noticed from afar (though it’s pretty likely that any local denizens already know they’re here).
• Day 2: 60º F high, 40º F low; no wind and trace levels of rain. With the brief cold spell passing, a more comfortable temperature sets in, though overnight campfires are still desirable for optimal sleep. Small amounts of rain are at worst a nuisance, barely worth mentioning.
• Day 3: 65º F high, 45º F low; light breeze and slightly more rainfall. On the third day, the temperature rises a bit more, but this is offset by more substantial rain with wind. Characters may be less than comfortable if traveling back to Fireshear, or inclined to take shelter within the cave if still working at the mine.
• Day 4: 60º F high, 40º F low; moderate wind. Temperatures remain reasonably comfortable, but the wind is enough to disrupt missile fire at anything but close range (i.e., penalties to attack rolls will be assessed, based on distance).
• Day 5: 35º F high, 15º F low; heavy winds and moderate precipitation... that means SNOW! The first snowfall of the season occurs on an uncharacteristically cold day. Such are the risks of adventuring in the Frozenfar, even at the onset of autumn. If the party is travelling this day, they’ll need to find ways to stay warm and protected from the elements.
• Day 6: 50º F high, 30º F low; moderate rain. The flash snowstorm abates as temperatures rise back toward the seasonal norm. Flurries turn to rain, creating slippery and treacherous travelling conditions in the hills outside Fireshear. Hopefully the party is safely back home by this point.

This is as far out as I calculated the weather for this session, but it’s easy to see how, depending on timing, the party’s return journey to Fireshear could be impacted. Precipitation is also of particular importance as it relates to the ecosystem of the mountain cave: rainwater flows into the base of the chasm from outside, replacing the stagnant water and washing away rot.

While I’ve always taken weather into account throughout the campaign, the party’s arrival in the Frozenfar escalated the need to track it more closely. The PCs did ride through a snowstorm between Griffon’s Nest and Longsaddle, but that was during the dead of winter, further south. Hopefully this provides some insight on what they can expect in the weeks to come...

Awakenings

I stare at Audric blankly, still unable to vocalize anything meaningful, my head still reeling.  Closing my eyes for what seems like an eternity, I try to clear my mind, to grasp and come to terms with the sheer enormity of my return from death, I struggle vainly to purge the echoes of Bonie’s final whispered words.

When I finally reopen my eyes, Audric is in a trance of his own, his mouth moving slowly as if in conversation, or perhaps communion with his own god.  After several long moments, Audric steps forward and embraces me, giving voice to what feels like a farewell.

Throughout the embrace, I find myself paralyzed.  Not a paralysis like that of the ghasts that slew us, but a complete paralysis of mind, body, emotion.  When Audric finally releases his hold, it takes all the strength I have not to collapse instantly.

Unable to return Audric’s embrace, indeed unable to even give voice to any meaningful words in reply to the warrior’s farewell, I simply stare, numb.

Obvious questions spring to mind.  Who is Audric speaking to?  Where does he think he’s going?  But these thoughts flee before I can even attempt to comprehend.

And then, after one final parting quip, Audric turns his back one last time and fades away, dissipating slowly.

Where the hell am I?

I am…alone.

The significance of that thought strikes me like a battering ram. 

Unable to bear the terrible consequences of the decisions I have made, I collapse.  I try to let loose a roar of anger, but it instead comes out as a wail of helplessness and remorse.  My grief is staggering and threatens to overwhelm.  Black spots appear behind my eyes as the pressure in my head grows to the point of danger, and I nearly swoon.  My eyes redden and swell as my tear ducts empty, my voice is ravaged by screams of torment, which eventually fade into soundless cries of self-pity.  I am broken.

I am…alone.  Not just Audric, my companion and brother in arms, but Nerrick and Lom, Vonn and Selben.  Bonie and…and…my unborn child.  Once again, grief threatens to overwhelm.

Malar has abandoned me, or I Malar—and no presence now fills that void.  No patron will arrive to carry me away like Mystra did Audric.  For me, there is no peace.

I draw my knife from a rotted sheath at my side, its blade pitted with rust, the edge dulled from age.  I entertain thoughts of a second death, of spilling my guts once again on this cavern floor.  There are no more tears, no more cries, as there is nothing else left to give.  All is lost.  My death is all that awaits.  I am too broken, too tired, too weak to complete the deed, to end my own life.  I fail at even that task, and collapse in fatigue.

Several hours pass before I awaken.  The glowing orb remains, casting a dim light in the cavern.  The knife is still in my hand.  I am still…alone.

It takes several minutes to shake the cloudiness from my head, and to suppress the emptiness that once again threatens to seize my soul.  In defiance of these thoughts, I try to give voice to words, but no sound escapes my ragged throat.

Malar, I forsake you.

I have wasted countless years in pursuit of blood to slake your endless thirst.  I have slain beast and men to appease your bloodlust.  And despite that, I was outcast.

I killed those you sent to hunt me, that bastard Korvich and the beast Carcerus, thinking it a test.  But I see now that it was fear that drove you.  Fear that I would expose your false virtues, fear that I would cause those to question before spilling blood needlessly.

You cannot abandon me, for I had already abandoned you.

I wince, expecting to be struck down for my blasphemy, expecting to be overtaken by emptiness and lack of purpose…but no lightning or plague manifests, and I find comfort in embracing the void where Malar’s anger and lust for the kill once lived.

I look down at the blade in my hand, ashamed of the thought of killing myself.  Ashamed of the thought of abandoning those I love, and those that love me in return.  Ashamed of giving in to weakness.

When I was cast out from the beast cults, my situation was no different.  I was allowed only this same knife so that I could defend myself…not against the wild, but to make of me a “fair kill” for those “brothers” who would seek to hunt me down.  They are all dead now, some of them by this very blade…but I persist.

“Nobanion.”  The word is foreign to my lips, nearly inaudible as it escapes my raspy throat.

I know very little of you, and I am best known by my actions.  One of your faithful, the druid Maglarosh, was slain by my former brethren, and I placed his frailness at your feet, castigating you for the virtues you extol.  Virtues that I thought pointless, frivolous, weak.

I was wrong.

It is these very virtues—community, compassion, dignity—that I have come to know and understand by my actions.  I was not alone in this realization—I had excellent exemplars, chief among them Audric, the steadfast warrior of Mystra.  Zargon, brave bard of Mirabar.  The many men and women of Carrock, of Dagger’s Deep.  The daring captain and crew of Moonmaiden.  Bonie, the love of my life.

Guide me to my loved ones, in this life or the next, and in exchange I grant you all that I am.  I will do all that you require, for as long as it takes.  My blade, my being, my soul are yours, Nobanion, Firemane.  Allow me to prove myself to you.

Slowly, I clamber to my feet, still alone…but coming to terms with that reality.

Audric.  You always bore as a burden the torment of others in addition to your own.  You were a great companion, and a greater friend.  I hope you have finally found peace, brother.

Leaving all else behind, I walk to the edge of the cave, peering down at the black water below and the ledge that I know to reside in the shadows above.  Gripping the knife between my teeth, tasting its iron, I swim to the far side of the cavern.  Reaching out in the darkness for handholds in the cavern wall, I begin my dangerous ascent, my awakening, my rebirth.

No, there is no eternal peace for me, Audric.  For there is yet work to be done.

Everlasting Peace

The last thing that Audric saw was a small black ball of fur hissing at the creatures before everything went black. He rises with no pain, as if waking from a restful sleep, and stretches. Even the ever present pains that magical healing could not rid him of are gone. He looks around and, recognizing the location, dread fills his heart. He silently looks around for a few timeless minutes with Zeb, before shrugging. As he stands there, a light appears, unwavering, unlike a torch or fire. It grows until it envelops the man.

“Hello, my child.” The words are in his mind, but he understands them at once. “You have done well. You were a good servant, and have made me proud.” At this statement, Audric realizes who is speaking in his head. He falls to his knees. Many times he sought the words of Mystra, but she had always been silent.

Audric involuntarily twists the ring he still wears, a habit that has grown since the battle in Malchor’s tower. “Yes,” the voice says, “destroying the ring was your purpose, but also so much more.”

“Bu.. Bu… but…” Audric stammers, unable to fully form a sentence.

“You do not need to know and understand all, only that you have succeeded in the tasks I set for you. Now that your tasks are complete, I have one final gift to bestow upon you, but first I sense your thoughts on your friends. Rest assured that they are fine.” All at once several images flash into the priest’s mind. Almost too quick to grasp.

...A man stalking a deer. Next he is bringing it back to a settlement. He dines with a woman with loose blonde hair. They both have the respect of the people around them...

...An older man in robes, surrounded by ancient tomes. He is engrossed in one such book, an ink smudge on his cheek goes unnoticed...

...A man singing a song to a woman in an unnamed bar. It takes Audric a moment to recognize “Ode to Laerch”...

...A young man walking into a settlement. A short time later, an older man and woman rush to him, hugging him. A son returning home...

Audric blinks away the visions, or perhaps memories. He notices Lume sitting beside him, also engulfed in the light. “What is this, five?” The words seem to come from the light. Lume issues a gentle meow. “Four, my mistake. Well, another awaits. Safe travels little one.” Lume steps through a tiny portal that seems to have appeared out of nowhere, and is gone as soon as the cat is through.

“It is time, child.” Audric feels another presence beside him. He turns and instantly recognizes his wife. “Nicola!” he gasps. He enfolds the woman in his arms for several long moments. “I thought I would never see you again.” He kisses her softly, before just staring at her, drinking in the sight of her.

“I would not put you through so much, without giving you eternal peace. Now, though, it is time to depart.”

Audric takes a step forward, before pausing. He turns back to Zeb, who is still standing there. Audric does not know if Zeb realizes what is happening, but he walks back to the man, embracing him. “Thank you my friend—no, my brother. You taught me so much, and were there when I needed you the most. You lived a troubled life, and I hope that I was able to help bring you the peace I know you were seeking. I’m sorry my foolhardiness brought it to this, though. You deserved so much better. I hope you find your peace in an eternal hunt with Malar.” He goes back to his wife and takes her hand, “I’m ready.”

As Audric fades away, he turns again to Zeb for parting words. “Be careful on your eternal hunt, brother.” Then remembering the words that Zeb spoke in Carrock and thought Audric did not hear, the priest grins widely. “Careful, I hear there’s bears in the woods.”

Epilogue

The procession through Fireshear’s north gate was silent, unchecked by guards.

Bonie walked with a heavy limp, for two days having refused Vicus’ offer of letting the supply cart relieve her burden. Her right leg had been shorn open from hip to knee after slipping on a foothold making the climb down into the chasm after Zeb, Audric, and Nerrick failed to return. Near the bottom, with a flickering torch in hand, she discovered all that she needed to see.

Her memories of the hours since were tattered, strands of a broken web. Lying sleepless in blood-soaked bandages; the proffering of a bone fetish from a slender hand; high winds and a flash snowstorm battering weary travelers on their descent along a mountain trail.

The remaining party numbered seven: Bonie, Lom, Arcon and Raganok Tunterhorn, and engineers Vicus, Tirynia, and Smedlock, along with their mule and cart. Selben had slipped away into the forest a few miles outside the city. Vonn Wintershade had gone missing shortly thereafter.

Lom imparted that he would seek Revenant, bearing the news of their return. The Tunterhorns saw Bonie safely to Moonmaiden, then took their leave in search of Captain Azurris. Alone, Bonie trudged into the party’s quarter. The beds were unmade, untouched since the morning of the group’s departure for the mine. She collapsed upon the plank floor, clutching a trembling palm over her abdomen.

* * *

In the Captain’s Quarter aboard Moonmaiden, Shantor Ilfaen regarded Dame Azurris with a dour expression. “With Audric and Zeb gone, how fares your planning?”

The captain eyed the walls of the chamber with suspicion, as if scouring them for invisible, unwanted ears. “They were paramount to the endeavor. Honorable, staunch allies, greatly skilled in magic. Qualities not easily found... nor replaced.”

“And of the girl? She’s not eaten in days. Will you speak to her?”

“Aye. Though to what end, I know not. If our intended journey was foolhardy before, it’s naught but a death wish now. Still, I see in her... my daughter.”

The captain lowered his gaze, raised a closed fist to his lips and kissed an iron ring adorning its smallest finger. “Angeline.”

“I take my leave of you, Captain,” said the lieutenant, turning for the door.

“We must set sail,” Azurris answered. “No matter the circumstances.”

* * *

Lom watched from the bow of the merchant ship Vainweather as Moonmaiden’s newly-repaired third mast disappeared over the horizon, still docked in Fireshear’s harbor. If all went according to plan, Captain Azurris would see the vessel launched within a fortnight, embarking on an ambitious journey from which he and his stalwart crew would be unlikely to ever return.

By that time, Lom and Bonie will have safely put into port in Neverwinter, ahead of the winter snows.

The woman at his side was frail, docile, and barely spoke. Gaunt from malnourishment, Lom couldn’t bear to see her left to her own devices, nor could he abandon her in Fireshear whilst signing himself onto a reckless voyage across the Trackless Sea. Azurris had been disappointed, but understood: the collective loss borne by the party cut deep, would change all their lives forever. The captain knew well the shackles of grief.

Bonie lurched forward suddenly, stumbling to the bow’s rail and spewing bile over its edge. Lom reached out and collected her supple body. Shaking, her eyes fluttered, then closed. She crumpled into his arms, unconscious.

* * *

The deadfall around them instilled a preternatural sense of calm as they made their march over frozen earth, along the lightly-beaten trail that forked to the northeast near the site that would come to be known as Minstrel’s Glade. Bonie stepped lithely despite the extra weight she now carried, which had required her to relinquish her trademark dark leathers for a loose-fitting kirtle and woolen traveling cloak. Lom traipsed steadily several paces ahead, the ranger forging their path over familiar ground. Whilst the pair had conversed little in the aftermath of their departure from Fireshear, an unspoken bond had brooded between them, at least insofar as their present course was concerned.

The year had come to a close quickly; Bonie could recall few details of the months past, and fewer still that she cared to recount. The summer voyage christened Mirabar Run seemed an old relic of a forgotten life, and in many ways, it was. She dwelt not upon such things, however, for doing so ushered forth a torment too harrowing to be permitted to draw breath.

As they crested a final hillock, a crenellated tower came into view, and beyond it, a river. Along its banks was pitched a scattering of tents and cottages amid life-giving bonfires and a retinue of would-be villagers. A single word burgeoned its way to the forefront of the woman’s thoughts.

Home.

* * *

1256 DR (The Year of the Dusty Throne)

The cold night festered, and Bonie once again found sleep elusive. She emerged from the tent shared with Odesia and Young Laerch, taking special care not to disturb the latter, and made her way across the grounds, wrapping herself in thick furs. Atop a small ridge stood her quarry: a shrine constructed from worked stone and branches, bearing intricate carvings, symbols of beast, magic, and claw. The site had been well-tended in the party’s absence, and better still since her return. Bonie looked upon its etchings and adornments with a piercing stare.

“How could you!” she screamed, sweeping a booted foot in a high arc and pummeling the sacred structure, scattering its plumage on the snow-covered ground. Losing her balance, she landed firmly on her back, eliciting a deep groan. “How could you leave me, Zeb?” she sobbed, warm tears streaming in rivulets down her frosted cheeks as pain from the fall coursed through her body. 

“How could you leave us?” she uttered, her voice barely a whisper, to the dead of night surrounding her. “I never had a chance to tell you.”

Darkness claimed her.

* * *

(Year unknown)

The vision of the woman lying prone and anguished next to the broken shrine of Mystra and Malar awakened him, awakened them both.

Bonie’s final words echoed in Zeb’s mind.

Audric was the first to stir, the crushing pain and sense of weightlessness dissipating as he rose. Wherever he stood was pitch black, though he could feel wet stone beneath his boots and detected the nearby presence of his companion. The horrific encounter with the undead creatures returned to his consciousness, but he noted that, despite feeling utterly disoriented, he bore no wounds. Strangely, he yawned, as if having just woken from a long sleep.

Zeb staggered to his knees, and the pair searched their collective belongings for a torch, finding that those they still possessed were too wet to carry a spark. Instinctively, Zeb entered a trance-like state for several minutes, and when he came to he conjured a magical orb of light, just above their heads.

They stood, alone, in the cave below the chasm. The putrid smell of rot and death was absent, as were any signs of Nerrick, or anyone else. Their weapons and armor were intact, though Audric’s splint mail was weighted down with algae-ridden water.

They regarded each other quizzically, trying to make sense of it all.

They discerned no answers.