The Charm of Concord

533MoChCo

In the bustling market town of Ashford-on-Weir, the party weave their way through crowded streets, noisy markets, and quiet alleys on their journey to the Eyeless Spire, the city’s arcane hub. Whispers pass from lip to lip of strange behaviour among the familiars and trained magical beasts belonging to the local academy and the many magically adept folk within the city walls.

Cats vanish into thin air for hours, only to return with fur matted from river water or streaked with mud. Owls deliver messages to the wrong recipients and stare, unblinking, towards the moon regardless of the hour. Even at the arcane academy, the Headmaster’s prized hawk refuses to return to its perch, stealing food from market stalls in full view of baffled merchants.

As the party cross the town square, a black raven wearing a worn leather satchel swoops down, tilting its head in a quizzical manner. In a rasping, intelligent voice, it pleads for their help, though its speech seems strained, as if something is trying to stop it. “The Charm of Concord,” it croaks. “Talisman… magical bond… beasts and masters…” It struggles to finish the thought. “It has been stolen. Trail still fresh, make haste!”

The raven squawks, flapping aggressively in the adventurers’ faces before darting off toward the spire, its flight jerky and uncontrolled. The party had come to Ashford-on-Weir seeking work, having been told that a clerk at the Eyeless Spire required experienced adventurers. But now, they are left wondering if the raven’s words are connected—and where the day might lead.

Following the raven’s insistence that the trail is fresh, the party begin to notice more oddities: a two-headed monkey; clearly an aberration, squats in an alley, daubing arcane sigils in what they hope is mud. Massive draft beasts refuse to pull carts, lying stubbornly in the street until provoked, at which point they lash out violently before abruptly calming, resuming their work under the watchful eyes of anxious handlers.

At the edge of the market, just before the Eyeless Spire comes into view, strange pawprints, claw marks, and scraps of parchment lead into a narrow alley. The shadows seem to move with several small creatures, unseen but watching.

And at the market’s edge before they walked into the area round the Eyeless Spire, there were strange pawprints, claw marks, and scraps of parchment that lead into a narrow alley where the party could sense several small creatures moving in the shadows, unseen but watching.

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The Harvest Moon Festival

532MoHaMo

The soft hum of lanterns being painted drifted through the still warm autumn air as the villagers gathered on the riverbank and celebrated. Every year the glow of the lanterns painted the sky like hundreds of stars lit just for those who released them but as the party watched upwards at the first sacred lanterns to be lit a collective gasp rocked the gathered crowds.

The party had been requested to come at the call of Mayor Talia Reed and with Elder Rinn nearby, the villages sage and a druid of notable power, they watched a guests in honour due to the deeds that they had some before. But tonight as the party watched as a bright orb shot across the sky like a falling star until it connected with a bright spark into one of the sacred silver lanterns. And as they watched with the collective silent horror from the crowds around them the carcase crashed into the rapids of the river below as its light could be seen coursing downstream and fast.

The ceremony and festival deemed over the people went back and a small group of the villagers went out to try and locate the downed lantern. But by morning they reported it had been carried down the river too far and had lost sight of it. Mayor Talia and Elder Rinn asked for the party to visit them for an opportunity, a chest of gold if they could recover the lantern.

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Funeral Procession

531MoFuPr

The streets of Cleveral stood hushed beneath a veil of mourning. Silks of blue and gold fluttered from archways and balconies, colours sacred to the gods that had twice blessed Carlo Cleardraw. The city’s grand procession moved slowly through the cobbled main avenue, lined with citizens who whispered prayers and scattered petals as the coffin passed. It was a solemn tribute to a man thought larger than life; a blade against darkness, a symbol of divine favour and a voice of the people and all that was good in this world.

The party moved silently behind the casket, their heads bowed though their eyes watched everything. Each of them carried the weight of a shared past with Carlo, and now, the crushing disbelief of his sudden death. The temple of Auronel stood at the end of the street, its spires carved with constellations and celestial script, glowing faintly in the twilight. The casket was to be laid before the altar of memory, blessed by the high priest, and finally sealed beneath the temple’s sanctified crypt.

Inside the temple, candlelight danced over polished stone and sacred relics. Only a chosen few were permitted entry, the party among them, alongside a handful of Carlo’s closest confidants and comrades from previous adventures. As the procession moved forward down the nave, the casket wobbled as the bearers grief echoed that of the populace of the holy city. The wobbling was slight at first until one of Carlo’s old companions faltered as they misjudged a a step, dropping their end of the weight with an audible cry of shock and horror. It struck the dais with a hollow thud. The lid split open to a chorus of alarm, fear and sorrow echoing out.

Gasps echoed off the temple walls, rising sharply as shadows peeled away to reveal an unbearable truth: the coffin was empty. Panic surged; a hush of reverence torn open into a cacophony of confusion and fear. The high priest of Auronel, silver-robed and wide-eyed, rushed forward. With a gesture and a sacred phrase, the temple doors slammed shut behind the gathered mourners, sealing the interior with divine command.

A murmur of enchantment suffused the room, binding secrecy to every tongue present and sealing away magic until the prayer was rescinded. The high priest raised his hands, voice trembling yet resolute, as he implored all those present, especially the party, to uncover the mystery. ‘Carlo would not fall to fang or flame,’ he said his soft and kind face looking between the coffin and those gathered – Carlo’s trusted few, ‘nor to illness, nor curse. No blade in this world could find his heart not even if he welcomed it. The gods that blessed him would not have it.’

The implications hung heavy in the charged stillness. Had Carlo truly died or had something older, stranger or twisted stolen his body before burial? If it were a deception, then for what purpose? If it were a theft… then by whom and for what purpose? The party glanced between one another, each wrestling with disbelief.

Whispers rose as the high priest lifted his staff, the head shaped in twin sigil’s, one for Auronel, god of grace and healing, the other for Vorthuun, deity of judgment and fire. These were the patrons who had marked Carlo Cleardraw in life. Twice-blessed, they called him, the champion of both mercy and wrath. To all gathered, his death should have been impossible. Yet here they stood without proof which or either way.

The priest turned slowly, his voice echoing across marble and stained glass. ‘Auronel does not abandon chosen souls to the silence of the void,’ he declared, ‘and Vorthuun suffers no theft of fate.’ That Carlo’s body was gone, vanished without trace was not merely sacrilege; it defied the edicts of two divine powers whose marks cannot be simply erased.

A subtle pressure filled the air, as if the temple itself recoiled from the implications. Golden light from the suspended sunstones overhead flickered, dimming as a breeze stirred though the sealed chamber, wind without source, whispering through robes and curls. It carried a voice, fractured and low. Not all heard it, but those attuned to the arcane felt it hum within their ribs. It was not grief that lingered here. It was contradiction.

The party moved closer to the casket. Some stared as though expecting Carlo to appear within it after all, as if the gods might rewind reality. But all that remained was a trace of ash and a single feather, luminous and pale blue. Not angelic, but deeply sacred, an echo of Auronel’s presence, known to manifest only at moments of ascension or divine refusal. It was not left casually.

A member of the casket bearers knelt, touching the feather, and for a breathless second, everyone felt the echo of Carlo’s voice. Not speech, not memory, but a feeling of unrest. He was not at peace. The high priest’s gaze sharpened. ‘This is not the end of Carlo Cleardraw,’ he said quietly with a sigh of relief which then turned dark as Vorthunn’s influence flickered like an ember. This sign was not as reassurance but as warning of the time ahead.

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Sunken Crops

530MoSuCr

The party could see the crowds and small tent-city that had sprung up just outside of Solbrook from the road. News and rumours had spread of the temple, or city, or something found buried beneath Solbrook rapidly and people had come for work, adventure and the chance to gain something.

Scholars had arrived in droves to look at the statue that was a hundred feet tall and unlike anything found to date. Workers had come to clean out the area and to make shelters, stores and more outside of the town to cope with the increase in people visiting the farming village. And lastly adventurers, much like the party themselves, had arrived with their senses of adventure and the prospect of wealth tantalisingly just at the end of a rope ladder beneath the surface of the crop of wheat that had been swallowed up.

The small village consisting of tent that sprung up near the sink hole had just about everything you could want. A series of tents in an enclosed wall operated like an Inn where the price to stay was cheap enough that anyone with coin could stay a few weeks easily. Tents filled with tables and laden with goods sold nearly anything an adventurer, scholar or worker could want or need when dealing with the sinkhole and beyond and there was even a gathering of tents that exclusively sold food and drink.

But the party were drawn to a large red tent, the Scholars had called for aid to push through the first door and beyond from seasoned adventurers as they believed they would need help. To answer the call would initially pay well and even beyond that they would likely have ongoing employment if they wished to help further – they just had to prove themselves useful to the scholars.

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Without a Trace

529MoWiTr

The party had spent most of the day travelling to the City of Miran to visit the Magus College. Having secured lodgings at the Little Bullette inn they braved the crowds of the streets and head towards the large building. The Magus College was more library than a place to learn magic however many famously strong mages who had made their name in adventuring parties called it home.

Managing to find the rhythm of moving through the crowded streets and avoiding pickpockets and dodgy merchants hawking wares that were nearly good enough to pass off as quality products they found themselves at the large darksteel metal gates. There was significantly less people here and the only people walking around seemed to be guards or small groups consisting of armed warriors and a mage. Considering this was a hub for people like them who were trying to find information to aid them in their job or quest.

However, there was a distinct anxious energy through the air and as they walked through the guards watched them suspiciously as they entered the door that led into the library. Entering the small entrance hall there was a few people ahead of them. A tiefling just in front of them watched them approach as he held the handle of a small blade which had a simple loop of leather for its sheath. The blade faintly glowed green as it lay in its sheath while he looked around his comrade, a human woman dressed in chainmail, spoke in quiet whispers to the man behind the desk who returned the hushed whispers back causing the tiefling to roll his eyes.

‘Sal, I’ll be looking for the book. Don’t take too long.’ the tiefling said as he walked off. The human woman waved in recognition of her companion.

‘Yeah. I’ll be there in a sec, I just have an important piece of information to get,’ she added. ‘now when do you get off work?’

After the man behind the counter grinned goofily and told the warrior when he finished work the warrior walked off in search of his companion. As the party stood in front of the love-eyed receptionist a cry of anguish and pain echoed out from the left. Their question forgotten the party raced towards the noise along with dozens of other adventurers and guards and came across the woman from a few moments ago kneeling in front of a lifeless body.

The tiefling from before lay lifeless, contorted on his back with his blade a few feet away but out of his reach. As the guards came through and made way the party were shoved to the side nearest the dagger. As they moved around the blade careful not to nudge or disturb the scene they noticed that the blade has stopped shining closest to the mage in a near-perfect straight line where the magic seemed to no longer glow from the side of the dagger closest to the mage.

‘Not again. Right who found the body and why were you not with them?’ a stern looking man with a bristly moustache said looking around. ‘I assume you are this mages companion?’ he said towards the visibly distraught human.

‘I was not long after them. A few moments is all. He has always been impatient but I didn’t think it would cost him his life.’ she replied.

‘Not when there’s something killing mages on the lose in the city…’ one of the other guards added before his face turned grim. ‘So did anyone see or notice anything unusual?’ the man said looking towards the group of people that had gathered at the scene.

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Cold Contract

528MoCoCo

The upbeat merry song that caused the patrons at the Silver Ring Tavern to dance and sing along to the rather trashy and raunchy song continued to play as meals were brought out, tankards were brokered and the patrons not dancing engaged in games of chance. A gathering of well dressed men had taken over the largest booth near the back door and were spending gold seemingly as fast as they could while barmen and barmaids rushed back and forth with more ale, wine and food.

The song came to the end and the sound of applause and merriment rang out. This had been the norm at the Silver Ring Tavern from the party’s experience as they sat and enjoyed a few hours of joviality and good food while preparing for the next leg of their journey by cart and wagon. The sound of a door slamming open heralded the end to the good mood as half a dozen broad, angry dwarves pushed in. Each of them had the same tattoos on their right hand that marked them as the Trusted Axe Cartel – a group of merchants and well known smiths.

‘Where the bloody hell is the bastards?’ a young fiery dwarf called out causing the last moments of merriment to stop completely. ‘Where is Jeb and that long eared elf Tarnius or the pricks who sold them shite gear?’

When those in question didn’t come forth the dwarves started to walk amongst the tavern looking for them. The oldest dwarf, much less angry and more solemn limped up towards the barkeep and placed a bag of coin on the bar before whispering some hushed words. Soon one of the dwarves were at the party’s table and was looking them up as she was about to ask them some questions when the angry one from before roared out. ‘Who was sitting ere’?’

The corner where the well dressed, and wealthy, men and women were sitting lay vacant with a dusting of snow from the door that had not yet melted from the warmth of the hearth. ‘You adventurers don’t know anything about a group of merchants do ye?’ the woman asked them. She was much more calm talking than her counterpart who had now left the building to check outside with two of his companions.

‘Ye see we had a contract with Jeb and Tarnius to provide weapons, gear and armour to them for their guild for the next year – it is an ongoing contract and so the goods have been taken but the payment was to be in full once we provided the last of the kit. But we got a messenger this morn’ who came with the contract cancelled claiming that the merchandise delivered was trash. Upon inspecting what arrived at our doors it was not even dwarven make – no dwarf would ever sell what lay in the back of that wagon.’ there was a proud fire behind her steely eyes and soon the old dwarf had come to the same table followed by half a dozen tankards of ale. \

‘Well met travellers. Don’t be alarmed as we know who you are. Fil,’ he flicked a thumb at the barkeep, ‘he recommended you may be able to help if you have the time. He remembers seeing the group at the table spending big and harassing his boys and girls but he is not in a position to do anything about it. I am Garmanel, the leader of the Trusted Axe Cartel and this is Gondanel my ward. I have a proposition if you would share a tankard with me and listen to what I have to say. My grandson Garabek is the fiery one who you met before, he is intense like the forge but you won’t meet another as proud or skilled with hammer and tong. Or axe for that matter.’ he paused with a grin.

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