The Familiar’s Favour

533SaFaFa

In the bustling market town of Ashford-on-Weir, where the arcane arts blend seamlessly with daily life, something has gone terribly wrong. Familiars and trained magical beasts; normally loyal and dependable, have begun to act strangely. Cats vanish only to return drenched in river water, owls deliver messages to the wrong people and stare at the moon in broad daylight, and draybeasts that haul goods refuse to move, lashing out at handlers before abruptly resuming their tasks. Whispers ripple through the streets as unease spreads, and soon the adventurers find themselves swept into a mystery far greater than they imagined.

Their first true encounter comes in the form of a raven named Sable. Burdened with a strange compulsion, it forces out broken words: “The Charm of Concord… stolen… trail fresh.” This talisman, they soon learn, binds master and familiar in harmony. Without it, the delicate magical balance between beast and mage begins to collapse. Drawn to the Eyeless Spire; the arcane heart of the city, the adventurers are brought before Aleris Quall, a half-elven clerk whose calm demeanour belies her deep worry. She confirms their suspicions: the Charm of Concord is gone, and her own apprentice, Yasil, vanished on his watch. Though suspicion falls squarely on him, Aleris admits something feels wrong. Yasil was no thief, yet the evidence points to betrayal.

Armed with a writ from the Spire, the adventurers begin their investigation. What they discover only deepens the mystery. Market beasts have run amok, their behaviour disturbingly purposeful rather than random. Entire flocks of ravens descend to snatch valuables in plain sight, while warding crystals, supposedly tamper-proof, lie shattered in courtyards where pawprints simply end as if the creatures disappeared into thin air. Rumours surface of Yasil walking calmly through the east gate with a fox at his side, one with three tails, its pale fur glowing faintly in the dawn light. Whatever has taken the Charm is no longer the work of a single apprentice. This is a theft carried out with precision, by creatures that should not be working together at all.

The trail leads to a forgotten courtyard, moss-clad and hushed, hidden between the looming Eyeless Spire and the old city wall. Here, among broken wards and a ruined reliquary, the truth is revealed. Familiars; creatures once thought bound to their masters’ wills, gather with uncanny coordination. A two-headed monkey clutches the Charm of Concord with delicate precision, while the pale fox and a murder of ravens guard its position with eerie purpose. Their eyes meet the adventurers’, not with animal instinct, but with intent. These creatures are no longer acting under human command; they are the orchestrators. The heist was theirs.

The implications are staggering. The magical bonds that have defined mage and familiar are breaking, or perhaps reshaping into something entirely new. Ashford-on-Weir teeters on the edge of chaos, for if familiars across the realm awaken to such independence, what role will their former masters play and who will hold the true power? The adventurers are faced not only with recovering the talisman but with confronting an unsettling truth: the creatures they once trusted as allies may no longer be willing to remain in that role.

What began as a simple theft is now a test of loyalty, a question of control, and a glimpse into a future where bonds of magic and trust may never be the same. The party must decide whether to reclaim the Charm, restore the old order, or risk allowing something altogether wilder and more dangerous to take root.

---

---

PDF adventure – The Familiar’s Favour

---

---

Where the River Watches

532SaWhRiWa

The Riverfall Harvest Festival began as it always had, with villagers gathering along the banks to paint lanterns with symbols of luck and abundance. The air was warm with autumn’s breath, and the sky bloomed with light as glowing orbs drifted upward like stars born of celebration. But this year, something went wrong. As the party stood beside Mayor Talia Reed and Elder Rinn, honoured guests for past deeds, a gasp rippled through the crowd. A sacred silver lantern, central to the ceremony, was struck mid-air by a blazing orb that tore across the sky like a falling star. It collided with a flash and plummeted into the river’s rapids, its light vanishing downstream. The festival ended not in joy but in silence. A search party scoured the river’s edge through the night, but by morning, the lantern was gone. Mayor Reed, pragmatic and concerned, summoned the adventurers again, this time with a promise of gold. Elder Rinn, heavy with old knowledge, warned that the lantern was no mere decoration. It carried a key bound to the river spirit itself, and if not recovered, the balance between tradition and nature could unravel.

Later, Elder Rinn stood over a recovered lantern, its frame still bound to the totem strings that had guided it home. His hands trembled as he traced its surface, revealing a silver feather that shimmered with moonlight. This relic, unlike the one lost to the river, held a feather rather than a key. Rinn explained that it was a tangible piece of the village’s pact with the river spirit, a bond outsiders could not fully grasp. Though the party had come to help, Rinn remained skeptical, warning that the river does not forget and that the fallen lantern was a sign of imbalance. As tensions rose, two children, Amal and Jessa, were seen eavesdropping before fleeing into the village. Mayor Reed revealed their tragic connection to the river, having lost their parents to its depths. She believed they still remembered, even if they could not understand the full truth. Rinn’s tone softened as he urged the party to recover the key before it fell into the wrong hands. The spirit, he warned, could restore what was lost, but at a terrible cost. Wishes twisted into shadows, and the river’s gifts came with a price. If the party truly wished to help, they must act not for reward but for the village’s survival.

At dawn, the party set out to investigate the lantern’s disappearance, beginning with Mayor Reed’s suggestion to find Amal and Jessa. Their search through Riverfall yielded nothing, and only after leaving the village did they encounter Jessa, battered and breathless, pointing silently toward the lake. She led them through treacherous terrain along the river, where villagers placed offerings into the water in solemn ritual. At the lake’s edge, Jessa collapsed from exhaustion but indicated a raft that had been dragged ashore. She gestured that something had gone wrong while she and Amal were on the lake. The party searched the area and found only one of Amal’s shoes, but just as they prepared to deliver the grim news, Amal emerged from the water, soaked and silent, holding a silver key wrapped in a reed. His voice was not his own, but something ancient and echoing. He repeated a chilling phrase about tribute and debt, and the river’s current began to reverse, flowing in the direction of his steps.

As Amal walked toward the village, nature itself seemed to recoil. Birds fell silent, a bear fled in fear, and the river followed him like a tide drawn to the moon. The party remembered Elder Rinn’s warning—the key was meant to seal a lock, not release it. When Amal entered Riverfall, the villagers froze. Rinn collapsed, pale and shaken, confirming what none dared speak. The river spirit had broken free and now walked among them. Word spread quickly as Amal wandered the outskirts of the village, the key clutched to his chest and moonlight glinting off his soaked clothes. The townsfolk began to fracture. Some whispered of sacrifices, others spoke of fleeing. And through the eyes of a lost boy, the river watched everything unfold.

Amal stood at the river’s edge, staring into its turbulent surface before turning to the party and his sister. He spoke only once, ‘The river awakes’, and the water fell silent. Moonlight shimmered across the surface like silver thread, and then the river bulged outward as if something immense stirred beneath. A low hum vibrated through the stones, resonating in the bones of those nearby like a primal warning. From the depths, a serpentine creature emerged, its snout rising ten feet above the surface, its body flowing like a living current. Scales shimmered in blues and silvers, casting shifting light across the riverbank. Its head was smooth and eyeless, reflecting the moonlight in swirling patterns, while glowing runes pulsed along its spine in rhythm with the night sky.

Water streamed from its form as it rose, towering above the party, cloaked in a sheen like sacred vestments. Mist curled from its breath, thick with the scent of stone and ancient offerings. The river followed its movements, drawn to it like a tide to the moon. In its presence, the world seemed to shrink, hushed beneath its gaze. It spoke not with words but with echoes and rumblings that filled the minds of nearby villagers, who began to repeat strange phrases. Amal echoed his earlier warning, but the message darkened. He spoke of tribute, of a debt to be paid in flesh and spirit, of the river’s hunger and freedom. It was not a threat but a promise, a force awakened by broken tradition. And as it loomed behind Amal, it watched the party, waiting.

---

---

PDF adventure – Where the River Watches

---

---

Cleardraw Conspiracy

531SaClCo

Through the twilight-shrouded streets of Cleveral, the city mourned beneath banners of sacred blue and gold, honoring Carlo Cleardraw, the twice-blessed hero thought to be unshakable. His funeral procession moved with solemn reverence, petals and prayers scattered for the man who had been a beacon against darkness and a voice of divine purpose. But as the procession reached the temple of Auronel and the coffin was placed at the altar, its lid split open after a bearer’s faltering grip, and the impossible was revealed. The coffin was empty.

Confusion and panic erupted within the temple’s sanctum as divine wards sealed the mourners inside. The high priest, stunned but steadfast, declared that Carlo’s death defied divine law; no illness nor blade should have taken him. Within the casket lay only a trace of ash and a pale blue feather, an echo of Auronel’s presence, sacred and ominous. Whispers stirred that Carlo had not died, but vanished through means older and stranger than death itself. In the feather’s glow and the priest’s trembling voice, the room breathed an unrest no prayer could soothe.

Within the temple’s quiet chambers, three casket bearers met with the party, worn from travel, heavy with memory. Tharen, the seasoned warrior, spoke of Carlo’s recent heroism; Brenna, the dwarf rogue, shared her sorrow at his unwavering belief in her. And Elaric, the older cleric, recounted a strange wound delivered in battle, one he had dismissed until now. Their recollections spiralled into guilt, suspecting that they should have seen the signs. But Elaric’s pious serenity began to crack, and the party felt unease settle like dust. Something in his tale did not align with Carlo’s fate.

That fracture split open when Brenna, consumed by fury, dragged Elaric before the group. She accused him of betrayal—that he had delivered Carlo into a trap masked as divine mandate. Elaric confessed to being manipulated by Imiriel’s high priests, who claimed Carlo’s blessings endangered cosmic balance. Twisting silence into duty, they had convinced him sacrifice was necessary. His remorse was deep, his gods distant, and his faith shaken. As Brenna hurled a prayer crystal and Carlo’s journal at his feet, Elaric’s grief turned to resolve.

The journal revealed Carlo’s final thoughts, a warning and a plea, hinting at knowledge beyond his fate. Elaric read the words and begged for redemption, offering to lead the party to Carlo’s prison beneath Imiriel’s church. A single feather descended as he knelt, a soft seal of divine acknowledgment, not of forgiveness, but of purpose yet unfulfilled. The party, raw from betrayal and aching with hope, chose action over doubt. Carlo’s story was not over.

Guided by Elaric, they found their way to the forgotten church, a place quiet in distance but thrumming with foul magic. Outside its sealed chamber, the air pulsed with corrupted essence. Elaric’s face twisted between fury and regret as he realized the depth of his error. With trembling hands, he pushed open the final door, and within, Carlo hung in cursed chains, his light siphoned, his soul endangered. The party had arrived at the brink, and their next steps would not be taken lightly.

---

---

PDF adventure – Cleardraw Conspiracy

---

---

The Hidden Well

530SuHiWe

From the dusty road into Solbrook, the party spotted a crowd and a rough tent city mushrooming out by the edge of the farmland. News had spread like wildfire, some ancient thing had been uncovered beneath the wheat fields and people swarmed in chasing coin, knowledge, or the thrill of something big. Scholars flocked in to gawk at a hundred-foot statue, unlike anything they’d seen before. Locals threw up shelters and ramshackle stores to handle the surge of visitors. And adventurers, much like the party themselves, arrived drawn by whispers of treasure dangling just below the surface.

The makeshift village around the sinkhole had just about everything a hopeful wanderer could want. A cluster of tents behind a fence acted as a cheap inn where even a few coins stretched far. Market stalls bustled with gear, rations, rope, parchment or anything you’d need for a delve into the unknown. And down one crowded lane, the party found themselves drawn to a big red tent pitched by the Scholars of Yole. They were calling in seasoned adventurers to crack the first sealed chamber. There was solid coin for stepping up, and talk of steady work for anyone who could prove they weren’t just swinging swords for show.

The interior of the large red tent was nothing short of chaos; towering shelves crammed with scrolls and trinkets doubled as walls, dividing beds for the Scholars of Yole. At the heart of it all sat a young dwarven man at a desk, briskly taking names and occupations before offering coin to would-be adventurers. He laid out the deal clearly: ten gold a day, more if blades clashed or bones broke, and a finders clause granting rights to any non-crucial relics uncovered during exploration. With the way in newly breached, the scholars were eager to hire seasoned help and the party had arrived right on cue.

Over the next two days, the party led the way as scouts, helping the scholars navigate the buried ruin’s booby-trapped halls and crumbling chambers. While the first room glittered with valuable relics, the deeper they ventured, the more decay and rot took hold, until they stumbled into a room that was strangely pristine. With no mould, no rust, and no dust, it stood in stark contrast to what came before. Then came another immaculate room, its trap already sprung yet untouched by time. Something wasn’t adding up, and the sense of unease began to gro.

After securing their modest haul and settling in for the night, the party was preparing for rest when alarms shattered the quiet. Sprinting toward the commotion, they found a crowd clustered around a fallen guard near the statue’s rope ladder. His body showed clear signs of burns and further evidence of scorched clothing and warped armour could easily be seen. Yet the cause of death was announced as drowning. A pool of strange liquid had spilled from his mouth, now carefully stored in a scholar’s vial. With no signs of an attacker, magical discharge, or nearby creature, the scene was deeply unsettling. Investigating the area, the party spotted scorched rope and another ominous pool of liquid at the base of the ruin’s entrance. Something had either fled inside or emerged unseen

The party, grim but resolute, returned to the spotless halls that had first stirred suspicion and began their search. A trail of liquid travelling through the halls seemingly the only thing that indicated anything that had passed through this area. These rooms, eerily untouched by the decay surrounding them, felt too perfect, too preserved. As they pushed deeper with a handful of scholars in tow, a soft dripping noise caught their attention. Heads tilted back just in time to witness a thick glob of jelly-like slime drop from above, splattering across their shoulders and arms. It burned as it touched skin, acidic and alive; A sudden, vicious contrast to the sterile quiet that had lulled them into a false sense of safety.

The party followed the halls and rooms and eventually stepped out from the polished hallways into the yawning mouth of a cavern that swallowed sound and light alike. Stone platforms jutted out over a lake of thick, light green liquid that shimmered like oil under torchlight, ripples pulsing from nowhere and yet everywhere. The air hung heavy with the scent of rust and something far older. At the far end, half-shrouded in steam rising from the lake, loomed a massive metallic figure; humanoid in shape, but twisted with wrongness. Pocked and scarred across its surface, it loomed still and watching, with metallic pseudopods frozen mid-reach from its torso, as if caught in the act of crawling free.

The adventurers crept forward, each step echoing off stone as they traversed across the slippery raised platforms. Below them, the water stirred; slow and deliberate, responding to their presence. The statue’s form appeared cast from once-polished metal, now streaked with the same green liquid that coated the cavern’s depths. Droplets slid down its face, giving the impression it was weeping, and under flickering torchlight, the tentacle-like appendages seemed to writhe. As they approached, the viscous water began to gather, slithering into itself, pooling and reshaping. Somewhere behind, a scholar whispered a prayer. Ahead, the silence fractured as water rushed and a creature coalesced, dripping from the statue in a perfect mimicry of its monstrous form.

---

---

PDF adventure – The Hidden Well

---

---

Derja’s Shadow

529SuDeSh

The party arrived in Miran after a long day of travel, drawn by the reputation of the Magus College. After settling in at the Little Bullette inn, they ventured through the crowded streets, weaving between busy merchants and wary pickpockets. The city pulsed with life, but also held an undercurrent of tension that grew stronger as they neared the College. Though famed for magical study, the institution resembled a sprawling library more than an academy, its towering halls sheltering knowledge as well as mystery. At the imposing darksteel gates, the bustle of the city faded, replaced by small groups of adventurers and watchful guards. It was clear that Miran had become a gathering point for those hunting answers, or hiding from danger.

Inside, the mood was heavier still. A tiefling mage and his companion, Sal, a battle-ready woman clad in chainmail, waited in line ahead of the party. After exchanging brief words, the tiefling departed down one hall in search of a book, leaving Sal chatting with the receptionist. Just minutes later, a cry of pain tore through the quiet, sending adventurers and guards racing toward the source. The party followed and found the tiefling’s body, lifeless, twisted unnaturally, and separated from his glowing dagger, which now flickered only halfway with fading magic. The guards arrived and began their questioning. Sal, shaken but composed, explained that she had only just separated from Tamiel. Yet the grim scene and anxious whispers confirmed a truth that weighed on all of them: something, or someone, was hunting mages in Miran.

When Sal regained her composure, she met with the party to explain Tamiel’s dagger and their purpose in the city. The blade, dimmed now, had been gifted by a nighthag and was said to hold protective enchantments. Tamiel had come to Miran determined to investigate the mage killings. Sal, skilled with steel, had intended to back him up. But while Tamiel searched for a particular book, Sal had been distracted, caught in conversation with the receptionist. Tamiel, proud and impatient, pressed on alone. He hated to be wrong and had rushed toward whatever clue he believed might solve the mystery. Sal blamed herself for not noticing sooner.

She described trying to reach Tamiel with their sending stones, but when there was no reply, panic had set in. She ran through dim corridors, where the magical light globes had shattered and shadows crowded the floor. It wasn’t until she reached the far side of the hallway that she saw Tamiel lying motionless. Sal stood with the party now, her sorrow clear in her voice and posture. Her tall frame and strong features made her seem unshakable, yet the pain in her eyes betrayed the weight of her loss. As they listened, Sal recalled a detail that struck her, how the shadows had seemed unnatural, heavy, and deliberate, almost watching her as she approached the body.

With Sal’s help, the party tracked down Jake, the receptionist, who hadn’t returned to work since the incident. Outside his modest quarters, they heard him muttering nervously to himself before he opened the door. Jake looked startled and embarrassed but quickly straightened up and invited them in. He confessed that the recent killings had frightened him and claimed he was simply taking time off to avoid being next. He asked them not to tell the College he had been skipping his duties and promised to share what little he knew about Tamiel’s request.

Jake explained that the mage deaths had spread through all corners of the city, from shadowy alleys and taverns to crowded marketplaces and now, even within the College itself. Tamiel, he said, had been researching the ruined City of Derja and had asked Jake where to find records on the place. That was the last time he saw Tamiel. Jake had no further information but did ask the party to pass on his apologies to Sal. Though shaken, Jake’s account gave the party a new lead and suggested the threat was growing closer and far more unpredictable.

The party returned to the College and retraced Tamiel’s final steps. In the dim section of the library, they discovered the book Tamiel had sought, The City of Derja. Inside its worn pages were journal entries by scholars who had explored the ruins. They told of a sealed vault hidden deep within Derja, not protected by magic, but by intricate mechanical locks. Dwarves and gnomes had worked to open it, revealing a chamber lined with dark metal that disrupted magical ability. Mages inside could no longer connect to the weave. Carved runes and aged murals told the story of a city once great, now destroyed by a whirlwind that tore through its people, buildings, and land.

Derja had been a centre of magical brilliance, rivalled only by high elven cities of old. Now it stood as a grave to magic itself. At the vault’s heart sat a large vase made from the same dark metal, its surface corroded and fractured over time. The final journal entries grew grim. After removing the artefact from the vault, those involved began to vanish. Mages reported being haunted by malevolent spirits. Eventually, many were found dead with their enchanted belongings lying lifeless beside them. The curse, it seemed, hunted those who carried Derja’s secrets and defied its silence. The scholars urged that the city be left untouched, its legacy protected, and its wrath feared.

---

---

PDF adventure – Derja’s Shadow

---

---

Trusted Axe Cartel

528SuTrAxCa

The Silver Ring Tavern had been brimming with cheer and comfort. Music played, patrons danced, meals were served, and drinks flowed freely. The adventuring party was enjoying a well-earned pause in their journey while soaking in the lively atmosphere. The back booth, occupied by stylish merchants throwing around gold, added to the merriment. That warmth vanished instantly when six furious dwarves stormed through the door, tattoos on their hands marking them as members of the Trusted Axe Cartel.

One younger dwarf shouted loud enough to quiet the entire room, demanding the whereabouts of Jeb and Tarnius, two merchants accused of passing off low-quality gear. As confusion spread, the dwarves searched for answers while the eldest among them paid the barkeep and approached quietly. A calmer dwarf engaged the party with questions about the missing merchants and explained that their guild had delivered finely crafted weapons and armour, yet had been accused of sending faulty goods. Garmanel, the cartel’s leader, arrived with tankards and offered a proposition. He believed the adventurers might uncover who had sabotaged the deal and recover their reputation.

The Cartel’s tale was troubling. Their contract with Jeb and Tarnius had been solid until someone swapped their dwarven wares with inferior items, clearly made by inexperienced human hands. Known for their honour and craftsmanship, the cartel was humiliated and determined to uncover the truth. Garmanel and his ward Gondanel appealed to the party for help. In return, they offered not only gold but a bond of trust and future support that would be worth more than coin.

Drinks helped ease the tension as Garmanel bought a round for the tavern, and Garabek – the fiery dwarf, left to chase a lead. The party now faced a choice: step into this growing conflict for honour and reward, or walk away and leave the mystery unresolved. The promise of dwarven loyalty was tempting, especially given the Cartel’s influence and steadfast nature.

Their first clue led them to a bustling marketplace thick with noise and smells. After navigating the chaos, they found a vendor selling dwarven goods. A mercenary elf tried to interfere, but the party managed to speak with the merchant, who hinted at access to more of the valuable equipment. He invited them to return at sunset when he could show them his best stock.

As the sun fell, the merchant led them to a warehouse where they encountered a dozen armed traders and likely more hidden away. He revealed that his group had taken advantage of careless deals to acquire high-quality gear. But when one man spotted the adventurers and recognized them from the Silver Ring Tavern, panic swept through the warehouse. The tone shifted instantly. What had begun as a quiet lead now felt more like a trap, one bound to unravel deeper secrets.

---

---

PDF adventure – Trusted Axe Cartel

---

---