The Siege of Greendale

Lore Based on Session 1 Summary

Chapter 1: The Festival’s End

A brisk fall wind danced through the air as the sun hung lower in the sky, the sundered descent of winter darkness creeping upon the shortening days. Golden rays danced across fields of wheat and corn while the sweet, nostalgic smell of decay and wood smoke hung in the air.

The town of Greendale, a quaint agricultural and travel-through town located in the kingdom of Linthir, realm of the horse lords, was hosting the renowned annual Festival of Therion, celebrating the harvest. The festival was a major event for the town, driving traffic from several significant surrounding fiefdoms.

Dwarves from the Ironfell traveled down to trade minerals and jewels. The elves of Lithral made their journey through the deep, magical dark of the Gloamwood Forest to share magic, wisdom, and update accounts of human affairs. The halflings of the Greenfell sought barley and berry for their various meads and wines, of which they held a certain fondness. Various humans from the northern kingdom of the Vanguard sought provisions before the coming harsh winter.

For this week, Greendale transformed from a haphazard farming town into a roaring celebration. The scent of spiced cider and roasting meat filled the air as visitors wove between festival stalls. Dwarven hammers rang against metal in rhythmic demonstrations, while elven silk caught the afternoon light. Halfling laughter mingled with the clip-clop of horse hooves on cobblestone, as merchants hawked their wares in a dozen different accents.

Stalls were set in the market square for trade and barter. The inn, a hot commodity, was always brimming with patrons. Campsites and caravans surrounded the city, wherever a spot could be found in the rolling hills. Long-standing tensions and feuds between families, houses, and races came to a standstill in a brief moment of collaboration and exchange.

The town came alive with music, comedy, and shows from bards and performers across Eldara. The elves taught masters new skills with their refined weaving and sewing techniques. The dwarves graciously took over the smithy’s forge to demonstrate new techniques to forge iron and steel into new levels of strength, a notion which the farmers greatly appreciated.

Amidst all this joyous chaos, one figure moved with deliberate calm through the crowded market square. Vale Oakheart, a monk-warrior belonging to the Way of Mercy, gently paraded around the market square of Greendale. He was at peace, his innate connection to the forces of life feeling stronger than ever. So many beings, so many origins, so many different connections to the weave and the ether, all of whom were at peace.

The light inflated the magic of life as he felt as if he were literally swimming in a sea of tranquility. The magical energies of a hundred different souls—elven, dwarven, halfling, human—pulsed around him like gentle waves. Each heartbeat, each laugh, each moment of joy added to the symphony of life he sensed through the weave.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and simply breathed, taking in the pure serenity.

Then he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw a gruff city guard—a watchman, low in rank and military prowess, but sufficient enough for a peaceful town such as Greendale—looking at him intently.

“Good sir, I need you to come with us, if you will,” the guard said.

Vale snapped out of his reverie, concern dropping over his face as disappointment at the interrupted moment washed over him. “Is there something wrong?”

“It’s best if I explain to everybody. The captain of the watch will have a better idea of what needs to be discussed.”

Vale looked more serious now, putting aside his disappointment at enjoying the tranquility. He nodded at the man. “Lead the way, sir.”

Chapter 2: The Captain’s Call

The city guard began walking him through the stalls as Vale followed, bringing him to what he assumed were the barracks—a small affair, a simple wooden structure slightly larger than most domiciles of the area, but well taken care of. The guard beckoned him inside through a simple wooden door.

Vale had no reason to distrust the city guard and followed openly. As he entered the room, he recognized it as a mess hall of sorts. A simple long wooden table that could seat around twelve watchmen at any given time took up the center of the room. A large hearth encompassed the far wall with a dwindling fire that seemed to be in need of more wood.

Along the walls hung tapestries representing the various house crests of the serving watchmen, their once-vibrant colors now faded to muted shadows of former glory. Weapon racks lined the perimeter walls, holding spears, shields, and short swords in neat, undisturbed rows. When Vale inspected the weapons racks more closely, it was immediately glaring that thick layers of dust had settled like gray shrouds over the metal, while spider webs stretched between sword hilts like delicate lace. The steel bore the telltale orange bloom of neglect, and not one blade showed the mirror shine of recent care or the subtle nicks that spoke of honest use.

Vale had tended enough wounded soldiers to know the difference between weapons that saved lives and weapons that merely decorated walls. Here, leather grips had gone brittle with age, spear points dulled to harmless stubs, and shield straps cracked from years without oil or attention. This watch had become little more than an elaborate pantomime, its members playing at being guardians in a theater where no real danger was expected to take the stage.

As Vale moved his gaze from the weapons to those before him, sitting on the benches along the table were five figures, each clearly chosen for reasons beyond mere coincidence. Their eyes turned towards Vale as he entered—some looked curious, others calculating, weighing him with the practiced assessment of those accustomed to evaluating strangers.

At the head of the table sat what was clearly the captain of the watch, signified by his more formal and robust armor, gilded with silver and adorned with the green crest of an eagle on the chest of his leather armor. To his left sat a lady elf, her posture carrying the composed dignity common to her kind, bearing the sigil of the House of Light. A radiant sun worked in golden thread prominently displayed on her shoulder, marking her unmistakably as a cleric of that holy order.

As Vale met the cleric’s eyes, she gave a polite nod. “I am Eris,” she introduced herself.

Next to Eris, there was a rather unobtrusive figure, recognizable as a ranger due to the unique mottling of their cloak. “My name is Wren,” they said simply.

Further down the table, Vale’s arcane training immediately drew his attention to a peculiar and alarming sight. An individual bearing the markings of death and darkness sat with foreboding stillness, shadows seeming to cling to her form despite the ambient light. He sensed an astral presence woven through the life force of this individual, like a second soul dwelling within the first. Though she appeared to be an elf, her pale skin held an unnatural pallor, and he could tell her heritage was one of uncommon, if not forbidden, descent. When it came time for introductions, she spoke a single word with cold precision: “Cyrene.” Her voice carried the weight of someone accustomed to being both feared and misunderstood, and she held the monk’s gaze with the unwavering intensity of one who had long since stopped caring about the discomfort her presence caused others.

Vale’s head crooked to the side a few degrees as he regarded her, but he composed himself quickly.

Across the table sat a gaunt figure, his frame lean to the point of severity, as if years of scholarly pursuit had carved away everything but sinew and sharp intellect. His skin bore the pallor of one who spent more time with books than sunlight, stretched taut over prominent cheekbones that cast deep shadows beneath eyes like polished obsidian. Those eyes held a predatory intelligence, missing nothing as they catalogued every detail of Vale’s appearance with the methodical precision of a researcher examining a new specimen.

Vale could feel the arcane energy radiating from this man like heat from a forge, the weave responding to his presence with an almost tangible thrum that made the monk’s own magical senses prickle with recognition. When the wizard spoke, his voice carried the measured cadence of academia, each word precisely chosen: “My name is Silas.” Even in introduction, there was something clinical about his delivery, as though he were stating a fact for documentation rather than offering a greeting.

Finally, next to the wizard, Vale saw an individual who made him double-take—an orc, a creature of ravage and violence, sat well-postured, polite, and astute. Most surprisingly, she bore the markings of the Way of the Hand. An orcish monk was an extraordinary sight to Vale. “Fiona,” her voice bellowed, echoing off the walls with orcish power.

The group saw staring back at them a man of small and simple stature. Most recognized him as a monk. Vale had a kind of steampunk-ish leather mask hanging from his neck, not currently worn. They could see clearly he was a wood elf with dark brown short hair, fair skin, and looked well studied like some of the other members of the party at this table.

He finished looking over all of them as introductions were made. “Well, someone’s brought us here for a purpose. What’s going on?”

Captain Aldrich shuffled in his seat and began to stand. His weathered face showed the strain of a man facing his first real crisis in years. “Six of you,” he muttered in a gravelly voice, weathered by years of service, studying each face in turn. “Against what we’re up against… it’ll have to be enough. Nigel, bar the door.”

The captain’s expression grew grave as he swept his gaze across each assembled member, his voice dropping to a low rumble that carried the weight of dire consequence. “What I’m about to tell you cannot be spoken beyond these walls. Lives depend on your silence, and I’ll have your word on it before I continue.”

“Yes, sir,” came the shrill reply from Nigel, one of his younger watchmen, as he moved to do as he was told. “At least of those we were able to find, do you think there’ll be enough?”

“We shall see. Sit down, monk. We have some business to discuss.” the captain requested, a soft determination in his voice.

Vale took a seat as the captain continued. “We have gotten word that the city vault might be under siege. We know not from who, we know not from where. A strange individual was seen questioning the vault manager as well as staying at the local inn. A shady individual, not dressed for this occasion, not selling anything, not buying—just here.”

The captain’s shoulders sagged. “Some of our reports coming back… well, as you see, we’re not quite prepared to handle such events.” He says in a defeated tone, gesturing at the state of their armaments. “The joy of the festival has led to years of relaxation, incompetence. Nothing bad has happened in years, and never anything of magnitude. Beings from all reaches of Eldara come to this festival. There’s no real form of protection we have, and if what we think is coming is true, if any group is bringing a force large enough to raid a vault… well, I fear my men are not prepared for such a task.”

“Captain, if I may,” Vale interjected respectfully, “I mean no offense, but while I don’t doubt your men’s integrity, their equipment tells an even worse tale.”

“That is my fault. I will take responsibility,” the captain replied heavily. “Once, a brave knight of the North Vanguard, I came here for an easier life, and I think I took a little bit too much ease. The Kingdom of Lenthir is known for their cavalry. Their watchmen have very little purpose. There’s no standing army here. This is my doing, and it is for that reason that I humbly ask you all for your help.”

He looked at each of them in turn. “You seem capable in your own rights. You might be able to take a beating if not dish one out yourselves. So I ask all of you here: will you help this city? Will you find who may be plotting this? And if there are indeed forces ready to lay siege to this town, will you stop them?”

“Yes,” Cyrene said immediately.

“I will help you,” Vale added.

“I suppose,” Silas said with a slight air of resignation.

“I accept”, chimed Eris.

“Yes” Fiona rumbled.

Wren stayed quiet but nodded her agreement.

The relief of Captain Aldrich was evident, as the lines of worry burrowed in his face seemed to lessen, and his shoulders lost the hunch of defeat they had been carrying. Hope had been instilled in him by this group of random, but capable strangers. The crushing weight of responsibility that had threatened to break him finally began to lift, replaced by the first genuine optimism he had felt since this crisis began.

Vale’s mind immediately turned to tactical considerations, his healer’s instincts for assessing vulnerabilities extending beyond wounded bodies to wounded defenses. From his travels through countless settlements, he knew the typical weaknesses that plagued rural vaults: thin walls disguised by ornate facades, locks that impressed locals but would yield to experienced hands, and guards more accustomed to shooing away drunks than repelling organized thieves. But the Festival of Therion introduced variables that his experience couldn’t easily quantify. The crowds could provide cover for reconnaissance or escape, yet they might also mean more eyes to witness suspicious activity. The celebration’s end had emptied the streets of visitors, potentially making any approach more conspicuous, but it had also left the remaining townsfolk relaxed and inattentive. These competing factors left him uncertain whether Greendale’s vault was merely an easy target or a trap waiting to spring on overconfident bandits.

“What is the opposition, captain?” Vale inquires.

“We are not sure.” Captain Aldrich admits. “The only lead we have right now came directly from the vault manager, Mensarius. He gave his report to us, but may have more information for you.”

Vale nods, and gazes upon his newly formed, although temporary, allies.

“Very good, adventurers. Make haste. We are here for whatever we can provide. And thank you,” the captain said as he stood and left the room.

Chapter 3: The Nervous Banker

After the captain departed, Vale took a moment to get acquainted with his new companions. “Eris, was it? It’s good to have a cleric of Light on our side for this one.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

He turned to what he had deduced to be an Aasimar at the end of the table, looking at Cyrene inquisitively. “And a paladin of—” He cut off his sentence, studying her more carefully.

She reddened under his gaze, clearly uncomfortable, and remained silent.

“We’ll come back to that one,” Vale said diplomatically.

“Shall we go?” the paladin inquired, clearly attempting to avoid any further scrutiny to her lineage.

“In just a moment. I just want to get a little bit more acquainted with this crew here,” Vale said, then turned to the imposing orc. “Fiona, was it? Are you part of the Open Hand?”

“Uhh…yes,” she answered, showing a curious hesitation and uncertainty.

“Well, we may not be from the same order, but I’ll be happy to have some assistance from someone of your caliber. Different teachings, but I respect your ways.”

He addressed the remaining members. “Wren and Silas… alright, well, the paladin’s interested in hitting the road, so I won’t hold us up anymore. I ask a lot of questions, I know. I’ll shut up. Let’s head out.”

The newly formed party, a group of capable warriors, adventurers, and scholars, gathered around and set off about their investigation. Knowing their first clue lay with the manager of the vault, they exited the barracks and headed towards the bank. They all had a good idea of where the bank was—directly on the other side of the market from where they were. The three prominent features of downtown Greendale were the vault (a more ornate, well-kept building), the barracks where they currently were, and the inn (a prominent three-story building) situated between the two on the left as they would exit the barracks. These structures, along with a few smaller one-story single-room abodes, made up downtown Greendale—a quaint affair.

Most of the festival visitors had moved on by now. The fields surrounding the city had been packed with tents and caravans just days ago, but now only a few stragglers remained. A handful of stalls were in the final stages of closing down as merchants packed their remaining wares, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the nearly empty market square.

As they proceeded toward the bank around half past three in the afternoon, about seventy-five yards away across the fairly large market square designed to accommodate all the market stalls, they walked through what remained of the cleanup crews. The town of Greendale was methodically sweeping up the streets, getting everything in order, and breaking down the temporary stalls that the city provided for merchants. They saw a few lingering characters that weren’t normally seen in human cities—a couple of elves still engaged in animated haggling over the last of some exotic goods, some dwarves clustered around the smithy’s forge where the rhythmic ring of hammer on anvil continued as they demonstrated their craft to fascinated onlookers.

The bank was a rather ornate two-story wooden building with nice statuary and landscaping out front, topped with French doors that appeared to be solid oak. Vale stepped forward and pulled open the door, letting everyone else go in first.

As the party entered the bank, they see a thin, wiry human in his early thirties who seems to vibrate with constant nervous energy. His mousy brown hair is perpetually disheveled from his habit of running his fingers through it when stressed—which is always. Pale from spending most of his time indoors counting coins by lamplight, he has the slightly hunched posture of someone who’s spent years bent over ledgers. His clothes are always immaculate despite his fidgeting: pressed vest, clean collar, and ink-stained fingers that he constantly wipes on a handkerchief kept in his breast pocket.

Behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his watery blue eyes dart constantly, as if calculating risks and counting exits. He’s thin to the point of looking underfed, though this stems more from anxiety affecting his appetite than actual poverty.

The man briskly walked up to them from behind the counter. “Oh!” He started. “You’re quite an intimidating group of people. Hello, my name is Mensarius… Can I help you?” he inquired nervously.

“Perfect. Just the man we needed to talk to,” Vale exclaimed. “We’re here on behalf of the city guard. The captain himself has sent us.”

“The captain? The captain of the guard? Okay, he sent you. Why did he send you here?” Mensarius asked, his nervousness evident.

Vale looked around the small reception room—maybe thirty feet by thirty feet. There was a teller and a patron currently engaged in their own transaction a couple of stalls over. They could definitely hear the conversation, but they were also engaged in their own business. Vale smiled at Mensarius but made a point to exaggeratedly look at the other two people in the room.

“This is dealing with the matter of,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “the vault’s safety. May we speak somewhere with less ears?”

“Are… are you robbing me?” Mensarius asked, panic creeping into his voice.

“No sir,” Vale says, exasperated, “we’re trying to protect the vault,” assuring the skittish man before him.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Mensarius stammered, his relief evident.

Vale shot a quick, nervous glance at Cyrene with a look that said ‘I just met her,’ then back to Mensarius. “I’m a doctor, dammit, not a robber.”

Mensarius gave a jaded look toward the Aasimar, clearly distrusting her appearance based on her heritage. “Very well, very well. Yes, come into the conference room.”

He led them to the back of the teller area where there were doors on either side, taking them through the right one into a room with a small table that seated about four but was large enough to comfortably fit all of them. He closed the door behind them.

As the strange group of individuals file into the conference room, Vale taps Cyrene on the shoulder.

“I meant no offence earlier. It’s just that…” Vale trails off, fishing for the right words. “Looks can be deceiving, that’s all.”

“None taken.” Cyrene replies flatly.

“Alright, so the captain sent you, huh?” Mensarius began.

“That’s right.” Vale explained. “He’s convinced there’s going to be an attack on the vault, a move against the vault by some party. He doesn’t know much.”

“Yes, that would be my fear too. A rather strange individual came into the shop not a day prior. He looked… well, he looked rebellious, to say the least. He was covered in pine needles and smelled of wood smoke. Just not the kind of crowd you’d see during the festival.”

“From the Gloamwood, perhaps? A druid? Or not?” Vale asked.

“Very human looks about him. None of that greenish tint you see those druids sometimes have. He just seemed like a disheveled fellow.”

“All right, so what else do you have to go off of?” Vale pressed.

Mensarius shifted uncomfortably. “Hmm. Well, that’s hard to say. See, I inherited this position from my uncle, who died suddenly three years ago during the Festival of Therion, believe it or not, which is rather odd. Since then, I’ve lived in constant terror of making a mistake that would dishonor my family’s legacy, or worse, result in a financial loss for the townspeople who trusted him.”

He began speaking faster, his nervousness taking over. “But I kind of have this problem where I’m not very good at talking, and when I get nervous, I start talking a lot, and I start revealing details of things that I probably shouldn’t to strangers, like how you would access a vault, or how thick the walls are—”

Vale held up his hand. “Slow down, sir. Let me stop you before you reveal any more personal information. Take a breath, man.”

“See, that’s what I mean,” Mensarius said, proving his point immediately. “So I don’t really know whether or not I have anything great to go off of. But if there was an individual who I shouldn’t have revealed information to, it was probably this guy. He wasn’t as courteous as you—he definitely didn’t stop my rambling. But he seemed off. He seemed off.”

Mensarius continued, “I do know he was staying at the inn, which is odd. It’s a high coin price to get a spot at the inn during festival week. Most choose camping. It fills up fast, and he didn’t look like he was carrying much coin. Not by the look of his clothes. He was definitely not a business owner, not a noble. I wouldn’t peg him for any of those. You have those hippy-dippy rich types that wear bad clothing to make it seem like they’re really down-to-eldara, but they’re not. But this guy, he just had vibes about him. But no, he had a room at the inn. Train might know more—she’s the innkeeper.”

“Tarin. What does she look like?” Vale asked.

“Oh, she is… she’s a stout woman. She’s robust. She’s in her twenties now, I think. Getting older. But she’s got…” He paused. “She’s got an energy about her, very high energy, hard to miss. She’ll be behind the bar slinging drinks. I wouldn’t know, of course. I don’t partake in many drinks or anything… of that… nature…”

“Well, when do you leave the bank tonight? When will it be unguarded? Unwatched, I should say,” Vale asked.

“The city watch always keeps a post out at night. Two guards guarding the front door, one guarding the back. It’s kind of the only thing that they really have to do here. But we close the doors at five o’clock post-festival. We typically stay open until six tonight, just in case any last-minute deposits or tax collections need to be made. But yeah, six o’clock is probably when I’ll be going to the tavern - I mean, to the home. Beg your pardon.”

Vale pressed for more details about the vault’s security. “How secure is the vault, is what I’m trying to say. Again, I know these questions sound suspicious, but if these people know what they’re doing, how much of a physical barrier is there to entry? Do you have a key to the place?”

“Oh, absolutely I have a key to the vault. That’s probably the only way that you get in, but it’s hidden in a very, very secure place. Most people wouldn’t find it because, see, when I hide things, I typically tend to put them in places that even I forget. So if I get interrogated, people won’t know. But this one I do remember because it’s super important and we have customers plus the festival, so it’s in my sock drawer, right-” Mensarius trails off, ashamedly realising that he just gave up very sensitive information… Again.

“Okay. Got it. Understood. You might want to move that,” Vale said, trying to maintain his composure at this revelation.

“Yes, yes, I suppose.” Mensarius sheepishly replied.

“While I don’t doubt the valor of the city guard, perhaps a double patrol tonight. Just tonight is our recommendation.” Vale suggested.

“I don’t know if that’s going to happen. See, the captain… The captain has a good heart, but I think he and I both know that were any kind of reasonable force to come through, he’s just sending his men to murder.”

“Did this man look capable of violence? Did he have scars? Muscles? How about his hands? Were there any calluses?” Vale asked.

Mensarius looked down at himself, acknowledging his fragile frame. “I mean, everyone looks capable of violence to me, I’m not going to lie. But he had a well-worn look about him. Definitely not someone who spends their time indoors. Very leathery skin. Not a strong fellow. Very small in stature. Very easy to go unnoticed, I would say. If I hadn’t been directly speaking to him, I probably wouldn’t have noticed him at all with all these people around.”

Vale looked around to the rest of the group. “Are any of you locals from nearby? Is there a problem of bandits in the woods? I mean, it sounds like this guy is an outdoorsman of some kind. Do any of you know of issues like that around here?”

Wren raised their hand. They had dealt with bandits before in the region, specifically because they were notorious for poaching—not a lot of them went to the local butcher for their meat. But they weren’t aware of any current threat from their neck of the woods, nor had they heard any whispers about bandits migrating through either Lenthir or the southern reaches of the Vanguard.

Wren shrugged, a little unsure. “I’ve seen people, bad people in the woods. They like to kill my friends.” They paused. “Animals. I don’t know much more beyond that.”

“Well, even that’s helpful, Wren. So we know that there are groups. This could be something local. Could not be, but it’s possible.” Vale deduced.

Vale concluded the interview with Mensarius. “I think we should check in with the innkeeper and see if we can coax some more information out, something to follow up on.

Well, Mister… bank manager, it’s been a pleasure, truly. Seriously,” Vale warned, “I need you to think about moving that key tonight, alright?” He patted Mensarius on the shoulder.

“Very well, yes, you have a point. Please… please,” Mensarius pleaded, “if there’s anything that you find, the village will be in your debt.”

“We’re on the case.”

Mensarius nodded and walked out of the room, resuming his position behind the counter, shuffling papers and going about his banking business.

“Alright everybody, to the inn,” Vale announced.

Chapter 4: The Third Onion Tavern

Their destination was clearly visible—a prominent structure compared to the other simple abodes that made up the village square. The Third Onion Tavern was a three-story timber and stone building that dominated the eastern edge of the market square. A sign hung from it bearing its name, which came from the peculiar architectural choice of three onion-shaped domes crowning the main structure. It was very different from the otherwise normal architecture of the town—very square, triangular roofs, thatched. It was an oddity for sure, seeming to be elvish in nature, which left them pondering whether elves had a hand in architecting this during one of the festivals.

Colorful banners and garlands draped between the domes created a festive canopy visible from across town. The ground floor housed the main tavern hall, and they could hear the hustle and bustle of the approaching evening—some of the crowd was grabbing a late lunch before they left, while the early dinner crowd and evening festivities and music of the remaining townsfolk were barely starting to trickle in. It was about a third of capacity for a tavern like this.

As Vale saw that the inside was more packed than he would anticipate for this time of day, he pulled on his mask—the eye slots had dark green glass for the goggles, and his voice became slightly distorted but still audible. “Better safe than sorry,” he said.

They entered the spacious room with low, heavy beams overhead and a massive fieldstone hearth that could roast an entire pig.

The air thrummed with conversation in multiple languages. Dwarves, halflings, and elves could be heard, some sitting together, which was a unique sight for most of them. Warm amber light from oil lamps and the hearth created dancing shadows even in the mid-afternoon sun across the walls, which were lined with shields, banners, and mementos—surprisingly better kept than the watchmen’s shields and swords—left by traveling merchants over the years.

The scent of roasted meat, spiced ale, and wood smoke mingled with the earthier smells of travel-worn clothes and leather. In the center back of the room stood a very large curved bar with a couple of patrons sitting at it.

Behind the bar, they immediately spotted their target: a very tall, robust woman who accurately looked to be in her mid-twenties. They could immediately tell she had a boundless energy about her that seemed to light up the room. All the patrons she was talking with were cackling and laughing, and she had a bright smile on her face.

Her auburn hair was pulled back in a practical braid adorned with little festival ribbons for the occasion. Freckles dusted her face, and her green eyes sparkled with genuine warmth and barely contained laughter. Her hands were calloused from years of hauling ale barrels and washing mugs, but they moved with practiced efficiency even when she was telling stories to the patrons.

She was fitted in a brown dress with rolled sleeves and a leather apron that had somehow managed to stay mostly clean despite the chaos. A collection of small trinkets—carved wooden toys, tokens, pressed flowers, colorful beads—hung from her belt. These objects seemed to be gifts from customers who admired Tarin and her energy. She was clearly well-liked.

The atmosphere carried none of the tension Vale had learned to recognize in less reputable establishments. Conversations flowed freely without the undercurrent of barely restrained violence that marked taverns where trouble brewed. No one hunched protectively over their drinks, no suspicious glances tracked newcomers across the room, and the laughter that punctuated the evening air held genuine warmth rather than the brittle edge of forced merriment. It was the kind of place where a traveler could drink without watching their back.

As Vale took in the room, being well traveled, and used to seeing without being seen, his perception caught fragments of conversations around them. At a corner table behind them to the right, he heard a weathered voice that sounded a bit tipsy talking to what seemed to be other humans by their undereducated and rough accent:

“Two of ‘em, maybe three. Near old Olymyister’s place up north. Could have been his new protectors, and those Graybough boys, but they seem different. More weapons than farmers usually carry.”

To his left, a couple of seconds later, he heard merchants talking in hushed voices, barely audible above the crowd:

“There’s been some missing livestock reports on the road north.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. Maybe we should take the nor’eastern path back home. I don’t want any trouble getting our stock back. We have quite a good haul here. I don’t want to lose any of it.”

The murmured words of the travelers stirred something deep in Vale’s memory—fragments of tales that had been whispered around hearth fires on winter nights.

Every mother in the region knew those stories by heart, passed down through generations like precious heirlooms of fear. They would pull their little ones close and speak in hushed tones of the forest that hungers, of twisted boughs that reached out like skeletal fingers to snare the unwary. Children learned early that the Gloamwood was a place where footsteps led only inward, where the very trees conspired to ensure that those who crossed its threshold would never again see familiar faces or feel the warmth of home.

Vale’s jaw tightened as he considered the truth buried within those folklore warnings. The stories weren’t mere superstition—something ancient did indeed dwell in the forest’s heart. Yet years of experience had taught him that the borderlands held different rules. Along the very edges, where sunlight still dared to penetrate the canopy, a careful traveler might find passage. Smugglers and poachers had worn narrow paths through the outer reaches, threading between the gnarled roots like secrets whispered in shadow. For those desperate enough to risk the forest’s attention, these forgotten trails offered passage to those who preferred to move unseen by more civilized eyes.

Vale shared this information with the group in a hushed voice. “There’s a lot of scattered chatter. Some problems on one of the routes to the north. Something about livestock. I didn’t catch that full conversation. They were talking about armed farmers someplace up Northeast. The merchants spoke of potential dangers on the northern route to the Vanguard Reach. Some farmers were talking about two men who were more armed to be farmers near an abandoned hermit’s cabin northeast.”

The pieces were starting to form a troubling pattern. Vale caught Cyrene’s eye and saw his own concerns reflected there—if bandits were already active in the area, it would explain how a woodsman could afford expensive lodging and why he’d be scouting the town’s defenses. They needed more information about this mysterious guest, and the animated innkeeper behind the bar was their best source. Together, they made their way toward Tarin’s end of the bar.

“Innkeeper! New patron!” Vale called out.

“Hail and well met, travelers! Welcome to the Third Onion Tavern. What can I get you?” Terran responded with genuine enthusiasm.

Cyrene stepped forward, after a brief and muted word of encouragement from Vale. “Uhhh…Can I get a drink?”

“Absolutely, absolutely. What would you like? Ale? Something a little stronger perhaps?”

“Yes, something strong.” Cyrene brusquely replied.

“Something strong.” Tarin said with a smile. “That will be one copper piece please. Discounted to celebrate the end of the festival!”

Vale knocked on the bar top. “A half shot, please!”

Terran laughed. “I don’t know many monks, but are you supposed to be drinking? I’m not one to turn down money—”

“That’s why it’s a half shot. It doesn’t count if it’s not whole,” Vale replied with a grin.

“That’s absolutely right. I can’t do half a copper piece, so why don’t we say one copper piece covers both?”

She took the copper piece and slid over a brimming shot to Cyrene and a little bit over half-full shot to Vale, with a wink. He eyed it, nodded satisfied, and raised it toward the paladin. “Everything in moderation.”

“Cheers to you, patrons,” Terran said as they clinked glasses.

Cyrene, downing her drink with ease, glances at a grimacing Vale, “That never gets easier.”

“Anything else I can do for you, travelers?” Terran asked.

“Well, she had a question for you, ma’am,” Vale said, gesturing to Cyrene.

“Have you seen any suspicious people coming in? Maybe a little disheveled?” Cyrene inquired.

Tarin’s face, which had been bright and smiling, dropped slightly. “There are quite a few people who come through the tavern, yes.”

“How about a woodsman?” Vale added.

Both Vale and Cyrene could tell that there was a certain anxiety behind Tarin’s voice. Her usual animated gestures became more restrained, and she found reasons to busy her hands; wiping down already clean mugs, rearranging bottles that were perfectly aligned. The bright smile that had welcomed them faltered at the edges, and her eyes darted briefly toward the stairs leading to the upper rooms before returning to their faces. Her voice, which had carried such warmth and enthusiasm moments before, now held a carefully measured quality, as if she were choosing each word with unusual care. She knew exactly who they were talking about but seemed reluctant to share that information with a group of strangers, no matter how official their business might be.

“Well, just so you know, just so we’re being clear, open and honest,” Vale said, gesturing to the other group of four who were standing nearby, “we’ve all come here on behalf of the captain of the guard. This is a matter of town safety. We’re not merely asking as bar patrons or people with too much curiosity. We’re here on behalf of Greendale.”

“I see, I see.” Tarin says with some remaining hesitation in her voice. After a few moments, she reluctantly beckons the group, “Come this way,” she said, walking to the edge of the bar that was relatively unoccupied, leaving the group of three patrons she was serving on the far end.

Vale waved to the rest of the party to join them as Tarin continued the conversation while pouring drinks and acting like she was serving them, making it seem natural. She handed each of them a drink—they could tell she wasn’t really expecting payment in return, more to make the conversation appear routine.

“I see a lot of people come and travel through town. People of all shapes, sizes, colors, you name it. I’ve got an eye for the troublemakers. It’s a quiet town. Not many of them come through, but every now and then, there’s a certain demeanor about people who are looking for trouble. I believe this woodsman that you’re speaking of was one of them.”

She leaned in closer. “He entered—what was it—three nights ago, booking a room. I didn’t ask—it’s not my business to assume people’s privilege—but rooms fetch a high price during festival week, and he was able to afford it, no problem, which raised questions in my mind. But again, I’m not one to judge.”

Tarin continued, “I can’t say that he talked to many people here. He kept to himself. He was barely in his room for two nights. Barely ate. Avoided others. I mean, the bar is packed. It was very difficult, but he always took that corner seat at the bar down there. Strange fellow. Strange fellow, I must say.”

Vale asked about the room’s positioning. “Did his room have a window facing the bank? Could he have seen it from his room?”

“He would not have had a direct view. The rooms are all upstairs and they face either out towards the plaza. I suppose with a good angle he might have been able to see, but not without difficulty. He might have had to lean out the window, but he was on the side facing the plaza, yes.”

“And at the end of his stay, he just paid and left town? Or did anything else happen?” Vale inquired.

“Not a word…” Tarin said. “He actually left not but a couple hours ago. We haven’t even had a chance to turn over the room yet.”

“You don’t say.” Vale replied, pondering.

May we look inside the room?” Cyrene requested.

Tarin hesitated. “I’m not typically in the business—as disconcerting as this man’s demeanor was—of allowing people access to rooms, especially before they’ve been turned over. Any personal effects that the individual might have left behind, I wouldn’t want to be misplaced. We have a reputation to uphold. I don’t know… this situation, is it dire?”

Cyrene gave an exasperated reply. “Well, yes. The whole town might be in a lot of danger,”

Vale, attempting to quiet the doubts of Tarin, explains, “There are several among this party that have oaths to various degrees of honor. We have a cleric of light with us, a paladin of…” he trails off briefly, looking at Cyrene, then continued, “and myself, a physician. I have this town’s interest at heart, and I promise you we will look, we will only touch if it has to do with finding something suspicious. We will report anything we find to you, and then we will be gone.”

Tarin studied them for a moment, particularly noting Cyrene. “You seem of noble folk. I suppose it’s alright, but on your honor you must swear to not steal, not dishevel, don’t cause any trouble… please.”

“When we’re done, if we may ask, if you saw that traveler go in any particular direction, that would be helpful as well,” Vale added.

“I’ve been behind the bar most of the days. He slipped out during a lull. I don’t know who might have seen him go or not, but I might ask around.”

“Let’s check the room. We’ll be quick,” Vale said, bowing respectfully.

Wren slid Terran a copper piece, unwilling to take a drink without paying for it. Tarin smiled and gave her a wink in appreciation, flustering Wren, who quickly turned away from the bar.

“Room 103. You’ll go up the stairs, turn left. It’ll be the third room on your left. It is unlocked.”

“Thank you.”

Chapter 5: The Trapped Room

As they ascended the stairs in single file, Wren led the group while Silas and Eris brought up the rear. From their position at the back of the formation, the wizard and cleric caught a fragment of a hushed conversation drifting up from farmers gathered near the hearth below:

A rough, strong voice speaks in a low tone “…They’re flickering like fireflies, but wrong somehow. Too bright, too cold. Young Tam swears he heard chanting, but the boy’s got an imagination. Those ruins to the east are no good, I tell ya.”

Finding room 103, Wren approached the door with the cautious steps of someone who had learned to read danger in the wild. Her hand hesitated on the handle as something indefinable prickled at her senses—not quite a sound, not quite a scent, but the subtle wrongness that had kept her alive in untamed places. The door yielded to her touch with suspicious ease, swinging inward just far enough to trigger the mechanism hidden above.

The whisper of steel cutting air reached her ears a heartbeat before death would have found her. Pure instinct born of countless encounters with predators sent her diving sideways, her body moving before her mind could process the threat. The heavy axe blade cleaved through the space where her head had been, its weight carrying it down with brutal finality until the handle struck the doorframe with a solid thunk that echoed through the narrow hallway.

For a moment, the only sound was Wren’s controlled breathing as she crouched against the wall, her eyes fixed on the weapon that swayed gently from its crude rope mechanism, still eager for blood.

Vale, seeing that Wren had dodged successfully, grabbed her and pulled her clear of the doorway in case there was a secondary trap. “Get back! Almost took your head off!” he exclaimed.

Wren shrugged with characteristic nonchalance. She looked back to make sure everyone else was okay, after quickly surveying the room to ensure no more danger lurked.

“This inn has quite the security system,” Vale chided to himself more than anyone else.

“All right. We need to do this slower now, unfortunately. We need to sweep this room carefully. Although he was here for three days—enough time to put up a trap on the doorway, maybe just in case somebody came in the night. Probably not more than that, but it doesn’t hurt to be on the safe side. Let’s check the room for traps,” Vale said.

Vale crossed the threshold with the measured caution of someone who had learned that surviving meant assuming every step could be your last. Each footfall tested the floorboards beneath, his weight distributed carefully as he scanned for telltale signs of concealed mechanisms. Furniture could hide spring-loaded crossbows, innocent-looking rugs might conceal pit traps, and even the walls themselves could harbor deadly surprises. The doorway had already proven treacherous; he would not make the mistake of assuming the room’s interior was any safer.

The chamber itself told a story written in deliberate contradictions. A narrow bed dominated one wall, its blankets thrown aside with the hasty carelessness of recent departure, yet the rest of the space bore the marks of meticulous attention. A simple wooden table sat next to the single window, its accompanying chair pulled out at an angle that suggested recent use, though its current position faced away from both the window and any potential view of the plaza below. Vale noted immediately that the angle provided no direct line of sight to either the bank or the barracks, though a determined observer could certainly monitor the general flow of activity in the town square.

A wash basin perched on a corner stand, and the closed window framed a view of the dwindling market festivities and cleanup efforts beyond. Through the glass, he could make out several modest domiciles scattered across the way, including a larger structure in the center that likely served as the town meeting hall.

What struck Vale most forcefully was the room’s unsettling tidiness. This was not the chaotic aftermath he expected from a disheveled woodsman’s three-day occupancy. The floors showed signs of recent sweeping, corners cleared of the dust and debris that accumulated naturally in any lived-in space. The windows had been carefully closed and latched. Even the bed, though unmade, showed signs of deliberate arrangement rather than careless abandonment. It was the kind of thorough but hurried cleaning that spoke of someone covering their tracks, yet the haste behind it suggested urgency rather than leisure. This was not how a room looked after being inhabited by someone who “smelled of wood smoke and pine needles,” as Mensarius had described. This was how a room looked when someone wanted to erase all evidence of what they had truly been doing there.

Vale noticed a faint smell of pine sap and campfire smoke. At the table, there were scuff marks on the wooden floor near it, suggesting that something heavy had been dragged across. In one of the gaps between the floorboards, he caught the sight of pine needles.

“Everyone be careful. I’m gonna lift this up really quickly,” Vale said, examining the floorboard where the pine needles rest.

Vale knelt beside the trapped pine needles, his fingers hovering just above the debris without disturbing it. His mind drew upon years of arcane study, sifting through memories of dusty tomes and whispered lessons about the intersection of natural components and magical workings. Pine needles, bark, earth—these were the raw materials favored by practitioners who wove spells through ritual circles, binding sigils, or protective wards. His trained senses reached out, feeling for the telltale disturbances that magic left in its wake.

But the air around the needles held no lingering traces of arcane energy. No faint shimmer betrayed the presence of enchantment, no subtle wrongness suggested the weave had been bent to someone’s will. The very floorboards beneath showed no scorching or discoloration that often accompanied magical workings, no geometric patterns carved or burned into the wood that might indicate ritual preparation. Even the pine needles themselves appeared mundane—forest debris tracked in on boots rather than components carefully gathered for mystical purpose.

Vale’s breathing slowed as he extended his magical awareness further, probing for even the faintest magical residue. Nothing. Whatever had transpired in this room, it had been accomplished through purely mundane means, leaving behind only the physical evidence of a careful observer rather than the ethereal scars of a practiced spellcaster.

He asked Fiona to help move the heavy furniture, but their investigation of the floorboard didn’t reveal anything significant beyond the pine needles.

Cyrene dropped to her knees beside the bed, her pale hands methodically probing the shadows beneath the narrow frame with the practiced efficiency of someone accustomed to finding what others preferred to keep hidden. Digging around under the bed, at first it seemed like just floor underneath. She scanned the area several times, not seeing much initially. But then something about where the wall met the floor caught her eye, and she found a small piece of parchment wedged between the bed frame and the wall.

Looking at the parchment, Cyrene’s eyes traced over crude but detailed sketches rendered in what appeared to be charcoal or lead. The drawing depicted the town square with surprising accuracy—rough rectangles marked the positions of market stalls, curved lines indicated the main pathways, and even the relative sizes of buildings had been captured with the precision of someone who had spent considerable time observing. Three bold X marks dominated the sketch like scars across the paper: one over the bank’s location, another marking the guard barracks, and a third positioned on the main thoroughfare leading north out of town.

The lines were heavy and deliberate, pressed deep enough into the parchment to leave indentations. Whoever had drawn this had done so with purpose, not idle sketching. Small notations in a cramped, hurried script accompanied each X, though the writing was too faded and smudged to make out clearly.

Cyrene rose from her crouch and moved to where the others could see, holding the parchment up toward the dim light filtering through the window. Her gesture and the urgency in her movements drew their attention without need for words.

Vale moved closer, his eyes scanning the crude map with the methodical attention of someone accustomed to reading battlefield intelligence. His jaw tightened as the implications became clear—this was not the casual observation of a curious traveler, but the careful reconnaissance of someone planning an attack. The placement of the X marks told a story of tactical thinking: neutralize the guards, secure the target, control the escape route.

Meanwhile, Wren investigated the wash basin area, noticing she had become part of a crowd, an uncomfortable notion. Wanting to assist the group, Wren took to searching for more clues. The water was fairly clean and looked like it hadn’t been used that day, but it had definitely been used and was in need of a good scouring. She found dried mud residue around the drain showing signs of hasty cleaning, tiny fragments of bark and forest debris in the water pitcher, and the soap bar was worn down more than typical for a two-day stay.

Wren’s fingers traced the rough fragments with the careful attention of someone reading a familiar text. The bark’s texture and coloration were unmistakable to her trained eye—this had come from the Gloamwood Forest, her homeland encompassing the north and northeastern borders of Greendale.

The discovery sent an uneasy recognition through her. Someone had recently walked beneath those shadowed canopies and emerged to make their way here. For most people, the Gloamwood remained a place to be avoided, but Wren understood that anyone bold enough to venture into its depths and return was either exceptionally capable or driven by compelling reasons to risk such a journey.

Wren called over members of the group, hoping to share her discovery. As Vale and Silas approached the wash basin, Wren said, solemnly, “Its from the Gloamwood.”

“The woods North of here?” Silas inquired.

Vale nodded his head in confirmation. “I wouldn’t have realized had you not said something, but you are right. I was just recently there…What the hell is up with this guy?” the monk exclaimed, “This is a dirty man, should be on his trail in no time!”

The discovery had clearly stirred something in Vale’s memory, connecting pieces he hadn’t previously linked together. His excitement was palpable as he considered the implications of their quarry’s connection to the forest he had recently traveled through.

Vale’s mind turned over this newly revealed information with growing unease. The Gloamwood was a vast, dense forest, capable of hiding many things. Though he had just recently traveled through the fringes, it was not lost on him that some things would be easily missed in those shadowed depths. If their mysterious woodsman was using the forest as his base of operations, it explained much about his ability to move unseen and his intimate knowledge of the borderlands.

As a few of the members engrossed themselves in the discovered tree bark, and some still pondered the meaning of the map, Fiona took interest in the window area. Her investigation revealed scratch marks on the floor that traced back to the table where the chair sat askew. The gouges in the wood suggested somebody had been dragging the chair back and forth from the table to the windowsill repeatedly—far more often than would be expected from someone simply seeking a comfortable view or occasional glance outside.

Near the windowsill, she discovered a small piece of dark cloth snagged on a splinter. The material was rough and coarse, like potato sack fabric—the kind of cheap, sturdy clothing favored by farmers, peasants, and others who needed durability over comfort.

Standing where the chair would have been positioned during its frequent trips to the window, Fiona realized the strategic value of this location. From this vantage point, there was a clear view of both the bank and the guard barracks, visible on either side of the window frame.

With Fiona’s surveillance discoveries adding another piece to the puzzle, the group’s attention naturally turned to the remaining furniture in the room. The table had become an object of intense fascination for the party. Fiona began the investigation by examining its surface and peering underneath, her thorough search yielding only a wad of hardened chewing gum stuck to the underside and a crude engraving left by some previous occupant: “G” enclosed in a heart shape, followed by what might have been an “M” or possibly just an enthusiastic squiggle.

Not to be deterred by this romantic archaeology, Vale decided the table itself might hold secrets. He rapped his knuckles against the wood, testing for hollow spaces that might conceal hidden compartments. The solid thunks that echoed back confirmed that this was, disappointingly, just a table—sturdy, ordinary, and entirely lacking in secret compartments.

After watching her companions conduct what could generously be called an exhaustive examination of perfectly normal furniture, Wren approached with the patient resignation of someone who had learned that sometimes the most obvious places held the most important secrets. Finally, Wren’s exceptional perception revealed the most crucial evidence. Looking at the table, she noticed faint indentations pressed into the wood’s surface. Leaning in closer and drawing upon her hunter’s instincts honed by years in the wilderness, she was able to discern the ghostly outline of a map etched into the table itself. The crude cartography mirrored the parchment they had found—the bank vault marked with an X, the guard barracks with an X, and the path leading north with an X.

Most importantly, very faintly impressed into the grain, she could make out the words: “Dawn Assault,” “Vault Proceeds,” and “north to Thornvale.”

Wren traced her finger over the barely visible markings and called the others over to see her discovery. The evidence now told a complete story: their mysterious woodsman had used the table as his planning surface, pressing hard enough while writing on the parchment above to leave permanent impressions in the wood below. Someone was planning a coordinated dawn attack on the town—strike the vault, neutralize the guard barracks, control the northern escape route, and flee with the proceeds to Thornvale.

As Wren shared her findings with the others, Silas studiously pointed out, “Similar to the map fragment found under the bed.”

The name Thornvale stirred something in Vale’s memory, a half-forgotten conversation surfacing from his extensive travels. He could picture the moment clearly now, standing at a crossroads somewhere along the borderlands, asking a weathered farmer for directions to the next settlement. The man had gestured vaguely toward the forest’s edge and mentioned Thornvale in passing, describing it as a sprawling farm that had somehow managed to establish itself at the very southernmost reaches of the Gloamwood. Even then, Vale had thought it an odd place to build, too close to the forest’s influence for most people’s comfort, yet far enough from proper towns to make for difficult supply runs.

A sudden roar of laughter from downstairs broke through the tense atmosphere of the room. Glancing out the window, they realized the hour had grown late, approaching suppertime and the evening’s festivities.

Vale, jolted from his recollection of Thornvale, refocused on the immediate threat before them. “I think we need to get on this guy’s trail as soon as we can. I can’t tell if they are taking the vault at dawn, or planning something even more vicious. Assault is vicious wording…”

“It seems coordinated,” Silas added, studying the evidence they had gathered.

“Three marks, three places…” Wren pondered, her eyes tracing the pattern of X marks.

Vale continued working through the fragmented plans they had discovered, his voice growing more urgent as the implications became clear. “Its seems as if their goal is to keep the road clear, attack the bank, and ensure the guard is either paralized… or dead.”

“The vault and Thornvale seem to go hand-in-hand,” Silas pointed out.

“I believe we should head back downstairs. Perhaps inquire from a few patrons before choosing our heading,” Vale said, muttering “My guess is North…” under his breath.

As the party moves to depart room 103, Vale stoops to retrieve the pine needles he had discovered earlier, when he abruptly had a sudden realization about the axe trap.

“I just had a eureka moment. This one axe isn’t going to stop investigators from getting into this room. This was going to kill one person, and it probably would have killed or at least maimed Tarin when she tried to come in here. We need to tell her that she may be targeted if this attack goes through, or maybe it’ll jog something in her memory about why this guy is here. I need to ask her if she has any enemies.”

“Maybe she knew more than she was letting on…” Cyrene said, suspicion evident in her tone.

With this grave thought, Vale realises the group should make an attempt at disarming the trap completely, so its sinister purpose could not come to fruition.

Sensing the urgency, Wren moved to examine the trap’s construction more closely. Her nimble fingers worked at what appeared to be a mounting bolt, but the unfamiliar intricacies of human engineering proved beyond her wilderness-trained expertise. The mechanism remained stubbornly intact despite her careful efforts.

Seeing her struggle, Fiona approached with the confidence of someone who believed that sufficient force could solve most problems. Muscles tensing as she prepared to use raw strength where finesse had failed, she wrapped her powerful hands around the axe handle and pulled with all her might…towards herself. The trap responded exactly as its builder had intended—the axe swung freely on its pivot, still perfectly mounted and ready to claim its next victim.

After watching both attempts with growing frustration, Vale took a more pragmatic approach. Through careful manipulation and persistence, he managed to work the axe free from its mounting, finally neutralizing the threat. He carried the weapon over to the table, setting it down among the other evidence they had gathered.

Chapter 6: A Warning for Tarin

Returning downstairs to the now bustling tavern, they found Tarin extremely busy with the dinner rush and evening festivities beginning. The inn was packed with people cheering and laughing as she slung drinks left and right. Most of the crowd appeared to be local farmers and villagers settling in for the evening, though a few exotic visitors from the festival lingered at scattered tables.

When Vale caught her eye and gestured with a grim expression that they needed to speak privately, Tarin’s animated demeanor immediately shifted. She quickly finished serving her current customers and signaled for another barmaid to cover her station before leading them toward the back of the establishment.

In the kitchen, they found not only Tarin standing with arms crossed and concern etched across her features, but also encountered what was undoubtedly the most intimidating man they had ever seen. His massive frame filled a grease-stained apron that stretched across shoulders thick with coarse hair. A heavy beard framed a face weathered and pitted like old leather, while a hair net did little to contain his wild mane. His hands, spotted with burn marks from years at the stove, moved with surprising dexterity as he continued his work, though his eyes never left the newcomers. Everything about him suggested he served as more than just the establishment’s cook. This was clearly the muscle that kept order when Tarin’s charm wasn’t enough.

The warmth of the kitchen felt at odds with the gravity of what Vale needed to convey. Steam rose from various pots while the imposing cook continued his work, though his movements had slowed as he listened with obvious interest to the conversation unfolding.

Vale chose his words carefully, his voice carrying the weight of someone delivering dire news. “Everything I’m about to tell you, you’ll be able to find evidence of in the room. This is Eris, Cleric of Light. She likes truth, I’m pretty sure that’s what her order’s about at least. She’ll back up what I have to say. I don’t know how to tell you this, but that man was trying to kill you. There was a trap built into the door when we tried to enter, an axe swung down and nearly decapitated poor Wren here. She managed to dodge it, but I think it was meant for you.”

The color drained from Tarin’s face as the implications hit her. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she took an involuntary step backward. “Me? Why me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Vale leaned forward slightly, his tone gentle but probing. “Is there anything… did that man talk to you, look at you? Are you sure you don’t recognize him? Maybe a grudge against you?”

Tarin shook her head slowly, her eyes wide with disbelief. “I’d never seen him before. He would barely meet my eyes and never spoke a word. He was a shady individual, I’ll tell you that much, but no one comes to mind that would want to harm me.”

The cook had stopped working entirely now, his scarred hands gripping a wooden spoon as he watched the exchange with growing concern. Vale glanced between Tarin’s frightened expression and the evidence they had uncovered, weighing his next words carefully.

“Perhaps you are just a victim of circumstance in this situation…” Vale said, his tone both thoughtful and reassuring, though the uncertainty in his voice suggested he was still working through the puzzle himself.

Vale took a steadying breath, knowing the full scope of what he was about to reveal would shake Tarin’s understanding of her peaceful town. The kitchen’s warmth felt stifling as he began to piece together the evidence for her.

“We found a few items of interest. We think there’s a group that’s going to assault the town and try to steal the vault, and they’re going to do so by locking down the main road out of town, the city guard barracks, and of course the bank. We found plans for it left in the room. Seems like he was doing a lot of observation up there.”

The cook continued his work, his movements became more deliberate as he listened. His weathered face remained impassive, but his eyes tracked the conversation with the quiet intensity of someone accustomed to trouble. Tarin, however, seemed to shrink back against the kitchen counter, her hand reaching instinctively for support as the magnitude of the threat became clear.

“That’s horrific news,” Tarin said, her voice hollow with disbelief. “I mean, this town’s festivals—this is the entire region’s taxable income for the year. This maintains our standing army, our roads. Having that taken would be devastating, not only to the town, but to the kingdom.”

Vale’s expression hardened with resolve, his monk’s training evident in the calm certainty of his response. “We can’t let that happen. The vault is quite a tempting target for those who don’t share our sentiment.”

Tarin nodded shakily, her usual confidence replaced by the stark realization of their vulnerability. “I agree, but that sort of malevolence hasn’t existed in Lenthir for ages. We are farmers… Travelers… Ill prepared for an assault on our town.”

Vale continued to work through the fragments they had discovered, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty as he shared the final, crucial detail.

“From what we gathered, there was something about an attack at dawn. There was mention of possibly taking the spoils to Thornvale?” he asked with a question in his tone. “The words we found were limited.”

When asked about Thornvale, Tarin’s expression grew thoughtful as she recalled the distant location. “Half farm, half of a miniature province, but it’s been well abandoned and without hands for years. It was a quaint farm on the edge of the Gloamwood. Its property technically extended into the forest, but why, I don’t know. The Gloamwood is not one to claim property stakes on, that is for sure.”

As Tarin described this peculiar location, the tactical implications immediately crystallized in Vale’s mind. His eyes sought out Cyrene’s, hoping to share his realization without alarming Tarin further. The strategic value was obvious. An abandoned settlement at the forest’s edge would provide the perfect staging ground for any group looking to strike at Greendale and then vanish into the wilderness.

However, Cyrene’s response made it clear his meaningful glance had been entirely misunderstood. Her posture stiffened, and suspicion flashed across her pale features. “Something to say to me?” her voice carried a sharp edge that cut through the kitchen’s warmth.

Vale’s confidence evaporated as he realized how his gesture had been interpreted. Given Cyrene’s connection to darkness and her obvious sensitivity about her heritage, she had clearly assumed his look was one of accusation rather than strategic collaboration.

“It’s just.. I’m saying…” Vale stammered, searching for words that wouldn’t deepen the misunderstanding, “This is painting a picture.”

Cyrene’s defensive wall went up immediately, her voice growing colder. “I know nothing of the Gloamwood. I’m not from there.”

The cook watched this exchange with silent interest, his scarred hands never pausing in their work while his eyes tracked the growing tension between the two companions.

“I’m…” Vale tried again, his usual composure completely fractured, “I’m merely thinking it would be a good place to base an operation out of.”

Finally finding his footing, he began to articulate the strategic assessment that had triggered his original glance. “It’s abandoned, close to town, near the forest which is untraveled due to superstition… Makes sense to me for bandits to take over temporarily.”

Tarin began shaking her head as Vale spoke, her expression skeptical. “Thornvale, it’s but a simple farmhouse. And the Gloamwood… if you could organize anything in there, hell if you’re brave enough to venture in there with the belief that you will return,” she chuckled, “I must disagree. I do not know that Thornvale would be able to harbor such a force without notice.”

Vale nodded thoughtfully, processing her local knowledge against his own observations. “I see your point. But you are missing one thing. This man seems to be… SOMETHING of an outdoorsman, a woodsman. The man was DRIPPING with pine needles - I counted them myself. There must be somethi-”

His train of thought derailed entirely as memory struck him like lightning. “OH WE FOUND BARK!” Vale exclaimed, his scholarly composure completely abandoned in his excitement.

The sudden outburst seemed to unlock something in their normally reserved ranger. “BARK!” Wren shouted with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, her voice echoing off the kitchen walls.

Tarin and Eris both startled at the unexpected volume from the quiet woodswoman, while Vale practically bounced with renewed energy. “Wren, produce the bark!” he pleaded eagerly, gesturing toward her with the fervor of someone who had just solved a crucial puzzle.

As Wren dutifully held out the piece of tree bark they had discovered, the kitchen took on an almost ceremonial quality. Without warning, the gruff, imposing cook abandoned his bubbling pots and waddled over to where Wren stood. His scarred, calloused hand moved with surprising gentleness as he cupped it beneath hers, lifting the bark specimen toward his weathered face.

The entire group watched in fascination as this mountain of a man inhaled deeply, his expression growing thoughtful and contemplative. After a long moment of consideration, his face softened, and when he finally spoke, his voice emerged as a surprisingly gentle, almost shrill sound that seemed to belong to an entirely different person.

“Smells like any other tree.”

The anticlimactic pronouncement hung in the air, deflating the moment’s tension with the matter-of-fact assessment of someone completely unimpressed by their dramatic discovery.

Wren stood frozen in place, her eyes wide as she processed what had just transpired. The contrast between the cook’s intimidating appearance and his unexpectedly gentle, high-pitched voice left her momentarily speechless. She blinked several times, as if trying to reconcile the massive, scarred figure before her with the sound that had just emerged from his throat.

Shaking her head to clear the disorientation and refocus on the matter at hand, she straightened her shoulders and defended her expertise with quiet conviction. “It LOOKS like it’s from the Gloamwood.”

Vale, who was still visibly recovering from his own surprise at the cook’s voice, cleared his throat and attempted to regain control of the conversation. His composed demeanor returned as he processed both pieces of evidence together. “Alright, alright, that’s something.”

The cook returned to his station with the same unhurried waddle, apparently satisfied with his olfactory investigation and showing no awareness of the impact his voice had made on the group. Meanwhile, Vale’s attention shifted back to Tarin, whose earlier fear about being targeted still lingered in her expression.

His tone became more gentle and reassuring as he sought to ease her concerns while acknowledging the reality of the danger. “You bring up a good point. If you really don’t know this man, you probably weren’t being targeted due to who you were, but rather because you knew the man’s face. Cold comfort, I know, but stay low. Keep a weapon handy.”

Tarin’s expression grew thoughtful as she weighed the implications of everything they had discussed. The bustling sounds of the tavern beyond the kitchen seemed distant as she considered the very real threat to her community. When she finally spoke, there was a glimmer of her characteristic humor returning despite the gravity of the situation.

“You know, this town’s wealth, fortune, and food reserves being stolen… I think the town would suffer greatly. I think if I were to be murdered, the town would riot,” she said with a wink in her eye.

Vale couldn’t help but smile at her resilience, appreciating how she could find levity even in dark circumstances. “Well, we need to keep you alive then, doctor’s orders. You definitely carry the life of the inn on your shoulders.”

Tarin’s expression shifted to something more profound, her eyes taking on the distant quality of someone who had learned hard truths about community and interconnection. “You of all people should know that life is only worth as much as all other beings can contribute.”

The monk nodded with deep understanding, his own connection to the mystical forces around them stirring in recognition of a kindred spirit. “I could sense your spirit the moment I walked through those doors. The weave… you put much into it. And it gives back.”

The kitchen fell silent except for the gentle bubbling of the cook’s pots. Even that imposing figure seemed to pause in his work, sensing the weight of the moment. Tarin’s usual animated energy settled into something reverent as she bowed her head, first to Vale, then sweeping her gaze across each member of the group who had committed themselves to protecting everything she held dear.

“Godspeed.”

Vale returned her nod with solemn respect, understanding passing between them that transcended words. With purpose renewed, he turned and departed the kitchen area, his companions following closely behind as they prepared to face whatever dangers awaited them in the growing darkness.

Chapter 7: Gathering Intelligence

Before leaving, they decided to gather more intelligence from the tavern patrons. Vale had noticed several groups that had been there when they arrived, and with the evening crowd settling in and a bit of liquor to loosen tongues, it was a good time to ask questions.

The main hall buzzed with renewed energy as they emerged from the kitchen. Conversations had grown more animated with the passing hours, and the warm glow from oil lamps cast dancing shadows across faces flushed with drink and fellowship. Vale’s practiced eye swept the room, cataloguing the various groups and assessing which might prove most useful to their investigation.

His attention settled on a pair of elves who had claimed a corner table, doing their best to maintain their privacy despite the increasingly boisterous crowd pressing around them. Their posture suggested they were travelers rather than locals, and their careful observation of the human revelry marked them as the sort who noticed details others might miss.

Vale gestured to Eris, and together they made their way through the crowded tavern toward the elves’ secluded table. The two woodland folk were deep in their own hushed conversation, their heads bent close together over their drinks.

Vale greeted the pair of elves in their native tongue, the familiar syllables cutting through their private discussion. Startled by the sudden interruption, both elves looked up with initial surprise at hearing Elvish spoken so close to them. However, their expressions quickly shifted from surprise to recognition as they took in Vale and Eris’s clearly elven features, their wariness giving way to nods of both greeting and respect between kindred.

Continuing in Elvish, Vale’s tone became more urgent as he made his request. “We are pursuing an individual who has malicious intent towards this human town. Spoiling all of the merriment we have come to enjoy. A woodsman, it seems. A fellow who could blend into a crowd. Muscles which are sinewy, not bulky. Meant for speed and lithe, wearing a fabric such as this.”

Vale pulled out the piece of rough cloth they had discovered in room 103, holding it where the elves could examine it in the lamplight. “Covered in signs of the Forest. The scent of campfire smoke lingers from a room away. He seems to have left a few hours ago - any sign of him?”

The elves leaned forward to study the fabric, their keen eyes taking in every detail as they considered Vale’s carefully worded inquiry.

One of the elves brought his hand to his chest and bowed his head slightly in response to Vale’s inquiry. Vale immediately recognized this as a traditional gesture of sympathy and apology, a graceful way of conveying that despite their desire to help, they had nothing useful to offer.

“The southern reaches of the Gloam are not within our jurisdiction. We sparsely keep watch in that region. This domain falls to man and druid,” the elf explained, his tone carrying the formal courtesy typical of his people. “In this day in age, the Elves of Lirithal seldom wander from our home.”

Vale’s expression grew thoughtful as he processed this information, his mind turning over the vast scope of the Gloamwood. The forest was truly immense, stretching far beyond what most outsiders could comprehend. Somewhere deep within its shadowed heart lay Lirithal, the elven homeland that remained hidden from the outside world. Vale had heard whispers that the deeper one traveled into the Gloamwood’s interior, the more arcane and perilous it became—a place where the very laws of nature bent to older, stranger rules.

The weight of this geographical reality settled over him. If their quarry was indeed operating from the forest’s southern edges, they would be venturing into unknown territory.

“I appreciate your attention and concern on this matter,” Vale replied in Elvish, maintaining the formal politeness that elvish discourse required. “Enjoy your drinks - cheers.”

The elves nodded respectfully to Vale, acknowledging both his courtesy and their mutual understanding that the conversation had reached its natural conclusion. They turned back to their private discussion, resuming the hushed tones that had marked their evening.

Vale made his way back through the crowded tavern to where his companions waited, Eris following close behind. The disappointment on his face was evident as he rejoined the group.

“Let’s try a different lead,” he reported, the lack of useful information clear in his voice.

Silas, meanwhile, had been observing a group of three humans who had claimed spots at the far end of the bar. They had been there when the party first arrived, and by now their evening of drinking was clearly showing its effects. One in particular swayed slightly even while seated, his eyes glazed with the telltale sheen of someone well into his cups.

The wizard approached them with his characteristic clinical manner, though he seemed to brace himself for what might prove to be a challenging conversation. “Hail and well met, I am Silas the wizard. Have you, per chance, seen a mysterious woodsman lurking about?”

The most intoxicated of the three cleared his throat with exaggerated effort, his brow furrowing in concentration as he attempted to process the unfamiliar name. When he finally spoke, his gravelly voice slurred through each syllable like he was navigating an obstacle course.

“Si-…Siris?” he drunkenly stammered, squinting at the wizard as if trying to bring him into focus. “Oi, that’s a weird name. You what?”

Silas’s jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes narrowed with the particular brand of patience reserved for those who dealt with the intellectually impaired—whether by nature or by ale. He tried again, this time simplifying his approach. “Have you all seen any suspicious, pine looking men around?”

The drunk man’s face scrunched up in concentration, his mouth working silently as he tried to wrap his tongue around the challenging word. “Sus-pic-ous,” he sounded out with painful deliberation. “Pine…” His expression brightened as if he’d made a great discovery. “Hehehe that’s a funny word - spicious.” He dissolved into giggles at his own linguistic innovation. “Spicious pine, ain’t no pine ‘round ‘ere, that’s all up North.”

Silas rubbed his temple, clearly fighting the urge to abandon this line of inquiry entirely. “Hmmm… Up North, have you seen any Northerners recently?”

The drunk man wobbled precariously in his chair, gripping the bar’s edge to maintain his precarious balance as he focused his bleary attention on this strange, wiry questioner. “Northerners? Like Verdant folk of the Northern kingdom? Couple of ‘em run through the market - not a lot of ‘em. They kind keep to themselves, an angry, military bunch them with their stuck up noses, but a couple of ‘em come down ‘ere to the southern reaches.”

The man’s eyes grew even more distant as he finished speaking, his head swaying slightly as he waited for whatever response might come from the peculiar wizard before him.

Silas turned back toward the group with visible frustration. “This one may be a bit too drunk for valid information.”

“I ain’t drunk, you’re drunk. Want a drink?” the man protested with the wounded dignity of the thoroughly intoxicated.

Silas gave an exasperated sigh, his scholarly composure finally cracking.

“Aye, Tarin, gimmie a shot!” the drunk called out, apparently deciding that if he was going to be accused of being drunk, he might as well lean into it.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much there,” Tarin warned from behind the bar, her voice carrying the firm but kind authority that came from years of managing intoxicated patrons. Her experienced eye could read the signs of someone who had crossed the line from merry to potentially troublesome.

Silas looked back toward the group, confusion evident on his sharp features. His academic background had prepared him for many challenges, but extracting coherent information from thoroughly drunk farmers was apparently not among the skills covered in his scholarly training. Used to discourse with educated individuals who could form complete sentences, the wizard appeared genuinely at a loss for how to proceed.

Vale, observing the situation with the practical eye of someone who had encountered such problems before, recognized that the man might still possess useful information if they could just cut through the alcohol’s effects. His mind immediately turned to his alchemical knowledge, considering what combination of herbs and compounds might help clear the patron’s muddled thoughts.

Moving with purpose, Vale began mixing a quick stimulant, his fingers working deftly to combine ingredients he kept in his travel kit. The mixture would need to be subtle enough to pass unnoticed while effective enough to shake the man from his drunken stupor.

He caught Tarin’s attention with a meaningful look, and she quickly understood his intent. When he gestured toward the drunk patron, she nodded and reached for a clean mug, filling it with clear water that would serve as the perfect vehicle for Vale’s concoction.

“Sir,” Vale offered, approaching the swaying man with the doctored drink, “Have a round on me.”

The drunken patron’s eyes widened in surprise at this unexpected generosity, his befuddled expression brightening considerably. “Oh, I uh, cheers lad! Are ye sure you don’t want ‘un too?”

Vale smiled with practiced ease, maintaining the fiction of simple tavern camaraderie. “Oh, I’ve already had a half shot for the night. I’m a bit of a lightweight.”

“That’s rookie number that half shot there-” the drunken patron exclaimed with the bravado of someone who considered himself a seasoned drinker. Without further ceremony, he tilted the mug back and drained it in one go, though his coordination left much to be desired—liquid dribbled from the corners of his mouth and down into his already ale-stained beard.

Setting the glass down with more force than necessary, he released a thunderous belch that somehow managed to cut through even the tavern’s considerable din. For a moment he sat in simple satisfaction, but then something shifted. His glazed expression flickered with confusion as unfamiliar clarity began to pierce through the alcoholic haze.

One wayward eye that had been drifting lazily suddenly snapped back into focus, aligning with its partner as the alchemical mixture did its work. “Woaah, ohh that there gave me wings! Tarin, two more please!” he requested with renewed energy, though his speech still carried the thick accent of his inebriation.

Vale leaned closer to Silas, his voice barely audible above the tavern noise. “Now is your chance Silas.”

The wizard straightened, seizing the opportunity with scholarly precision. “Ok, sir, now that you are no longer completely drunk out of your mind, have you seen any-”

“I’m still drunk out of my mind,” the patron interrupted matter-of-factly, as if this were an important clarification that needed to be established.

Silas pressed on with admirable persistence. “Have you seen any suspicious pine… men in this tavern?”

The patron’s brow furrowed in concentration as he processed this unusual combination of descriptors. “Suspicious. Pine. Men,” he repeated each word carefully, rolling them around in his mouth like he was tasting wine. “Those are words ‘at don’t go together mate. I don’t know about suspicious-” He paused, his partially-cleared mind apparently making some connection. “I’ll tell you somethin’ ‘bout suspicious, though, there been these lights nor’east of ‘ere at them ole High Watch ruins. Ought’ta tear ‘em down rather than just leave ‘em standin’ there all stoney and like. Them lights are spooky.”

Silas’s expression shifted from frustrated resignation to genuine interest as this unexpected information emerged. “Hmm,” he pondered, turning toward the rest of the party. “I recall as we made our way up the stairs, there were some people talking about some ruins and chanting that was overheard near here.”

The pieces were beginning to form a clearer picture, and the wizard’s academic mind was already working to connect these disparate threads of information.

Vale pulled out his map, unfolding it carefully on the sticky bar surface, and gestured for the man to come closer. “Sir, please point out these ruins to us.”

The patron leaned forward with the exaggerated concentration of someone fighting against their own impaired coordination. His bloodshot eyes focused intently on the parchment as he raised one unsteady finger toward the map. What followed was a comical struggle between intention and execution—his hand wavered and trembled, his finger circling vaguely over different areas as his motor skills betrayed him at every turn.

The rest of the party watched with a mixture of patience and amusement as the man’s finger danced erratically across the map’s surface, occasionally stabbing at completely wrong locations before drifting away again. Finally, after what felt like several long moments of this unsteady choreography, he managed to maintain enough control to indicate a spot northeast of Greendale.

Vale studied the location carefully—the ruins were almost due northeast, perhaps a thirty-minute to hour walk into the rolling hills. The spot was unmarked on his map, so he made a quick notation to remember the position.

“Thank you very much,” Vale said to the man, already noticing subtle signs that his alchemical concoction was beginning to lose its effectiveness. The patron’s posture was becoming more relaxed, and that telltale glassiness was creeping back into his eyes.

“Awe, thank you very much for them there wings! What’s yer recipe for that there- Uh, Tarin, you otta get that there recipe from this man. I could, well I maybe I’d be able to spend a couple more copper pieces-”

Vale quickly interrupted the man’s increasingly scattered rambling before he could reveal too much about the doctored drink. “Will you be here tomorrow night?”

“Oh I’m ‘ere every night,” the man replied with the matter-of-fact tone of someone stating an obvious truth. Then his expression shifted to mild panic as a thought occurred to him. “Oh wait, don’t tell my wife that..”

“I maintain patient confidentiality,” Vale responded dryly, his healer’s training providing the perfect diplomatic answer.

“Oh, I uh, fanks for that there… uh…” The man’s voice trailed off as his eye began to drift out of focus again, the temporary clarity fading like morning mist.

“Enjoy the rest of your night sir,” Vale responded politely, already turning back toward his companions as the farmer settled back into his previous state of contented inebriation.

Chapter 8: The High Watch Ruins

The urgency of their discoveries weighed heavily on the party as they departed the Third Onion Tavern. The evening air carried a chill that seemed to mirror the growing dread of what dawn might bring to Greendale. Their footsteps echoed across the nearly empty market square as they made their way back to the guard barracks, where Captain Aldrich would need to hear the full scope of the threat facing his town.

The captain’s weathered face grew increasingly grave as Vale outlined their findings—the surveillance, the mapped assault plan, the coordination between multiple targets. When they finished their report, Aldrich sat in stunned silence for a long moment before his military training reasserted itself. He immediately began issuing orders to spread his limited guard force across the town rather than concentrating them in the barracks, and to discretely relocate their few functional weapons to prevent them from becoming sitting ducks in a single location.

But even as they coordinated these defensive preparations, the party knew they needed more intelligence about their enemies. The mysterious lights at the old High Watch ruins demanded investigation, and with each passing minute, the autumn sun sank lower toward the horizon. Soon darkness would cloak the countryside, providing both cover for their approach and concealment for whatever sinister activities might be taking place among those ancient stones.

Time was running short, but they had to know what they were truly facing when dawn came to Greendale.

The party headed northeast out of Greendale as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the landscape. They began their journey through the familiar sight of well-tended farmland that surrounded the town—neat rows of harvested fields stretched in all directions, separated by low stone walls and wooden fences that marked property boundaries. The rich, dark soil spoke of generations of careful cultivation, and the scent of freshly turned earth mingled with the lingering smoke from distant hearths.

But Greendale’s agricultural embrace extended only so far. Within the first mile, the ordered farmland began to give way to wilder country. The flat fields gradually swelled into gentle slopes, then more pronounced rolling hills that rose and fell like a great green sea frozen in time. Ancient oak trees dotted the landscape, their gnarled branches reaching toward the darkening sky, while patches of wild grass and bramble reclaimed areas where farming had never taken hold.

As they continued their trek for about thirty minutes, the terrain grew increasingly dramatic. The soft hills hardened into rocky outcroppings, and sparse clusters of hardy pine and birch trees clung to the slopes where soil could find purchase. The ground beneath their feet became uneven and treacherous, with loose stones that clattered away at the slightest touch. Soon they found themselves navigating between towering stone formations and sheer drops that spoke of some ancient geological upheaval.

Recognizing the need for stealth as they approached their destination, Vale wove a spell of concealment around the group. The magic settled over them like an invisible shroud, muffling their sounds and ensuring that their passage would leave no trace for any who might follow.

They found themselves at the base of a ruined watchtower sitting atop a modest hill roughly two miles east of Greendale, accessible by a winding dirt path that had become overgrown with brambles and weeds. The ruins consisted of what was once a small watchtower and adjacent guard house, built decades ago when bandit activity was more common in the region. Abandoned for nearly twenty years, nature had begun to reclaim the stone structures, with ivy creeping up the walls and small saplings taking root in cracks between the stones.

A large, crumbling bridge stretched across a chasm, connecting the overgrown path to the watchtower proper. The stonework showed its age—several blocks had fallen away entirely, leaving gaps that revealed the dark depths below. Yet the structure appeared stable enough to cross, if one was careful about foot placement.

Everyone except Fiona and Cyrene immediately noticed several disturbing details: pale blue-green light emanated from within the tower like some unholy beacon, the usual chorus of evening insects had fallen completely silent, and a faint acrid smell hung in the air—something like burning herbs mixed with the sickly sweet scent of decay. Most concerning of all were the fresh footprints pressed into the dirt approaches, accompanied by drag marks that suggested heavy objects had been pulled across the bridge recently.

As they made their way across the bridge with Wren leading, their magical concealment proved effective despite some close calls with loose stones and unstable footing. Wren’s careful investigation revealed no traps on the bridge itself, but as they approached the entrance to the watchtower, she raised her hand in a silent warning. Her keen ears had detected something that made her blood run cold—low murmuring that sounded unmistakably like chanting drifting from somewhere inside the ancient building.

Wren raised her hand in a silent gesture, then began communicating what she had heard through a series of quick, precise hand signals. Most of the group understood the common sign language used by scouts and rangers—enough to comprehend her warning about chanting voices within the ruins. The gravity of her expression made it clear that whatever was happening inside was both active and potentially dangerous.

Positioning herself at the edge of the entrance, Wren peered carefully into the shadowed interior of the ancient watchtower. Her eyes, well-adapted to reading the subtle signs of the wilderness, quickly adjusted to the dim light and identified the source of both the eerie illumination and the disturbing sounds.

Eight humanoid shapes moved in the deeper recesses of the ruined chamber, their forms swaying and gesturing in the unnatural, ritualistic motions of those channeling dark forces. They surrounded a makeshift ritual circle that had been carved or arranged among the rubble and debris of the abandoned structure.

In the center of this profane arrangement, a thin young man in dark robes knelt with both hands pressed firmly against a small mound of freshly turned earth. Candles had been arranged in a precise geometric pattern around the circle, their flames burning with an unnatural blue-green light that cast writhing shadows across the crumbling stone walls. The air itself seemed to shimmer with barely visible magical energy that those attuned to the weave could feel being drawn upon and manipulated.

The central figure appeared to be perhaps nineteen years old, his pale complexion made even more ghostly by the strange light. Dark hair hung limp and greasy around a gaunt face marked by the telltale signs of sleepless nights and overwhelming worry. His robes were clearly tattered and secondhand, far too large for his slight frame, and bore the stains of grave dirt and what looked disturbingly like dried tears. His hands trembled constantly against the earthen mound—whether from magical exertion, physical exhaustion, grief, fear, or barely contained rage, it was impossible to determine from this distance.

Fiona’s keen eyesight, a gift of her orcish heritage, pierced through the unnatural shadows where human eyes might struggle. What she saw sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the evening air. The eight humanoid figures weren’t living beings at all—they were animated skeletons, their bones held together by dark magic and draped in the tattered remnants of clothing that spoke of recent graves disturbed.

Vale’s extensive knowledge of both life and death magic allowed him to sense the competing forces at work within the ritual circle. The presence of both energies in such close proximity was deeply troubling—necromancy typically dealt with death and decay, but the threads of life magic woven throughout suggested something far more complex and dangerous than simple undead animation.

The mound at the center of the ritual circle told its own grim story. Roughly three and a half feet long and two feet in diameter, it was unmistakably a grave, though far too small to contain an adult human. The earth appeared freshly turned, dark and rich against the ancient stone floor of the watchtower.

The ritual circle itself had clearly required significant effort to construct. The stones used to mark its boundaries were much darker than the weathered gray blocks of the surrounding ruins, suggesting they had been dragged from elsewhere—perhaps from some other sacred or significant site. Given the young necromancer’s slight build and the obvious exhaustion written across his features, it seemed impossible that he could have moved such heavy stones alone, yet there was no sign of assistants among the living.

Vale’s mind raced through the legal and moral implications of what lay before them. In Eldara, necromancy wasn’t merely frowned upon—it was considered one of the most heinous crimes against the natural order, punishable by immediate execution without trial. The practice of disturbing the dead, raising skeletons, or manipulating the boundary between life and death was universally condemned as an abomination that threatened the very fabric of society.

Yet as Vale studied the young man at the center of the ritual, he saw not a malevolent dark wizard drunk on forbidden power, but someone consumed by grief and desperation. The tears staining the boy’s robes, the way his entire body trembled with exhaustion and emotion, the small size of the grave he knelt beside—all of it spoke to a personal tragedy rather than megalomaniacal ambition.

His training in the Way of Mercy warred with the kingdom’s harsh laws. This was clearly a grave violation by any legal or moral standard, but Vale had sworn oaths to preserve life and offer redemption where possible. Perhaps there was still a chance to resolve this without bloodshed, to reach whatever humanity remained in the grief-stricken necromancer before them.

With silent gestures, Vale directed his companions to take strategic positions around the ruins. The group moved with practiced stealth—Wren melting into the shadows near a collapsed wall, Silas positioning himself behind a fallen stone block, Fiona finding cover near the rear of the structure, and Eris and Cyrene taking positions that would allow them to respond quickly if negotiations failed.

Vale took a deep breath, centering himself in the principles of his monastic training. If this went wrong, they would all be fighting for their lives against both the desperate necromancer and his undead servants. But if there was even the slightest chance of ending this peacefully, his oath demanded he try.

Chapter 9: Whiskers

The ancient stones seemed to hold their breath as Vale stepped deliberately into the ruined watchtower. His footsteps echoed softly against the crumbling walls, each sound carrying the weight of authority and measured calm. The unnatural blue-green light flickered across his masked features as he surveyed the scene before him.

Walking calmly into the ruins, Vale whistled to get attention. “Hey.”

The casual greeting cut through the ritualistic chanting like a blade. Several skeletons turned their hollow eye sockets toward him with the mechanical precision of puppets responding to their master’s distress, but the young necromancer remained hunched over the small grave, his entire being focused on the delicate magic he was weaving.

Vale’s call finally penetrated the boy’s concentration. His eyes shot up from the earthen mound, wild and desperate, and the carefully maintained magical energy around him faltered like a candle in a sudden wind. When he saw Vale standing there with the unmistakable bearing of authority, something inside him shattered completely.

“Stay back! I won’t let you stop me! He deserves to live! I don’t care that it’s illegal! I don’t care that I’m breaking the laws! He deserves to live! And I will bring him back!”

The words tore from his throat in a shrill, youthful voice cracked with exhaustion and grief. The skeletons surrounding him responded to his agitation like extensions of his own tortured emotions, becoming restless and reaching for the rusty weapons that hung at their sides.

Vale remained perfectly still, his voice carrying the quiet strength of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “Sir, I’m a merciful man. I’m going to give you one chance to stop the ritual that you’re doing and come with us, or I’m going to have to stop you by force.”

For just a moment, hope flickered in the young necromancer’s eyes as he recognized something in Vale’s tone—not the cold judgment of an executioner, but the measured authority of someone who might actually listen. He faltered, his trembling hands pulling back slightly from the grave as he processed the monk’s words. Fear and panic warred visibly with his grief and determination, playing across his gaunt features like shadows cast by dancing flames.

But then reality crashed back over him. This was still an official who could serve a death sentence upon him. This was still someone who would take him away from his purpose, from his desperate mission of love and loss.

His head shook slowly at first, then more violently, his brow furrowing as anger began to build alongside the fear and panic already consuming him. Tears started streaming down his dirt-stained cheeks, cutting clean tracks through the grime as his voice rose to a heartbreaking crescendo:

“Whiskers doesn’t deserve this!”

The name hung in the air like a physical blow—not some dark lord or fallen hero, but a beloved companion whose loss had driven this boy to break the most fundamental laws of nature itself. In that single, heart-wrenching cry, the full tragedy of the situation became clear.

The skeletons surged forward with renewed purpose, their master’s final declaration of defiance animating them with terrible resolve. As the sound of bone against stone filled the ancient ruins and Vale’s companions prepared to emerge from their hiding places, the first battle of what promised to be a very long night was about to begin in the haunted ruins of High Watch.