28 March, 103 CY
The surviving adventurers returned with Syler’s body to Winterhaven around mid-morning. They were still covered in blood and received more than a few terrified looks from the people in the village. The outer gate guards welcomed them back and commented that they’d felt the eeriness of the last several days lift earlier in the morning. When asked where to find a “Spirit Priest,” as Etholin referred to it, the guards directed the group to the Temple of Avandra.
They’d returned on a market day and the open space in front of Wrafton’s inn was filled with merchant carts and stands, selling a variety of goods. Tolis-Va stopped one of the locals and asked for more specific directions to the temple, and the stuttering man looked nervously over the bloody group, focusing particularly on the dead halfling held in one of Balasar’s arms. The man was visibly shaken as he pointed them to the southwest corner of the walled city. He practically sprinted away after the adventurers set off again.
Sister Linora was nonplussed by the arrival of the bloody band of mercenaries, and she had them bring the halfling’s body back into a room used to prepare the dead for burial. When they informed her that they wanted him brought back, she said that such a thing was possible, but that it would cost 500 gold. Balasar reached into Syler’s magic bag and produced the money necessary for the ritual. She nodded and told them it would take several hours and that they should go get cleaned up in the meantime.
They left the church, and decided that they wanted to talk to Padraig. The guards at the inner gate went to fetch him, and he approached a few minutes later. He was overjoyed at their success and temporarily saddened by the loss of Syler. When he was told that Sister Linora was at work bringing him back from the dead he smiled, thanked them again, and said he would bring the money he owed them to Wrafton’s Inn.
Most of the party went to get cleaned up, but Tolis-Va stopped in the market square to buy fresh clothes to replace his ruined and blood-stained ones. Then they all had a good scrub and enjoyed a free lunch prepared by Salvana. Douven expressed his concern that they’d been gone for two days with no word, and they recounted their experiences of the last couple of days. True to his word, Padraig brought them a large bag of gold.
Valthrun the Prescient was summoned and he spoke with Etholin in detail about the ritual that Kalarel had attempted. They went over the tome that the eladrin had recovered from the site of the Shadow Rift, and Valthrun was impressed with the magnitude of the rites. He mentioned that he had a few ritual tomes for sale, should Etholin have an interest in purchasing them. The wizard agreed, and left for awhile to peruse what the sage had to offer.
. . .
“-ucker!” shouted Syler as he sat up on the cold concrete slab. He found himself in an unfamiliar room, clean, and wearing only a white linen robe. A woman he barely recognized as the priestess who’d collected Ninaran’s body smiled at him and said, “Welcome back.”
“Where’s my stuff?” he asked bluntly.
“The others put it into a magical bag and carried it away. I imagine they are somewhere in town. They left you here several hours ago so that I could perform the ritual to bring you back to life.”
“Huh,” the halfling commented, putting things together in his head. “Hey, did they happen to say which of them killed the lead cultist?”
The priestess shook her head, “They did not go into the gory details, I’m afraid.”
Syler shrugged and hopped down. “Well. You know… Thanks,” he said, not ungraciously. “I guess I should,” he said, motioning to the door, “go find ‘em.” She nodded and led him back into the chapel as the other adventurers returned. They tossed the bag of holding back to the halfling, and he stuck his head inside to see that all his stuff was there. “Hey!” he complained, “I’m missing a lot of gold!” He glared at his allies.
“Yes,” said Etholin, “the ritual to raise the dead is quite costly.”
The halfling looked at the priestess again with a new appreciation, “And they call me a thief.”
She merely smiled and winked at the rogue, “There is always room for one more in the flock, if you were considering changing professions.” The halfling snorted and they adventurers walked back out of the church, bound for Wrafton’s Inn.
. . .
It was a hell of a party. “Wine, women, and booze!” Etholin kept requesting, and the people of Winterhaven were happy to oblige. Old Eilian was deep into his cups before the festivities truly began. Syler alternated bouncing a couple of young halfling women on his knee, finding them both in his lap as the night progressed. Balasar saw a pale-skinned lass, who smiled shyly and kept trying not to stare. Everyone enjoyed themselves thoroughly.
Late into the celebration, Bairwin Wildarson approached their table with a smile and asked, “May I sit with you a moment?” Balasar pulled a chair from another table and made some space for the merchant. He sat with a smile and a nod of appreciation as Syler called out, “Another round on this guy!” pointing at the store owner. The man chuckled and nodded to Salvana who sent a wench with a fresh pitcher. “I too wish to offer my thanks for your efforts on our behalf. I have another offer, as well. I know you are traveling back to Fallcrest in the morning, and I have business in that direction. I know you are more than capable of protecting my merchandise, but what I have in mind also requires discretion. Are you interested?”
“What’s discretion?” the dragonborn asked bluntly.
The merchant smiled patiently, “Let me explain. This needs to be handled quietly. I have competitors throughout the Vale who would love to know my source for some of my more… exotic… goods. Can I count on your help and your ability to keep a trade secret?”
“Interested!” Syler cried out happily, eliciting another dubious smirk from Wildarson.
“Excellent! I have an item for an associate of mine in the Seven-Pillared Hall, which is located east of Fallcrest. It is a rough-and-tumble place beneath Thunderspire Mountain, but you can obviously handle yourselves in a fight, and I have good contacts there. I am certain you shan’t run into any trouble with which you cannot deal. Your purpose will be to deliver the package to a man named Gendar. Introduce yourselves and tell him you represent me, and he will give you my goods. Then, simply return them to me here in Winterhaven. I would go myself, but I owe a significant sum of money to Brugg, the ogre enforcer who serves the Mages of Saruun. This deal should rectify that.”
“Ogres, huh?” asked Syler suspiciously, fixing a bleary-eyed gaze on the merchant.
“Yes, he’s something of a sheriff in the hall, and a little too thick and impatient to listen to me explain how allowing me to conduct the deal with Gendar would result in him getting paid all the sooner. Thus, the need for intermediaries, you see?” The adventurers nodded although comprehension was a little slower to arrive. “It is a simple courier task, but it is one for which I will pay your group 500 gold pieces.”
Syler muttered something under his breath about being able to afford another resurrection, and then he said, “Could we get an advance for equipment and such?”
“I’m afraid, Master Syler, that this job is cash on delivery,” replied Wildarson.
“Okay, but I have one thing I require,” announced the halfling, pausing for a few seconds, although if it was to increase the drama or to give him time to remember what he was about to ask for, no one would ever know. “Eight hand crossbow bolts.”
This elicited another sincere smirk of amusement from the merchant, and he said, “You drive a hard bargain, sir, but your terms are acceptable. What say the rest of you?” When he saw the drunken looks upon their faces he said, “How about this? If you decide to accept my offer, meet me at my shop in the morning before you leave. Enjoy the rest of the night!” He stood and ordered yet another round for the table before exiting the inn.
After the merchant left, Morthos remembered the letter to Kalarel from Chief Krand of the Bloodreavers and reminded the others. “I’m sure Lord Padraig will want to see that,” said the tiefling. They agreed to bring it to the lord’s attention in the morning. Syler and Tolis-Va discussed the possibility of leveraging the information into a larger reward somehow, and Balasar just stared at them and called them greedy. They just laughed it off. The revelries lasted well into the night.
29 March, 103 CY
The adventurers left Douven Stahl at Wrafton’s to pack up the last of his belongings while they went to run a few final errands. They stopped by the guards at the inner gate who agreed to fetch Lord Padraig for them, although they suggested it might take some time to rouse him as he was likely hungover as well. Then they made their way to Bairwin’s Grand Shoppe, where they spoke with the proprietor once more about the offer. He withdrew a small chest the size of a long dagger from behind the bar, the package he would need delivered to his contact Gendar. After a few more questions regarding the nature of the package and any possible dangers it might bring on them, they accepted the deal and slipped the chest into the bag of holding. “Remember,” Bairwin said, “give Gendar my name, but don’t use it elsewhere.” He then purchased the small dragon statues provided to them outside of Sir Keegan’s tomb from everyone except for Morthos, who felt inclined to hold onto his for a little longer. He also provided the promised crossbow bolts and refreshed their adventuring packs before they bid him good day.
Padraig was concerned by the letter and suggested that they bring it to the attention of Lord Warden Faren Markelhay in Fallcrest. Syler asked Padraig to write them a letter of introduction, and the man happily obliged. This bit of business concluded, they thanked him once more, collected Douven from Wrafton’s and walked out the gates of Winterhaven, their praises on the lips of all who saw them pass.
30 March, 103 CY
About mid-day, as they walked along the Old King’s Road, they stopped short as they saw a goblin make a beeline from the trees, a pack of wolves (and a dire wolf!) hot on its heels. Looking more closely, Tolis-Va and Syler could see that the goblin was none other than Splug, whom they had released from a cell in Shadowfell Keep. The goblin scrambled up the side of a nearby boulder and upon seeing the party members squeaked, “Save me!!!”
The wolves were no match for the adventurers and fell swiftly before their blades, arrows, and magic. Afterwards, Splug thanked them vigorously for saving him… again. Douven was startled by the goblin’s friendly demeanor and kept looking to Morthos for an explanation. The tiefling could only smile and shrug his shoulders.
Splug clutched a strange wooden device and spoke very quickly, informing them that he had been waiting for them, hoping they would be along the road. He’d met the kobold captives the adventurers had set free and got them to let him come with them. He led them to the caves, where there were only three kobold soldiers waiting. They said that they’d been attacked by hobgoblins and unfortunately, the wyrmpriest had been killed before the warriors had defeated the slavers. Still, the kobolds had been reunited and started along their path.
“I couldn’t convince them to allow me to come along with them. Something about how they weren’t comfortable, what with my people having imprisoned theirs. I mean, I get it, but it still sucked. I really liked those guys. Ah, well.”
“Splug,” asked Etholin, “What is that you’re holding?”
“This?” said the goblin, smiling with joy in his eyes, “is my future. I made it while I was waiting for you guys to show up. It… is my lute.” He held the crude instrument up proudly for all for all of them to see. Etholin asked to inspect the… “lute,” and the goblin happily handed it over. It did not even approach being in tune, but it was still technically functional. Thinking a hammer might be the best way to improve upon the device, Etholin smiled and did what he could to bring the “instrument” closer to good. His efforts were largely ceremonial.
While the wizard tinkered with the goblin’s creation, Splug had started speaking to Balasar, “I think maybe you were right about having a weapon. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s dangerous out here! Maybe I ought to also get a gang, like you guys have.” He smiled thoughtfully for a few moments, “Well, I just thought you guys would like to know that the kobolds you cut the deal with dealt straight. I should probably get going.” He paused for a moment, “Say, you guys wouldn’t happen to have any booze, wouldja? The kobolds took all the rotgut from Shadowfell Keep, and my flask is bone dry.” Etholin sighed and handed the goblin the bottle of wine that he’d found in the hobgoblin warchief’s council room. Splug looked at it askance, but did accept it. “I mean… if this is all ya got, that’s fine. Goblins and eladrin clearly don’t have similar palates.” He popped the cork and started guzzling the wine, stopping every few gulps to complain about how awful it tasted. Etholin winced at the waste as the goblin spilled some on his chest as he uncouthly finished the bottle.
“Did it at least have some effect,” asked the wizard, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Man, I don’t even feel a buzz,” commented the goblin. Then he fell face first in the road, snoring blissfully. Everyone looked down at the creature and then up at each other again, shaking their heads.
“We can’t just leave him here,” said Syler. “More wolves might come.”
Balasar nodded and picked Splug up by the scruff of his neck, then he continued walking down the road as the goblin slept.
. . .
As evening approached, Splug regained consciousness. “Wha? Who? Where are we?” he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Are you alright?” asked Tolis-Va. “That wine hit you hard.”
“Oh yea, that. Yea, I’m good. I was having a dream about titties,” the goblin replied.
“Splug, you are my hero,” Etholin said, uncharacteristically.
The goblin smiled, “Hey, thanks. You guys are my heroes, too.”
“So, where will you go?” asked Syler. “We’re heading for Fallcrest, so…”
“Yea, I can’t go there with you. People just wouldn’t understand.” He stood in the road, tapping his foot, his chin in one hand as he thought about it. “I think I’ll go south, to the Witchlight Fens. Gotta avoid the Harken Wood,” he said looking at Tolis-Va. “Most elves are twitchy when they see a goblin. Shoot first, ask questions never, you know what I’m sayin’?” The ranger chuckled a bit. “But not you, man. You’re different. And I appreciate it. But yea, I’ll go to the Fens, and maybe get some more guys together and try to get this music thing down.”
“Here, I’ve got something for you,” said Syler pulling out a dagger followed by his old short sword. The goblins eyes teared up as the halfling presented the weapons to him.
“You guys are the best!” said the goblin through his misty eyes. “Now I’ve got a fighting chance against the beasts of the wild. No! More! Now I’m invincible!” he declared, raising both blades above his head triumphantly.
“Be sure to spread the word about us,” Etholin said, smiling behind his hand.
“Oh, every goblin in the fens will know your names after I…” Splug interrupted himself. “Hey, I don’t even know your names. What do you guys call yourselves, anyway?”
“The Fab Five,” Tolis-Va commented, deadpan.
“The Fab Five,” Splug repeated. “Righteous.” He began walking south, away from the road. As he walked, he held up his left hand, his five fingers spread wide. “Fab Five For Life!” he cried out.
Morthos sighed.
31 March, 103 CY
In the evening, they arrived in Fallcrest and moved straight for Douven’s house. Bahla was happy to see them all and alternated between praising the boys and scolding her husband as she prepared them all a fantastic dinner. Douven took it in stride and was appropriately contrite throughout the tongue lashing. Everyone shared tales of their adventure in Winterhaven and accepted the offer to spend the night on the Stahl’s living room floor. As the night wound down, the adventurers discussed the many meetings and errands they needed to run in the morning.
1 April, 103 CY
The adventurers divided their tasks Syler and Tolis-Va made their way to Parle Cranewing’s map shop, while Etholin and Balasar went to speak with Marla at the Great Church and Morthos requested an audience with Lord Warden Markelhay before making a trip out to visit his parents’ farm.
The halfling spread the bloodstained map out on a table for Cranewing’s inspection. The old man asked a number of questions about the accuracy of scale and dimensions of the rooms, as well as requesting details about inscriptions and things of that nature. Syler grew concerned about the scholar’s lack of interest in the warnings of danger that he and Tolis-Va kept trying to give, and he pulled back some of the pieces of the map. “Listen, old man. Not for nothin’, but I’ve gotta know what you’re going to use this map for. I can’t just hand it over if you’re going to go back in there heedless of our warnings of the hell we had to go through to get this for you.”
Cranewing tutted and replied, “Young man, I am an eccentric. I have no interest in adventures or bringing about the ruin of this region. My interest in this map is a historical one. I’m researching various architectural designs of the late empire in order to complete a treatise on the subject for my own personal collection. I offered they reward so that you would brave whatever dangers there might be, so that I would not have to. Does that satisfy you?” he asked, dropping a heavy purse of gold on the table top.
“Alright, then,” the halfling answered, taking the sack of gold.
“And should you have an interest, you might speak with the local sage Nimozaran the Green. He is a colleague of mine; we share an interest in ancient ruins. His latest obsession is the minotaur city beneath Thunderspire Mountain, and if you’re in the mood for more explorations, he might have additional work for you.”
. . .
Marla was pleased to receive the news that Kalarel and his cultists had been thwarted. She took possession of the ritual tome that Etholin recovered as well as the evil cleric’s staff and helmet, which Balasar had carried from the ruin. They told her the story of that final encounter, and she offered some insight into the nature of the ritual. She asserted that the statues of Orcus, particularly the large one, had likely served as a focus for the energy necessary to fuel the ritual. Kalarel had likely used his own life force as the primary source, augmented and kept flowing properly by the blood gushing from the altar in the Cathedral of Shadows above. He had used the book to orchestrate these elements, and based on their description, he had come perilously close to success. When he was slain, the main energy source was removed, and the entire ritual had collapsed in on itself. The creature reaching from the portal, likely in desperation, sought to reclaim the power source as it fell. Ultimately, it seemed that it had been unsuccessful.
The cleric gave the young men a bag of gold for their efforts, then assured them that she would bring the existence of the rift to the attention of her superiors. She would also work toward putting together an expedition to improve the wards so that another attempt would be far more difficult to accomplish. The region certainly didn’t need another Kalarel trying to bring an undead army from the Shadowfell. It had enough problems.
. . .
The adventurers regrouped in the early afternoon, where Morthos informed them that he’d set a meeting with the Lord Warden closer to evening. As they had time to kill and money to burn, they went out into the markets to spend their hard-earned gold. While they were out, they noticed a posting on the wall of many of the shops offering 500 gp for the safe return of some dozen residents of the barony of Harkenwold, who were taken from their village, apparently by hobgoblins. Once they’d acquired their gear, they went to city hall to await the meeting with the Lord Warden.
The seat of Lord Warden Faren Markelhay, Moonstone Keep was an old castle that sat atop a steep-sided hill overlooking the town of Fallcrest. The outer bailey was said to include barracks housing up to sixty town guards. At any given time about twenty or so were off-duty. Other buildings in the courtyard included a stable, an armory, a chapel, a smithy, and several storehouses. The keep was a large D-shaped building at the north end of the castle.
Faren Markelhay was a balding, middle-aged human with a keen mind and a dry wit. He was interested in the adventurers’ news from Winterhaven, and after he read the letter of introduction from Lord Padraig, he was more inclined to give credence to their words. He skimmed the letter from Krand to Kalarel, and nodded to himself. “Aye, we’ve got information that suggests the hobgoblins who stole the folks from Riverdown were bound for Thunderspire, as well. It seems the Mages of Saruun do not have as firm a hold on that place as they thought. Or perhaps they do, and that is a more troubling thought. Whatever the case, the Bloodreavers must be stopped.”
“We saw a notice saying that Baron Stockmer is offering a reward for the return of those villagers,” prompted Morthos.
“Indeed, and I will pay that bounty should you succeed. The old man will then owe me a debt of gratitude, and in these times one cannot have enough friends. Additionally, should you put an end to the Bloodreavers’ threat… by putting this Chief Krand to the sword, for example… I would pay you 1,000 gold for evidence of the deed.” It was all he had to say.
. . .
The self-styled High Septarch of Fallcrest, Nimozaran the Green was an excitable old fellow. When the adventurers came to call upon him in his tower, he answered the door himself and asked them about their business. They mentioned Thunderspire, and that they’d been told he might have some information about it, and he welcomed them in with a smile, growing notably more animated.
“Yes, yes. Thunderspire Mountain. Fascinating place. Were you aware that this valley was once ruled by the minotaur lords of the underground city of Saruun Khel? Sadly, it disappeared from history’s stage about three hundred years ago. However, two specific parts of the city are said to remain. They appear in various texts about Thunderspire Mountain — the Labyrinth and the Seven-Pillared Hall. I’ve heard recent rumors speak of the Mages of Saruun — modern arcanists who seem to have some influence in what remains of the ruined city. They seem to be keeping some sort of order there, but with the stories of these kidnappings and rumblings about slavery… It’s all terribly mysterious,” his excitement regarding these terrible mysteries was palpable.
“If you are going there (and I encourage you to do so!) I would greatly appreciate it if you would collect some relics of that fallen city and perhaps return to me with tales of your experiences beneath the mountain. I would so like to learn what has become of that ancient civilization. I can offer gold,” he offered, then looked to Etholin, “and a powerful ritual book from my own collection in return for your stories and any relics you might recover.”
Their destination seemed clear.
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