Nobody dared move or speak; the wolves sounded mean, hungry, and entirely feral. Instead, they focused on getting their bearings and adjusting to the dimmer light inside the cavern. Of the group, only Orsik and Ielenia could see in the dark owing to the enhanced gifts of their respective races; the others blinked and squinted their eyes, hoping to help them adapt.

 They were standing on a narrow strip of packed earth, sandwiched between the stream and the damp rock walls. A few uneven stone steps, crudely and hastily fashioned, led up to a small, dank chamber on the east side of the cavern, where the sounds of wild savagery were loud and persistent, and the stench of wet fur and animal excrement was thick and pervasive.

Orsik, finding himself nearest the front, crept towards the steps and stole a glimpse into the chamber. Three wolves, large but not well-fed, stood snarling and snapping at each other, at the rust-coloured chains restraining them, and at the black-and-silver head of the dwarf who was now looking at them. The wolves were the only visible creatures in the room; their chains led to an iron rod, driven into the base of a stalagmite. A pile of discarded rubbish lay at the far end, beneath what looked to be a natural fissure in the rock. Orsik brought his head back around the corner. “Three wolves,” he whispered to the group. “Mean-looking beasts. No goblins.”

Anders reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of salted beef strips. Clutching them in one hand, he placed the other hand on Orsik’s shoulder to slowly shift past him and enter the area. All three wolves stood, hackles raised and low growls filling their throats; their eyes were glassy and crazed with hunger, and he could see their ribs protruding from their matted fur. These wolves were clearly not being kept as pets.

He tossed the beef behind the wolves; they scrambled to devour it, snarling and snapping at each other, while Anders moved swiftly across the chamber to the other side. The beef did not last long, and the wolves lunged against their chains.

Westra and Trym followed suit, tossing a pair of apples and a cooked cold quarter-chicken, joining Anders on the other side of the chamber. Ielenia sighed and cast Mage Armor on herself, before moving into the chamber. She tossed a crust of bread, but the wolves had grown wise to this trick and now seemed to be more interested in the elf as a potential meal. The one closest to her lunged, jaws open wide; she leapt back gracefully, and the wolf’s fangs snapped shut on the hem of her dress. Orsik ran to her side, muttering a quick prayer to Marthammor Duin as he loosened his warhammer from its sling. The other two wolves leapt at him, thick spittle flying from their mouths as they tried to bite him, but the dwarf was nimble enough to avoid injury. For how long, he couldn’t say; he and Ielenia were still inside the radius of the wolves’ chains.

Trym leapt into action; drawing her shortsword, she darted out behind Anders and slashed at the wolf closest to her. The wolf yelped, dropping to its knees momentarily before struggling to rise, giving Trym enough time to retreat behind Anders once more.

Ielenia, angry about her torn dress, aimed her Ray of Frost as the offending wolf before darting to the other side of the chamber where the others waited. The wolf Trym had injured attempted to snap at the elf as she moved; Anders brought his greatsword down towards its head. The sword did not make contact, but it was enough to allow Ielenia to reach safety.

Westra launched a javelin towards the wolf farthest from her, the same wolf who was cornering Orsik. The steel tip pierced the wolf’s torso, drawing squeals and snarls from the beast as it turned its head towards the wound, trying to remove the javelin with its teeth. Orsik took advantage of its distraction, and brought his warhammer down onto the wolf’s head, killing it instantly; he too moved to the other side of the chamber.

The remaining two wolves, enraged that they could no longer reach the intruders, lunged hard against their chains; the iron rod holding the chains shifted slightly, and a crack appeared in the stalagmite to which it was secured.

Trym darted out from behind Anders again, stabbing forward – the wolf she struck dropped to the ground, dead. Anders raised his sword again to finish the last wolf, but the arrow wound from his earlier encounter with the goblins interfered and he dropped his arm with a grunt of pain and frustration. Westra stepped forward, swinging her greataxe low, and swiftly ended the lone wolf’s miserable life.

The sudden quietness of the chamber was in stark contrast to the cacophony caused by the wolves – there was only the heavy breathing of the adventurers, the gentle gurgle of the stream, and the occasional plip of condensation falling from the cave roof to the stone floor. Trym walked over to the rubbish pile and examined it; it was mostly bones with scraps of cooked meat still attached. She looked up above the pile into the steep, dark chimney. “Orsik,” she whispered. “Can I get some light?”

Orsik nodded. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of phosphorescent moss. Holding the moss and touching the hilt of her shortsword, he muttered an incantation and Trym’s sword began to glow with a steady blue light. She removed the sword in its scabbard from her belt, and held it aloft towards the fissure; she could see that the opening was at least wide enough to fit through, but she couldn’t see much more than that. Cursing her short stature, she looked at Anders. 

“Care for a boost?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Begrudgingly, she nodded, and Anders walked over to her. He lowered his hands; Trym placed her foot in his cupped palms, and her free hand on his shoulder for balance. Slowly, he raised the halfling up until she disappeared into the fissure.

She looked up, using the light from her sword to see, and listened intently. There were sounds coming from the chamber above: goblinspeak, a wolf snarling and barking, a goblin yelping in pain, and a booming, guttural laugh. The fissure formed a sort of natural chimney, which she judged to be about thirty feet high. She reached down and tapped Anders on the hand, indicating that she wanted to be lowered down.

When her feet touched the ground again, she restrapped her sword to her waist. “It’s wide enough to climb up,” she said. “I could hear goblins, and maybe a wolf, and definitely somebody bigger. Could be their leader, but I couldn’t hear enough to say for sure.”

“How high does it go?” Westra asked, concern evident on her face as she looked into the now-dark chimney. 

Trym shrugged. “Twenty-five, maybe thirty feet. Hard to say for sure.”

Ielenia gestured to the other end of the chamber they were in. “What about the other way?” she asked. 

“We don’t know what creatures we might face that way,” Trym replied.

“We do not particularly understand what we could face above, either,” Ielenia retorted. “You did not see. You only heard and guessed at what was up there.”

Westra held up her hands, stopping the two of them from getting into a heated debate. “Why don’t we have a look at the other path just to see what it looks like, and then we can make an informed decision?” Trym rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, while Ielenia strode across the chamber, holding the hem of her dress above her knees to avoid dragging it in the wolves’ blood that had pooled around the bodies. Orsik, with a hard look at Trym first, followed her.

The main passage in the cavern, the one that they would have followed had they not gone into the room with the wolves, climbed steeply upwards. The stream must have been coming from the top, as the water had more velocity the higher the cavern went, only slowing to a trickle where the ground began to level out. On the other side of the stream, they could see a side passage leading to the west. Ielenia tapped Orsik on the shoulder and pointed upwards; a dim shape crossed the roof of the cavern to the north. Staring hard, they could just make it out from this distance – a bridge, with a patrolling goblin guard. 

They went back to the others. Orsik spread his hands and shrugged. “It goes up, fairly steeply…probably works itself around to whatever room’s above us. There’s a bridge with a guard that crosses above the main path, and I think he’d spot us and sound the alarm before we could really do anything…Anders here is a fair shot, but he can’t see in the dark and it’s dark all the way up.”

“There is also another passage that goes west, off the main path,” Ielenia added, “But the problem of the goblin guard, and of your collective inability to see in the dark without magical assistance, remains.” 

“Listen,” Trym said. “I know I heard a different kind of voice up there – it was deep and it was laughing cruelly. I’d bet my share of Gundren’s gold that it’s the goblins’ leader, and wouldn’t it make sense that a leader would keep captured prisoners nearby?” She looked at each of them in turn. “We don’t know how many more rooms this cave has or how many goblins would come running if that guard spots us – what if we could take whoever’s up there by surprise?”

Ielenia nodded. “I think Trym is correct.” She smiled at the halfling, who was staring at her suspiciously. “I think we should climb.”

“Orsik?” Westra asked. “Is that also your opinion?”

He sighed. “As much as I don’t fancy the climb, I think it’s probably our best option at this point.” 

“That’s settled, then,” Westra said. “Up we go.”

“Why didn’t anybody ask for my opinion?” Anders, looking slightly put-out, asked Trym, who was closest to him. 

“Probably because they didn’t think you had one,” Trym replied. “You just seem to go wherever Westra goes.”

Anders flushed. “I’ll go first,” he volunteered, walking rapidly away from Trym. He lined himself up underneath the chimney, raised his arms above his head, and hoisted himself upwards. The others watched as his head, torso, legs, and feet gradually disappeared from sight. 

Westra borrowed Trym’s lighted sword and held it aloft, trying to gauge his progress through the vertical shaft. When she judged him to be about half way up, she motioned for Ielenia to follow Anders up. The elf obliged, shimmying her way after him. Then Westra looked at Trym. “Will you be able to cover the light with something when you get close to the top?”

Trym nodded, re-fastening her cloak around her waist instead of her shoulders. She tested flipping the cloak over the sword hilt a few times until Westra nodded with approval. She offered Trym her hands the step on, and then the halfling was on her way up the shaft. After a quick look to Orsik, during which he gestured towards her, Westra proceeded upwards.

Meanwhile, Anders had reached the top of the shaft. Arms aching, he pulled himself up just high enough to peer into the room. It was mostly dark, but a large fire pit in the centre of the room gave off enough light that he could make out two large stalagmites just ahead. A loud voice boomed from the far side of the room.

“You dare defy Klarg? Klarg say to dance! Dance for Klarg, puny one!” The voice was accompanied by toneless, arrhythmic drumming on what sounded to be a half-full barrel. Anders took the opportunity to hoist himself out of the chimney entirely, and crouch behind the nearest stalagmite; it was close enough to extend his hand to Ielenia when she came up a few moments later. 

Ielenia could see better in the dim light – the cave was large, and one end of it was stacked high with sacks, crates, and barrels. The other end had a large entrance with stone steps leading downward, and the roar of falling water echoed beyond. In the middle of the cavern was a large fire pit full of smoldering coals, casting a hazy red glow across the cavern. Sitting with his back to the firepit was a large bugbear, nodding his head in complete opposition to the beat he was drumming on a barrel he had cradled in his bulky arms. Curled up nearby was a mangy-looking wolf, gnawing on a large bone. A goblin was hopping from foot to foot in a pale imitation of a dance, while another one looked on, panting for breath. Clearly his turn to entertain Klarg had only just finished; his bulbous yellow eyes were narrowed and full of malice as he looked at the bugbear.

She could also see a faint light in the chimney, as Trym and her lighted sword neared the top. Chancing that she wouldn’t be seen or heard by the distracted creatures in the room, she crawled to the edge and whispered down to the halfling. “We can see your light.”

Trym wedged one arm and her legs against the walls of the shaft and used her free hand to cover the sword hilt with her cloak, just as she’d practiced down below; however, down below she wasn’t perched precariously in a stone chute. Just as she finished hiding the light, one of her boots slipped on the stone wall, sending a shower of loose gravel down the shaft. As her foot fell, her other arm reached out and she was able to steady herself.

Below her, Westra was struggling. She was near the halfway mark, but the tightness of the space was uncomfortable. She had made it up this far by controlling her breathing and focusing on the dim light of Trym’s sword bobbing above her head, but now the light was gone and a light cascade of rock and dust was raining down on her head, and she felt the unwelcome and all-too-familiar sensation building in her chest. Her breath quickened and her hands started to shake, and she froze halfway up the tunnel, unable to proceed.

Trym was at the top now, crouched behind the same stalagmite as Anders, who was whispering in her ear and repeating to her the details Ielenia had whispered to him about their current situation. Once she had a good grasp of the layout of the room and the location of the enemies, she indicated that she was going to sneak along the southern wall and hide behind the stacks of provisions, using the glow of the coals to guide her.

The roaring water from outside this room was effective in masking their hushed voices, but Ielenia wasn’t about to risk it; she kept a close watch on the goblins, the bugbear Klarg, and his pet wolf. She was particularly concerned about the wolf; she hoped the smell of the coals would mask their own scents, but she couldn’t be sure, and she hoped the others would arrive quickly.

Tears welled up, unbidden, in Westra’s eyes. The speed of her breath was increasing, and she felt her arms start to weaken. Slow your breathing, she ordered herself, screwing her eyes tight and trying to find some mental image to calm her. Just breathe normally, damn you. Eyes open or shut, all she could see was darkness.

Below her, Orsik could tell that she hadn’t moved and he could hear the rapid speed of her breath, and what he suspected might be a sniffle. Bracing his legs and his back against the tunnel, he fished his amulet out from his tunic collar and grasped it tightly. “Give the girl some comfort, Marthammor Duin, if it pleases you to do so,” he muttered. “By your Watchful Eye, keep watch over her.” He grasped the amulet for a few moments, before tucking it safely away once more.

Westra opened her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. “You can do this,” she whispered to herself. You can do this. And with another shaky breath, renewed strength and sense of purpose, she resumed her climb. As she neared top, she could see the dim outline of Anders’ face as he reached a hand down towards her; she grasped it gratefully, and as he pulled her to safety the strength left her legs and she collapsed into his arms. 

To cover the extra noise, Ielenia used Thaumaturgy to create the sound of a small rockslide on the opposite end of the cave. Such occurrences must have been common enough in this cavernous hideout, because neither the bugbear nor the goblins bothered to look towards the sound, but it was effective in masking their presence.  She shot Anders a dirty look, and would have done the same to the other one had it been anybody but Westra, before she realized that in this dim light they wouldn’t be able to see the expression on her face anyway.

Anders helped to steady Westra as he relayed the same information to her as he had to Trym. “Trym’s gone further in, but I recommend you stay here,” he whispered, hand cupped between his mouth and her ear. “Harder to hide the sound of chainmail.” She nodded in the dark and crouched down beside him.

Orsik, last to scale the chute, finally made it to the top. He could see well enough for himself, noting the location of the bugbear, the wolf, and the goblins, and spotting Trym in the distance crouching behind the stacked up crates and sacks. None of the creatures gave any indication that they sensed intruders. He took a deep breath, and readied himself for action.

While Anders rested his arm, the others assisted in moving the wagon and the oxen off the main trail. Their personal belongings were removed and redistributed to their owners, and they covered the remaining mining supplies with branches and boughs harvested from the underbrush of nearby trees. The oxen were docile; with nobody holding their reins they were content to simply stand still and wait. 

Orsik noticed a few strange things about the area. Hollows had been dug out and surrounded with natural elements for camouflage, and scraps of arrow fletching materials and other signs of occupation were present.  “Those wee buggers have been staging ambushes here for some time,” he said, using a long branch to disassemble a rough half-hide. A small cask of ale rolled down to his boot; he shrugged, picked it up, and added it to his pack.

“Nasty things, aren’t they?” Westra commented. “I think we should dismantle anything they’ve set up here, and hope that it deters them from ambushing other unwary travelers.” 

Orsik nodded his agreement; he and Trym kept to one side of the road, while Westra and Ielenia went to the other side. Once they were out of earshot, Trym asked him: “Are you sure we can trust these people?”

“Am I ever sure of anything?” The dwarf frowned, touching the amulet that hung around his neck. “They seem to be decent folk, for the most part.”  He placed a hand on Trym’s shoulder. “I can tell that you’re still upset,” he said in his low, gruff voice. One of the things Trym had learned in their many years of acquaintance was the gruffer his voice was, the kinder his intent.

She shrugged. “I’ll get over it. I always do.” Her voice was light and flippant, but her brow was still wrinkled and the corners of her mouth downturned. “It’s not really like I have a choice, is it? She’s coming along, and I know her type. Oghma worshippers get so wrapped up in the pursuit of knowledge that reason often escapes them, and the sun elves already believe that they’re better than everyone else.”

“Are you going to be able to work with her?” he asked. “We don’t know what we’re walking into, and a time might come when you have to trust her. Lives could depend on it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Spare me the lecture, Sarge. You and me, we have a history, but the rest of these folk are strangers… and I try not to make a habit of trusting strangers with my life.” She touched the scar on her nose. “My face is small, and I don’t have a whole lot of room left to wear more of my mistakes.” 

Orsik sighed. “We did just work together to win a fight, and Ielenia did her part. Surely that earns her some good will?”

Trym sighed. “Don’t worry about me, Sarge. I can work with her.”

“And the others?”

“Westra’s solid, and Anders tries too hard to sound smart but he’s good in a scrap. And,” she said begrudgingly, “that Ray of Frost spell was pretty good.”

—

On the other side of the road, Westra and Ielenia were having a similar discussion. “The halfling woman seems…very angry,” Ielenia said as she knocked a goblin hiding spot down with her foot. “How long have you been travelling with her?”

“I met her and the others two days ago, and today’s our first day of travelling,” Westra replied, scouring the woods for more goblin setups to dismantle. “I don’t know her that well, but in Trym’s defense, you did drag her back by her cloak.”

Ielenia’s golden eyes flickered with surprise. “The dwarf was calling for her to stop, and she was not listening. It seemed to be the most effective course of action.” She thought for a moment. “I have not tried to use Mage Hand to physically lift someone, but I do not think it would work, even on one so small.”

Westra covered a smile with her hand. “I get the impression that you spend a lot of time in your temples,” she said, “and less time interacting with people in the real world.”

“This is true,” Ielenia admitted. “I much prefer my books and scrolls to conversations and companions. But I was successful in getting her to stop, was I not?”

“Yes, but out here in the world people have feelings and emotions, like pride. We aren’t the same from one moment to the next, because life affects us.”

Ielenia arched one perfect golden eyebrow. “So you think that I have injured her pride, and that is why she is so angry with me?”

Westra shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t really know Trym. I do know that I wouldn’t be happy if somebody had dragged me to the ground by my cloak.”

“I suppose I would not like it either,” Ielenia mused. “I will not do such a thing again.”

“Also, if you plan to apologize…I would do so privately, and not in front of the group,” Westra added. 

“Why is this?”

“It is entirely possible that Trym was embarrassed, and sometimes a public apology only serves to deepen that embarrassment.”

“You seem very knowledgeable about these matters for one so young,” Ielenia commented.

Westra snorted. “Benefits of being raised amongst the rich and powerful of Waterdeep,” she replied. “I had a lot of opportunity to watch their theatre of personal interactions.”

“Are you a member of the nobility, then?” Ielenia did not hide her facial expressions; she was visibly surprised. Westra was caught somewhere between amused and mildly offended.

“In theory; my family’s lands were destroyed in the eruption of Mount Hotenow.” Westra plucked a piece of tree from her braided hair. “In life, my father was the Count of Corlinn Hill.”

“So we should be addressing you as Lady Hornraven,” Ielenia said. 

“Oh, please don’t,” she said. “It’s only a circumstance of birth, I’ve done nothing to earn it.”

“As you wish,” Ielenia replied. “If you come from wealth and connection, why are you travelling to a place such as Phandalin?”

Westra grinned; her smile was slightly crooked, deep blue eyes earnest and sparkling. “I’m trying to earn my family’s honours.”

—

Orsik examined the wound in Anders’ shoulder and proclaimed him fit. Trym led the group up through the woods to where she’d stuck her dagger in a tree. “This is where that last goblin was dragging himself off to,” she said, wiggling the dagger free from the bark and returning it to her boot. 

Westra knelt and examined the area closely. “Looks like a dozen or so goblins have been through here,” she said, pursing her lips. “And…look there. Something bigger than a goblin was dragged up the trail…two, side by side.”

“Gundren,” Orsik exhaled. 

“And Sildar,” Westra added. “This is definitely their trail. Well done, Trym.” She stood and brushed the dirt from her knees. “It’s not wide enough to travel together, so we should walk up one by one.” She looked around. “Does anybody care to lead? Orsik?”

Orsik hesitated. “Seems like you’re already doing a fine job of leading,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’ll bring up the rear, make sure we aren’t being followed.”

She nodded, and the rest of them arranged themselves between Westra and Orsik. Ielenia stuck close to Westra, given that Westra had given her the warmest welcome; Anders was close behind. Trym stayed near the back with Orsik. “You okay?” Trym asked him quietly.

“Aye,” he replied. “I just prefer to have a bit more time to think, is all…hard to think when you’re on the front lines.” 

“Ready?” Westra asked, voice low. When they nodded their assent, she began up the trail. “Keep your eyes open,” she said. “They can be devious.”

After ten minutes of walking, Westra held up her fist to halt the group, and pointed to the reason for the stop: a coiled rope snare, waiting for an unwitting wanderer to step in. Looking around, she spotted a thick branch just to the side of the trail and picked it up. Moving carefully, she hooked the end of the snare with the branch and gave a hard tug; the hook and anchor triggered, and the snare tightened around the branch, hauling it out of Westra’s hands and into the air. She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side as the sprung trap carried leaves and dirt up with it. She brushed herself off, and continued on.

Westra’s luck didn’t hold for long. After another ten minutes of walking, she heard a slow creaking noise. Looking down at her feet, she noticed wood planks underneath the leaves. And then, she disappeared from sight.

“Westra!” Anders called out, voice thick with concern.

She landed at the bottom of the pit on her hands and her knees with a heavy thud. Groaning, she raised her upper body and looked up to the top of the pit, where Ielenia and Anders were staring down at her. “I’m fine,” she said, wincing as she rose to her feet. Anders and Ielenia both extended their hands to her, and they pulled her out of the pit. Sighing, she began to dust herself off again.

“You are always doing that,” Ielenia commented. “I am not sure why, given that we are still outside and in the woods.”

Westra looked surprised. “I hadn’t noticed,” she murmured. “I suppose I don’t like to be dirty for any longer than is necessary.”

Anders reached over and pulled a leaf from her hair. “How do you feel about leaves as hair ornaments?”

Westra ran her hands over the sides of her head. “Better?”

He grinned. “It’s difficult to improve on perfection, but yes.”

Westra rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed scarlet; Trym made fake gagging noises from the back.

The group carried on, until they came upon a small clearing ending at a steep hillside; carved into the hillside was a large cave, with a shallow stream flowing from its mouth. The clearing was on the west side of the stream, and the only path into the cave was on the east side. The east side was also heavily bordered by briar thickets. Westra halted the group once more.

“If they were clever enough to set up an ambush post, they might have guards stationed near the entrance,” she said in a low voice. She looked down at herself and frowned. “My chainmail doesn’t lend itself to stealth,” she said, “nor does Orsik’s. Do the rest of you want to scout ahead and see if there’s a guard posted? If there are guards, we might be able to take them by surprise…the noise of the stream should provide you with some cover.”

Anders nodded and started off across the stream, with Trym right on his heels. Ielenia paused momentarily, looking at the water with her nose wrinkled; then she too was on her way across the stream.

Westra looked at Orsik. “I hope you don’t feel as if I’ve pushed you to the side,” she said, brow furrowed with concern. “It certainly wasn’t my intention.”

“No, no, you’re fine, lass,” Orsik said, waving her concerns away with a hand. “Truth be told, I’m glad you’ve got a spine…with your aversion to dirt and the obvious quality of your clothes and arms, I figured you for some bored noblewoman looking for adventure.” He cleared his throat. “No offense meant, of course.”

“Of course,” she replied wryly. “And you were right – I am a noblewoman, and I was bored.” She winked at him. “Lucky for you, my father made me train for hours on end in all sorts of situations before I was even allowed to hold the family axe.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the clearing, Anders, Trym, and Ielenia had crossed the stream, stepping carefully to avoid splashing, and were creeping towards the northernmost edge of the thicket. Trym, being the smallest, crept to the front of their little party and peered around – part of the thicket had been hollowed out, with wooden planks flattening some of the briars. Two goblins were there, but they seemed too preoccupied with throwing a stick back and forth at one another to pay much attention to Trym.

She turned back and held up two fingers. Ielenia used her mage hand trick to repeat the two fingers back to Westra and Orsik on the other side of the bank. The hand then pointed at the human and the dwarf, before gesturing at them to stop.

“I would guess that they want us to wait,” Orsik muttered. Westra nodded her agreement. The disembodied hand floated back to the group on the other side.

Trym mouthed the words “on three” to Anders and Ielenia, both of whom nodded to agree. One. Two. Three.

Trym and Ielenia rushed the goblins at the guardpost, while Anders kept his distance behind and readied his longbow; the goblins, taken unawares, stared at the intruders with slack-jawed stupidity. Trym unsheathed her shortsword and slashed at one goblin across its chest; the creature didn’t even have time to raise its shield before it fell to the earth, writhing in pain. Anders released his arrow, sending it whistling past Ielenia and sinking it deep into the stomach of the second goblin guard; the goblin pawed futilely at the arrow before sinking to its knees. 

Ielenia touched the second goblin with a hand and, keeping her voice low, said “Shocking Grasp.” The goblin arched its back as lightning coursed through its veins, and it toppled sideways, dead.

Hearing the sounds of the skirmish from the other side of the stream, Westra and Orsik charged through the water to join their allies. They rounded the thicket just in time to see Trym finish off the first goblin. “Commanding from the rear, eh?” she said to Orsik, grinning. “Careful, Sarge. Your military training is starting to show.”

“Military?” Anders asked. “I didn’t know you were a military man.”

“I was,” Orsik admitted, “but at this precise time whether or not I remain so is up for heavy debate.”

“Well, I guess that takes care of the guards,” Westra said. “Let’s move on, in case more of them decide to show up.”

The air immediately cooled once they were inside the mouth of the cave. The stream running through it caused the hard stone walls to be perpetually damp, the kind of dampness that builds up and trickles down in little rivulets, or drops from the cave roof and unerringly finds some small patch of bare skin to land on. Savage snarls and rattling chains emanated from a chamber just inside the cave entrance, echoing off the stone walls.

Wolves.

The sun had yet to break on the horizon, and the sky above Neverwinter was a medley of muted colours: inky purple at its darkest points, swirled with darkened pink and orange clouds and patches of ever-lightening blue. Stars that burned so brightly in the dark of night were faded to mere pinpricks of distant light, though the moon still shone with a steady silvery glow. Westra paused as she passed through the South Gate, admiring the theatre of nature; after a few days of steady rain and constant grey, the colours were a welcome sight.

She heard the lowing of oxen off to her right and turned towards the sound; in the dim twilight, she could make out the shape of a cart and a stout figure moving back and forth around it about two hundred paces away, just outside the city stables. She started toward it, adjusting her pack for a better grip. “Good morning,” she called out.

“Well, it is certainly morning,” Orsik replied, “but whether or not it’ll be a good one remains to be seen.” He grunted as he adjusted one of the straps holding the ox harness to the wagon. He nodded to Westra’s pack. “You travel light,” he said. 

She shrugged. “I don’t need much. And if I find myself lacking an item, I often find a way to procure it. Besides,” she added as she swung the pack from her shoulder and into the cart, “a lighter pack makes it much easier to carry my axe.”

The pack landed with a dull thwump, and a muffled cry of pain and protest came from beneath it. “Watch it!”

“Trym,” Orsik said to Westra by way of explanation. “She’s not overly fond of mornings. Or oxen. Or conversations, particularly in conjunction with the other two items I’ve just mentioned.” The halfling popped up from the floor of the wagon, dishevelled auburn curls sticking out in all directions, and she fiercely shushed the two of them before flopping back down onto her makeshift bed.

“Clearly,” Westra murmured.

“The only reason she tolerates the wagon is because it provides her somewhere to sleep,” Orsik added, loading more of Gundren’s supplies into the wagon bed. Westra noticed that he was quite careful to avoid the dark lump that was Trym snuggled in her cloak. She leaned her axe against the side of the wagon and started helping load supplies. 

The sun was just breaking the horizon as they loaded the last of the supplies, and with its first light came Anders. “Hello!” he called out brightly as he approached.

“Oh my gods, he’s a morning person,” Trym mumbled into her hood. A tantalizing smell wafted through the early morning air, momentarily overpowering the smell of the oxen; Trym bolted upright, sniffing.

“Apologies for my late arrival,” Anders said, removing his pack with one arm and placing it with the others. His other arm held a soft cloth sack; the pleasant smell seemed to be emanating from that bag. “I thought we might like to start our first adventure together with some fresh bread. My room in Neverwinter is above a bakery, and I learned to bake when the work at the docks didn’t quite pay for my room and board.” Smiling earnestly, he held the sack out to Westra.

She removed her glove, reached in, and took out a small loaf. “It’s still warm,” she said, smiling. She brought it closer to her face and inhaled deeply. “Thank you, Anders. This is quite unexpected, and very welcome.”

Trym reached frantically for the bag, grabbing the largest loaf she could feel. Eyes wide, she disappeared into the depths of the wagon and tore into it with her teeth. The rest of them could hear her rough chewing and contented sighs as she ate.

“Thanks, lad,” Orsik said gratefully. “It’s been some time since I had fresh bread of any quality. The stuff the military gets is hard as a tack.”

Anders flushed with humble pride. “Really, it’s not much. I just feel that a job always goes smoother if everyone shares a meal together first.”

“It’s really very kind,” Westra said, briefly placing her hand on his arm. Anders’ flushed cheeks deepened in colour.

“Right,” Orsik said, holding the reins and patting the ox closest to him. “Who’s going where, then? Would anyone prefer to walk alongside?”

Westra stared ahead at the muddy tracks, and then down at her fine leather boots. “I think I prefer to be up out of this muck,” she said, moving towards the cart.

“Ever driven a team of oxen before?”

She blinked. “No, I…is that a requirement?”

“It isn’t difficult,” Anders interjected. “If they’re well trained, they should only need a hand on the reins and a word here and there.” He patted one of the oxen. “When I was young, my parents found work on a large farm, and I worked with the farmhand who trained the teams to plow the main fields. There’s not many jobs I haven’t done, to be honest.”

“I see,” Westra said. “Well, maybe I’ll ride in the wagon with Trym. You and Orsik seem best acquainted with this whole operation.”

“I do hope we’ll get to hear about each and every part of the trials and tribulations that made Anders Brightwood the strapping young hero we see before us,” Trym said, words muffled by a mouthful of bread.

“Good morning to you too, Trym,” Anders replied.

“There is nothing good about mornings,” she sulked.

“Is she always this waspish?” he asked Orsik.

“Brave, good, noble Anders, asking after the temperament of his travelling companion!” Trym wailed, raising her hand to her brow in a fake swoon.

“You know, I’m not sure that I like you,” Anders said to her, his brow furrowed.

“That’s impossible. Everybody likes me. I’m incredibly charming.” She grinned impishly at him.

“Charming is not a word I would use to describe you, Ms. Tosscobble. Aggressive, perhaps, but not charming.”

The trail was fairly straight, and they passed few travellers, either due to the recent weather and resulting mud or to the rumours of roaming goblin packs waylaying the under-guarded. Orsik and Anders chatted in the front, Trym pretended to sleep while interjecting the occasional rude or sarcastic comment, and Westra watched and listened. They carried on this way until midday.

The wagon rounded a bend in the trail, and Orsik drew the reins in. “Whoa,” he said, steadying the oxen. Fifty feet ahead in the middle of the road were the large dark bodies of two dead horses peppered with black-feathered arrows, and a golden, glowing shape looking over them. Anders, ever the chivalrous gentleman, leapt out from the wagon and proceeded forward on foot, longbow ready to draw, and called out. Westra, after a moment’s hesitation, followed. The woods pressed closer to the trail here, choking the bright midday sun into dappled spots upon the ground.

The shape rose and turned to face them, sharp golden eyes set in a smooth bronze face, surrounded by clouds of shining golden hair, under which the tips of her long ears could barely be seen. As Anders cautiously approached, the elf rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. “Na’vanessani, nehel kessuk bhen.”

Anders stopped. “Deshu nehel, kesir,” he said sharply.

The elf looked back at him with a hard stare. “Your accent is atrocious,” she replied in heavily accented Common.

“As are your manners,” Anders retorted. “Did you kill these horses?”

She continued staring at him with her hard golden eyes. “You are the one with a bow. Besides, why would I kill horses? Horses are useful.” She looked back to the bodies. “I came across them only moments ago, and found them like this.” She sniffed. “They have been dead for maybe one day.”

Westra approached and leaned down to retrieve a piece of fabric. “This is from Sildar’s cloak,” she said softly. “Gundren’s bodyguard,” she explained, noticing the look of confusion on Anders’ face. “He was wearing it when Gundren recruited me for this journey.”

“Are you certain?” Anders asked. He could hear Orsik urging the oxen forward.

“Yes, the embroidery on the hem is fine work. I noticed it when I met him.” Her brows knit together, blue eyes dark with concern. She checked the saddlebags, and a leather map case in the dirt nearby. “Empty,” she said. “Gundren had this map case on him.”

“Look at how the horses are lying,” the elf said suddenly. “Those are not natural positions.” She kicked at the ground. “And look here – drag marks. These horses were moved here.”

Westra locked eyes with Anders. “It’s a trap,” they said together. 

Anders nocked an arrow and pulled the bowstring taught, aiming into the left bank of the woods and waiting for movement. He did not have to wait long. A small creature came barreling through the trees towards them – a goblin, with ill-fitting leather armor dangling from its sinewy body, waving a scimitar above its bat-eared head. Anders loosed his arrow; his aim was true and the arrow penetrated the goblin’s chestpiece and torso with a dull, satisfying thunk. The goblin blinked dumbly, staring down at the feathered shaft protruding from his chest, before dropping to the mossy woodland floor.

From the other side of the path leapt another snarling goblin. The creature readied his blade to cut the strange elf; Orsik, leaping down from the wagon, effortlessly withdrew a handaxe from a sheath on his side and hurled it at the goblin’s head. It was a masterful shot, but it was close; the axe’s fine edge sliced through some of the elf’s cloud of golden hair before cleaving into the goblin’s skull. Blood and brain matter spurted onto the elf’s fine dress and the sleeve of Westra’s chainmail shirt. The elf snarled at Orsik, while Westra merely looked disgusted.

“There’s more in the woods!” Anders cried. “There’s one, behind that clutch of trees!”

The elf whirled. “Ray of Frost!” she yelled, aiming at the goblin. The trees hid the creature well; the spell went wide of it’s target, leaving frosted leaf tips in its wake. Missing her mark enraged the elf even more.

In retaliation, the goblin she’d missed stepped out from behind its woodland cover and fired its shortbow. The elf turned and dropped her shoulder, and the arrow landed harmlessly in the grassy embankment behind her. Anders, still searching his side of the trail for more goblins, failed to notice the arrow coming at him from the trees on the other side. It caught him in the shoulder blade, and he grunted in pain and dropped his drawing arm.

Westra whirled and dashed into the woods towards the source of the arrow, releasing her greataxe from its sling. Spotting the goblin, she firmly planted her feet, grasped the handle, and swung. The axe cleaved the goblin’ torso in two, neatly slicing through leather, flesh, and bone before biting into the tree on the other side. “Damn,” she cursed as she braced her boot on the trunk of the tree. “Try to keep one alive!” she yelled back to the group as she tried to free her axe.

Trym, still perched on the wagon for it’s higher vantage point, rummaged in her pack until she found what she wanted: a length of rope, which she looped around her arm. Her sharp eyes saw the last remaining goblin in the trees turn and start to run; she leapt down and gave chase, drawing her shortbow. When she had cleared the first trees, she steadied herself and took a shot; an inhuman shriek told her that she’d found her mark, and the continued rustling of leaves told her that the mark had survived. It was injured, but not enough to halt its escape. Trym cursed and started in the same direction.

“Trym!” Orsik roared, sprinting after her into the thicket. “We’ve got to stay together! TRYM!”

A ghostly, translucent hand shot past the charging dwarf, its pale fingers outstretched. The hand grabbed the edge of Trym’s cloak as it streamed behind her and held fast; the halfling let out a surprised yelp as her torso was suddenly halted while her legs continued forward. After a brief moment of floating in mid-air, she landed with a soft thud, flat on her back. The pale hand started dragging the cloak back to the others; Trym snarled as she fumbled with the clasp in an attempt to free herself.

Orsik caught up, breathing hard, and immediately covered his face with a hand to hide his smile. It was quite a sight. Trym spotted him and snarled. “What are you standing there for? Help me!”

He obliged, helping Trym back to her feet. The ghostly hand continued to tug at her cloak, pulling her in the direction of the wagon. “It’s all right, I’ve got her!” Orsik called out. The hand dissipated into the air.

Trym spluttered with rage. “Was that the work of that golden elf witch?” she demanded, trying to straighten her cloak.

“What were you playing at, Trym?” Orsik demanded, still panting. “Clearly those goblins lured us into their trap, and we’ve no idea how many more friends they might have with them or what other traps they might have laid throughout these woods!”

“I was trying to bring one back alive!” Trym raged, kicking at a tree root that had broken the surface of the earth and swearing as the impact jammed her toe. She removed a dagger from her boot and jammed it into the tree’s trunk.

“Look,” Orsik said, holding his hands up. “I understand. By the looks of things, those goblins have done something to my cousin and his friend, and I want answers too. But we don’t know where they are, and the safest thing we can do is stay together in a group.”

Trym stared at the ground for a moment, hands on her hips. “Fine, Sarge,” she said eventually, her voice still quivering with suppressed anger. “Let’s go back to the group. I want to have a word with that elf.” And she took off sprinting.

Orsik rolled his eyes to the heavens, took a deep breath, and followed suit. He reached the dead horses just in time to see Trym jabbing her finger in the elf’s face – he couldn’t hear what was being said, but knowing Trym it was probably fierce and colorful. As he walked up towards them, the halfing spun on her heel and marched away, back towards the wagon. Orsik sighed heavily.                                                                                                                             

“You cut my hair, erkatam,” the elf said, eyes narrowed, gathering the rest of her golden mane over one shoulder and inspecting the rest of its shining length. Orsik was momentarily taken aback at her uncanny resemblance to a feral cat.

“Aye, and I think that goblin was intending to cut off more than a few strands of your precious golden locks,” he retorted, huffing into his beard as he moved towards Anders. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder, son.”

Westra was busy wiping her chainmail and her axe clean with a soft cloth. When she finished that, she fished a smaller embroidered cloth from her pack and carefully wiped her hands and face clean. “Let’s just all agree that things can go awry in a fight, and start over.” She stood and extended a hand to the elf. “Thank you for your assistance. My name is Westra Hornraven.”

The elf stared at the outreached hand for a moment before grasping it daintily. “Ielenia,” she said stiffly. “Ielenia Aughlathla. In your tongue it means…”

“Winterbreeze,” Anders said softly. 

“That is correct,” Ielenia replied coolly. “And what are you called?”

“Anders Brightwood,” he said, nodding his head towards her and immediately wincing in pain as the movement aggravated his injury. “The halfling over there is Trym Tosscobble, and the dwarf -”

“The dwarf is quite capable of introducing himself, thank you very much,” he huffed. “Orsik Ungart.” He cleared his throat. “I do apologize for your hair,” he muttered.

Ielenia shrugged. “It will grow back.”

Orsik spluttered, while Westra covered a grin with her hand. “But – you said – you were angry!”

She shrugged again. “We were not acquaintances then. We are acquaintances now.” Ielenia examined her fingernails. “The halfling contains a lot of anger for one so small,” she commented.

“Yes, well, you did try to drag her back here by her cloak,” Orsik replied, looking uncomfortable. 

“Are you travelling alone?” Anders asked the elf.

“Yes,” Ielenia replied. “I am going to Phandalin for aid. Goblins,” she spat on the ground as she said the word, “have defiled one of Oghma’s sacred temples, and I am going to take it back from them. There is a priestess in Phandalin who can help me.” She frowned. “I did not expect this level of trouble on the road, however.”

“Seems like we have a common destination,” Westra said.

Trym came marching back, positioning herself between Ielenia and the rest, and turned her back to the elf. “How serious is that?” she asked, pointing to Anders’ shoulder. 

Orsik shrugged. “It’s not too bad,” he said, tying off a bandage. “A short rest, and he should be right as rain.”

“And after the rest, what then?”

“Go to rescue Sildar and Gundren, of course,” Westra and Anders said together. “It’s the right thing to do,” Anders added. The others all turned to look at Westra. 

“I came on this journey to get to Sildar. If he’s captured or dead, there isn’t much point in me continuing on to Phandalin.”

“Aye, and I’d like to know the fate of my cousin,” Orsik said. 

“I do not have business here,” Ielenia said. “My business starts in Phandalin.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Trym said, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Now hang on there, Trym,” Westra said. “Ielenia, it could be that we could help each other in our endeavours. You’re clearly a magic user, and you’ve already discovered that travelling alone on this road can be dangerous. And once you get to Phandalin, you might find you’re in need of more help than one priestess can provide.” She looked at Orsik. “I’m sure we’d be glad of your company, yes?”

Trym’s small body was buzzing with anger. Orsik walked up to her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ve better chances with more of us,” he said, nodding. 

Ielenia frowned, thinking. “There is truth in what you say,” she said. “And I would like the opportunity to practice on some of these goblins.”

Trym sighed heavily, letting some of her rage escape with her breath. “So it’s decided, then? We’ll ALL go after Gundren and Sildar?” The group nodded their agreement. “Good,” Trym said. “Because I’ve found their trail.”

The air was thick with the salty tang of ocean air and the screams of gulls gliding overhead, some daring to swoop in amidst the rush of bodies looking for scraps of bread only to be kicked and sworn at. Sailors and porters called good-natured insults to one another, raucous laughter adding to the general commotion. Inky figures lurked in the narrow spaces between buildings, where furtive-looking folk would approach and disappear for a time before reappearing, some with disheveled clothes and stained lip prints on their collars, others with a staggering gait and glassy-eyed stupor. A few failed to reappear at all.

People bumped and jostled each other, either by honest mistake or by design; the nimble fingers of street urchins dipped deftly into pockets and pouches as they bobbed and weaved throughout the throng. More often than not they came up empty; locals knew the docks were the center of criminal activity. Every so often a sailor new-to-port or a tired dockhand was careless with where he placed his drinking coin, earning him favour from the urchins and ridicule from his peers. Perched upon a short stack of wine barrels, a halfling watched it all, taking in every detail with her sharp green eyes.

Her companion, a dwarf, looked up at her from the crumpled paper clutched in his fist. “Well, Trym?”

The halfling scratched her scarred nose. “Haven’t spotted him yet. Tell me again why I’m looking for this man?”

“Because I need good people for this job, and by all accounts he is good people.”

“Whose accounts?”

He shrugged. “Everyone’s.” 

Trym snorted. “And why are we not doing this alone and keeping your cousin’s fifty gold for ourselves?”

“It’s not fifty gold, Trym,” Orsik said, scratching his chin through his beard. “It’s ten gold per person, for no more than five people – Gundren was quite clear. And with the reports coming in from the rest of the Watch about the road, I don’t fancy our chances with just the two of us.” He stretched, sunlight glinting off his necklace. “Frankly, we could use all the help we can get.”

His heavy brow furrowed, and he thought back to the night Gundren had found him, newly discharged from his military duties and near-drunk in a fish-reeking tavern, loudly and publicly questioning his military service, his faith in his God, and every decision he’d ever made. 

“By Marthammor, look at the state of ya,” Gundren said, grabbing Orsik by the arm and dragging him out of the tavern and into the moonlit alley. He propped his cousin against a low stone wall. Orsik’s head lolled to the side. “Right,” Gundren grunted. “Brace yerself.” The resounding slap echoed off the walls and the tavern, as did the resulting howl. “I’ll know yer sober enough when ya can block the blows,” Gundren growled as he prepared to strike the other cheek. 

Orsik dodged, but badly – he stumbled over his own foot and landed face down in the dirt. Struggling to rise, he spat – a mixture of blood and dirt – and held up his hand. “W-wait,” he stammered. Gundren snorted at him, before grasping his arm and hoisting him to his feet.

“How’d you know I was here?” Orsik asked, massaging his cheek.

“Went by the barracks. One o’ the senior officers told me about what happened wi’ ya.” Gundren shook his head. “Disobeying a direct order? That’s not like you, Orsik.”

Orsik spat again, this time in anger. “Know what my time in Mintarn and in Neverwinter has taught me?” he demanded, eyes flashing. “It’s taught me that law and authority are not always right and good. And the people with authority are naught but bullying pricks, abusing the trust and faith that the people put in them. The people they’re supposed to protect, Gundren!” 

“Aye, aye, everyone with a bit o’ power turns into a prick, it’s true,” Gundren said, patting his cousin’s shoulder. “Are ye sober enough to discuss business now?”

“I’ve got all the time in the world, apparently,” Orsik grumbled. “Got nothing else to fill my days with now, have I?” He sighed heavily, head bowed. “What’s this business of yours, then?”

Gundren held a finger to his lips, before checking any possible hiding spots near where they stood. He thought he saw movement in a barrel’s shadow, but after staring long and hard at the place he judged it to be a trick of the flickering lamps. Returning his attention to Orsik, he rocked back and forth on his heels before whispering “we’ve found something.”

“We?”

“Me and th’ boys!” Gundren said. “Me brothers? Your other cousins, you dolt!”

“Right,” Orsik said, nodding slowly. “And…what did you find?”

“Ahhh, I’d rather not get into the details of it here,” he replied, “but it’s big. It’ll change the Rockseeker fortunes, that’s a certainty.”

Orsik closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, you came down here to slap me in the face, and not tell me what, or where, this life-changing bounty is?”

“Look, all I need is for you to bring a wagon o’ supplies down to Phandalin, yeah?” Gundren said, still rocking. Orsik found the effect rather nauseating, but he supposed that was probably a result of the ale. “Listen, Orsik. Barthen’s Provisions, in Phandalin.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re my cousin, and because you’re probably in need of some gold. I’ll pay ya ta get the supplies to Barthen’s.”

Orsik’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”

“Ten gold. And if ya can find some friends, I’ll pay each of them ten gold as well. No more than four friends though, Orsik.”

Orsik thought about it, chewing on his bottom lip. “What if I don’t want to go to Phandalin?” He said. “I’m sure I can find gold here in Neverwinter.”

Gundren sighed, throwing his head back and quietly appealing to the Gods in their Planes. “Right, look. You don’t like bullies, yeah? Well, there’s a whole group of ‘em in Phandalin. Call themselves the Redbrands. And there’s a fella in Phandalin looking for help in dealin’ with ‘em, if you’re of a mind.”

“Hrmph.”

Gundren cursed. “All right, I’m gonna say a word to you now. It’s not a word I particularly like, and chances are good that ye’ll never hear me say it again…” he took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Please,” he muttered.

Orsik blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ya heard me well enough, you ninny. Now will ye help me or no?”

“Oi,” Trym said loudly, jabbing the dwarf in the side of his head. “What’re you playing at?” The din of the docks rose again, and Orsik shook the memory fog away.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Do you see him?”

Trym shrugged. “I mean, I see somebody who could be him.” She pointed midway down the pier, at a young man laughing jovially with a group of grizzled old sailors. 

“Are you sure?”

“Nope,” Trym said as she hopped down from her barrel. “It’s hard to spot a hero complex from this distance. But he did just share half his lunch with a beggar, so that leads to the whole ‘good person’ thing you’re after.” She looked at Orsik. “Well?” she asked, tapping her foot.

“What?”

“Are we going to go and talk to him or are we just going to stand here staring at him?” She demanded, hands on her hips. 

Orsik smiled. “You know, you’re very impatient.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm. Now let’s shift it before we lose sight of ‘im.” Trym started towards the throng of people, and Orsik moved to keep up with her before he lost sight of her in the crowd. Trym was very good at disappearing in crowds.

He managed to stay with the halfling as she worked her way through the throng. After a few moments, they stood about five feet from the man, who was now indulging a group of young boys and their lumpy play-ball by juggling it back and forth on his knees. Peals of laughter issued forth from the boys as the man’s movements became more and more exaggerated.

Orsik studied the man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy dark hair cropped close above his ears and falling over one eyebrow. Pale blue eyes shone bright above his neatly trimmed short beard, and as he laughed with the children he displayed a dazzling smile of well-maintained teeth. Orsik grinned. This man certainly looked the part.

The man had noticed the dwarf and the halfling staring at him. He begged his excuses to the boys amidst their protests, and stepped towards the strangers. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Master Brightwood, is it?” Orsik asked.

“That’s correct,” the man replied, still smiling but beginning to look politely confused.

“We heard you might be interested in some honest work,” Orsik said, extending his hand. “Orsik Ungart.”

“Anders Brightwood,” the man said, shaking his hand. “Say, you wouldn’t be the same Orsik Ungart at the center of that scene by the old bridge the other day?”

Trym snorted with laughter. Orsik and Anders looked at her. “Well, it can’t be a very common name around these parts, can it?” she said, eyebrows cocked. “We’re in Neverwinter. How many Orsiks could there be, let alone Orsik Ungarts?”

“Judging by your cavalier attitude, I’d say you would be the halfling that started the problem,” Anders said, his smile cooling but never quite disappearing.

Trym dipped and twirled in a comically exaggerated bow. “Trym Tosscobble.”

“What’s this honest work you speak of?” Anders asked, returning his full attention to the dwarf.

“We’re looking for help escorting a wagon of mining supplies to the town of Phandalin,” Orsik replied. 

“Honest enough,” Anders said. “Perchance might I inquire as to why you had my name?’

“Perchance, might I inquire as to the sudden need for big fancy words like ‘perchance’?” Trym said, grinning savagely.

Anders’ cheeks flushed. “Just because I work at the docks does not mean that I lack civility and refined conversation,” he said hotly.

Orsik sighed and shot Trym a hard look. “Please, Master Brightwood, ignore my companion. Her proximity to the ground seems to make her behave like a child.” Trym stared back at him, slowly crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.

Anders rocked back on his heels. The smile had entirely faded. “You still haven’t told me why you want me.”

“The people ‘round here seem to think that you’re looking to expand your horizons,” Orsik said. “I’m tired of people who only care for themselves, and these people also seem to think that you’re a good, stalwart sort of man. The kind of man who could serve a better purpose than hauling sacks of grain from ship to storeroom.”

“Hm. And taking mining supplies to a lawless frontier town is a nobler cause, yes?” Anders said. He chewed on his lower lip. “You are correct in thinking that I seek to improve myself and my lot in life. And I mean no offense, Sir Dwarf, but I’m not entirely sure that departing in the company of a disgraced soldier and an impudent halfling thief -”

“Alleged thief,” Trym interjected. Anders stared at her. She waggled her eyebrows at him.

“I don’t think it would do much to improve my station,” the man finished.

“Maybe it could be a chance for all of us to improve ourselves,” Orsik urged. “Get out of the city, in fresher air and maybe gain a fresh perspective. And,” the dwarf added, “it should be an easy job. Ten gold, just for getting the supplies to a town that is not that far from here. Even if Phandalin isn’t where your fortunes lay, ten gold is a decent start to looking for them elsewhere.”

“Well, you’ve a point there,” Anders said, the friendly smile beginning to return to his face. “How many people have you recruited for this little adventure?”

“Well, if we can count you among us, we’ll be three,” Orsik said. “Gundren said he could pay no more than five, so -”

“Pardon me,” a clear, melodic voice called out, “but once you read this note I think you’ll find that there will be four of us on this journey.”

Anders, Orsik, and Trym all turned to look at the newcomer. Tall and fair-skinned, with cobalt blue eyes and shining dark hair coiled in a single braid that draped almost elegantly over her shoulder, the woman strode towards the dwarf and extended a folded piece of parchment to Orsik, which he accepted and unfolded. It was short and to the point:

Orsik,

I’ve hired this lass, Westra, for the Phandalin job. She’s handy with goblins and generous with her coin and drink. I’m still only paying for five people so if you’ve already hired a full team, get rid of one of them or convince someone to work for free.

Your cousin,

Gundren.

He shook his head and re-folded the parchment. “Well then, I suppose that leaves little room for argument. Westra, is it?”

“That’s correct. Westra Hornraven.”  The newcomer looked at the rest of the little group. “I must confess, I did read the note – I do hope I haven’t just put someone out of work?”

“So far it’s just me and Trym there,” Orsik said. 

“Anders is still deciding if he wants to be seen in our unsavory company,” Trym added.

“I’ll come,” Anders said quickly. 

Trym looked at him suspiciously. His cheeks were flushed again and his eyes were wide, his mouth slightly parted as he looked at Westra. Oh GODS, she thought, sighing heavily and rolling her eyes. Of course we would recruit a man who goes all moon-eyed over a pretty girl.

“Well then,” Orsik said brightly. “It seems we have our team. I’m not bothered about a fifth; maybe the wagon will travel faster without.” He looked at Westra and Anders. “Does the day after tomorrow suit you both for departure?”

“It does,” Westra replied. 

Anders didn’t reply, so Trym nudged him with her boot. “What? Oh. Yes, day after tomorrow will be fine,” he said, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair.

“Wonderful. We’ll meet at dawn, just outside the South Gate.” 

Westra nodded and shook each of their hands before turning and walking back the way she’d come. Her cloak was precisely the same shade of blue as her eyes.

“Hey Anders,” Trym said, nudging him with her boot again. “If you’re coming along for the pretty girl, can I have your share of the gold?”

—

Neverwinter, 1481 DR

The Chasm’s Maw, or simply “The Maw” as it was called by those who frequented it, was one of the more popular inns in Neverwinter, being in just the right location and just the right price range to keep the richest and the poorest out. This was an important feature, so much so that when the wealthy people of Neverwinter felt it time to try and make The Chasm’s Maw suitable for their higher class patronage, the owners and serving staff endeavoured to make it much less comfortable for them. The quality of the offerings dropped, the bawdy behaviour increased, and the bards they hired for evening entertainment…it was best to not go into great detail about the audible horrors they inflicted on their audience, but they could have made rocks bleed. The regular patrons put up with and even encouraged such changes, knowing that they were temporary and for a cause that suited their long-term purpose; generally speaking, it was the everyman’s tavern, clean and calm and largely safe, with decent food and drink for fair coin.

Westra Hornraven scanned the inn’s common room, looking for the man matching the description she’d been given – tall, human, late forties, dark hair greying at the temples, well-built – and sighed in mild annoyance. Neverwinter’s Illuskan heritage meant that description applied to half the human men in this crowded hall. But, she’d heard it from more than one person that he would be here this evening, so here she stood. She glanced down at her travelling clothes, worn and comfortable, but still of high quality. Not the outfit she’d normally have chosen for such an evening, but she’d been warned of The Maw’s attitude towards the aristocracy.

“Can I help you, miss?” a slender serving girl asked, pausing on her way back to the kitchen with an armload of dirty plates and tankards.

“I’m looking for a man,” Westra replied.

“Aren’t we all?” The girl grinned. “I’ll just dump these, and you can let me know what kind of a man you’re looking for.” She walked away, curls of red-gold hair bouncing, and Westra continued to examine the patrons of The Maw. A foppish bard in a feathered cap perched with his lute in one corner, strumming and plucking an upbeat but gentle melody; a merchant and his wife, dressed well and with large soft bellies that indicated their ability to eat well and often; a table of three middle-aged men, any of whom could be the man she sought, laughing over their ale.

A grizzled dwarf with a wildly unkempt black beard rose from his seat near the back of the hall and shouted towards the front of the room. “Oi! Sildar!” The man standing at the bar turned towards the caller. “Make it two for me, while you’re up!” Sildar held up his hand in acknowledgement and turned back to request another two ales from the barmaid. Westra smiled, having found her target. She straightened her overdress and smoothed her hair, and walked towards the man at the bar.

“Pardon me,” she said, gently touching his arm to get his attention. “Are you Sildar Hallwinter?”

The man turned to look and stood up straight. “That I am,” he said, his voice deep and calm. Somehow, in the three descriptions of this man that she’d gathered, not one of them had included his unusual eyes. Pale grey, trimmed with a dark outer ring – almost like the reflection of the sun on steel. He extended a hand to her. “I don’t believe we’ve met, miss?”

“Hornraven,” she said, accepting his hand with a firm grip. “Westra Hornraven.”

His brow furrowed in thought. “Hornraven…you wouldn’t happen to be a member of the Corlinn Hill Hornraven family, would you?”

She smiled. “So you’ve heard of us.” 

“Yes. I assisted with the evacuation of Corlinn Hill when Mount Hotenow erupted,” he said. His brow furrowed. “Of course, that would mean that I’ve just addressed you incorrectly.” He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you, Lady Hornraven?”

“Please, just Westra will suffice. I understand that you’ve shown some interest in Phandalin.” She smiled. “I too have an interest in that town.”

  The barkeep placed three tankards on the bar, and looked expectantly at Westra. “Wine, please, and it would be my great pleasure to pay for the gentleman’s drinks as well.” As Sildar began to protest, Westra held up a finger as she placed a few silver coins on the bar top. “You’ve just told me you helped save my family from destruction. The least I can do is buy you and your friend back there a drink.”

Sildar smiled and nodded his head in a slight bow. “It seems you will not be argued with, so the most gracious course is for me to accept, thank you for your generosity, and invite you back to my table…where you can meet my companion and tell us more about your interest in Phandalin.” 

The barmaid returned with Westra’s wine, and Sildar led her back to where the dwarf sat, impatiently waiting.

“I asked ye to get me a drink, not get yerself a date, Hallwinter,” the dwarf grumbled, reaching out for his tankards of ale.

“Gundren Rockseeker, this is Lady Westra Hornraven. You can thank her for these drinks,” Sildar said as he sat across from the dwarf. He gestured to the empty seat beside him, and Westra followed his cue.

The dwarf eyed her appraisingly. “I’m not one to turn away a free drink,” he said, draining the first mug of ale. “And what, pray tell, gives you cause to ply our favour with ale?”

“Lady Hornraven has an interest in Phandalin,” Sildar said, giving the dwarf a meaningful look. 

“Oh aye?” Gundren said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “And what interest would that be?”

“Well, my first interest is primarily in reaching the town,” she replied, sipping her wine. “I overheard that you might be headed in that direction.”

“Yes. We plan to leave tomorrow at first light.” Sildar replied.

Westra frowned. “I have some business here in Neverwinter that must be attended to before I leave,” she said, absently swirling the wine in her cup. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to delay your journey?”

“Nay,” Gundren said, draining his second mug of ale. “Ye couldn’t.”

“Well then,” Westra said. “I suppose that’s the matter concluded.” 

“Was it an armed escort you were after?” Sildar asked. “I’m curious to know how my name came to be the one you sought. Phandalin can be a lawless place, but there are many able-bodied folks for hire.”

She looked at him, attempting to determine any ill intent behind his steel-coloured eyes. He merely looked back and waited, grey steel staring into cobalt blue. Gundren looked back and forth between them. 

“It is the lawlessness of Phandalin that draws me there,” Westra answered carefully. “My understanding was that you had designs to…remedy that situation.” She finished her wine. “I sought you out to see if you would be willing to work together on that matter.”

“Well, lass, there’s a bit of a problem with that there plan o’ yours,” Gundren said softly. “Chiefly, that Sildar Hallwinter is currently in my employ, on my business.” 

The curly-haired serving girl was back. “I see you’ve found your fella then,” she said, winking at Westra. “Can I get anybody anything else this evening?”

Gundren looked at Westra expectantly. “Did yer generosity die with your travel plans?” 

“Gundren,” Sildar said reproachfully. 

“What? It’s only a question.”

“I don’t mind,” Westra said, pulling out more silver coins. “Another round for the table.” The girl nodded and bounced away. 

“Don’t think that you can change my mind, though,” Gundren said. “We leave tomorrow, and I’ll not be put off.” He narrowed his eyes. “Not to mention, I’m not after serving as a protector for an aspiring frontier politician.”

“Oh, I can handle myself in a scuffle,” Westra said with a half smile. 

“Can ye just?” the dwarf scoffed.

Her cobalt gaze settled on him. “Are you familiar with the bounty on that traveling band of goblins?” He nodded. “That bounty just paid for your drinks.”

“Four goblins, unassisted?” Sildar said, eyebrow cocked. “I’m impressed.”

“As am I,” Gundred said, “if it be true.”

Westra shrugged, her knowing smile still playing on her face. “Believe what you will. You’re clearly a dwarf with a head for business, and a shrewd businessman is correct to doubt the bold claims of a stranger who buys him drinks.” Sildar snorted into his mug and attempted to cover the laugh with a cough.

Gundren looked at her appraisingly. “If yer headed to Phandalin anyway, I may just have another opportunity for ya.” He began on his third mug of ale, but did not drain it this time. His eyes darted about the room, ensuring that they had sufficient ambient noise to not draw attention to the change in tone. “If ye can take a crew of goblins alone, I could have use of yer services.”

“So now you want to employ me, in addition to Sildar,” she said. “However, I do still have my own business to attend to first.”

“Aye, and that’s fine, this opportunity has a few days yet before it departs.” He took another drink. “The urgency of my business with Sildar means we have to get a move on, and we have to travel light. But we’re going to need provisions, more than we can carry with us.” He cleared his throat. “The wagon’s all arranged, and I happen to be looking for a few handy folks to drive it to Phandalin for me.”

“I see,” Westra said. “And have you recruited anyone else for this opportunity, or do I have the honor of being your first?”

Either the ale was beginning to take hold of the dwarf, or he had interpreted a different meaning in her last statement – his ruddy cheeks had flushed a deeper red. “In fact, I’ve mainly left the arrangements to a cousin o’mine, who’s on…ah…let’s call it on leave from the Mintarn mercenary corps.”

 “I wasn’t aware that the mercenaries operated on the basis of leaves.”

“Let’s just say it’s not strictly voluntary.”

“Ah. Say no more.” She finished her wine. “And does this opportunity of yours pay anything?”

Gundren winced. “I told Orsik – that’s my cousin – that I could pay 10 gold pieces to each person who participates in the safe and timely escort of my wagon to Barthen’s Provisions in Phandalin. But I also told him I couldn’ae pay more than 5 people,” he added quickly. “I’m not made of money.”

Westra tapped her fingernails on the wooden tabletop, thinking. She looked at Sildar. “And what is your role in this endeavour?”

“Chiefly, a bodyguard,” he replied. “But, as yourself pointed out, I have interests there myself. It’s a rather convenient partnership.”

“Hmm,” she said, still looking at Sildar.

“Are ye in or out, lass?” Gundren said. “If yer in, ye’ll need ta get to Orsik and tell him so before he fills the other 4 spots.” 

“How do I find this cousin? I assume he’s here, in Neverwinter?”

“Aye, he likes to frequent the docks and the taverns there,” Gundren replied, rolling his eyes. “He’s a bit…philosophical. Likes to ponder morality and motives or some such nonsense.”

“I take it you don’t share his passion for those types of discussions.”

Gundren shrugged. “He’s solid and he’s family. What more does there need to be?”

“If Sildar here agrees to meet with me in Phandalin once his business with you is concluded, then I accept.” She offered Sildar her hand, and after only the slightest hesitation, he gripped it firmly. 

“I’ll promise to a meeting,” Sildar said, “but nothing more until I get a clearer idea of your intentions.”

“Good,” she said, beaming.  

“Does that mean ye’ll not be takin’ my gold if the journey is successful?” Gundren asked hopefully.

“Oh no,” she grinned. “The gold represents the accord between you and me. The meeting is the accord between me and Sildar.” She finished her second cup of wine. “Besides, if I don’t accept your gold, how will I manage to keep buying drinks for the strange men I meet in taverns?”

“Aye, you’ve got a point there,” Gundren said, raising his mug to her.

Westra repeated the gesture, draining her wine. “Now,” she said. “Tell me more about Orsik.”

Phandalin, 951 DR

The evening sun begins to set, casting the last rays of golden light and warmth upon the soil. The farming families of Phandalin, wiping sweat and dirt from their sun-baked brows, leave their fields and begin to gather, sharing stories of the day’s labours. Crickets begin their chirping evening song. A frog hops across the hardened path into the adjoined field, and a young girl with dark eyes and dark curls releases her mother’s apron to follow. 

The girl manages one hop to the frog’s three – after all, it is much harder for a human body to perform a feat designed for a frog. She likes pretending to be a frog, but she prefers to release her crickets when she catches them. She hop-chases the frog into the middle of the field, where she loses sight of it. Frowning, the girl stands up from her half-crouch and narrows her eyes against the setting sun.

She slows her breathing to try and listen for the frog’s rustling in the grass. She strains to hear something other than the cricket song, and it takes her a moment to realize that the crickets are no longer singing. They must sense the frog and fear him, she thinks, knowing that the frogs of Phandalin are not as merciful when they catch a cricket. She looks back towards her mother, relieved to see her still standing and chatting with the neighbours. She resumes her search for the elusive frog.

She spies a tendril of brown smoke rising in the distance behind Olson’s farm, the farthest farm within the Phandalian limits. She shakes her head – Olson is always forgetting which days are for burning. She turns away, but something feels strange – hadn’t she seen Olson in the village this evening? She looks back at her mother again, and spots Olson chatting merrily away. Who, then, is burning at Olson’s farm? As she ponders the mystery, she feels the ground beneath her feet begin to shake. Huge dark shapes are spilling out from either side of Olson’s house and outbuildings, their steel weapons glinting in the dying sunlight. They are running – towards the village, towards her mother, towards her. She screams.

Phandalin burns.

I killed my cat today.

I mean, not directly. An animal, likely a coyote, ended his life in our neighbour’s backyard at 4:30 this morning. But here’s the thing – as an indoor cat, he shouldn’t have been outside at 4:30 in the morning. That is how I killed him.

I let him out.

He pawed at the bedroom door sometime in the wee hours…I didn’t check the time but my fitbit tells me I was awake just before 2am and again at around 4am. I tried giving him food – no effect. I tried giving him treats – no effect. I tried letting the faucet trickle, because he was a snob who only liked fresh running water – no effect. He kept walking to the patio door, meowing and pawing wildly. He wanted to go outside.

I let him out.

He’d been coming outside with me and the kids and the dog during the day when we took our isolation sanity breaks. He’d spent many an accidental night outside before and always been there the next morning, waiting to be let back in. And I was tired, knowing I was waking up in a few short hours to start my workday. I have to start early, so that I can stretch my eight hours into twelve and take breaks with the kids during the day…but it’s wearing on me, and I just wanted to go back to sleep.

I let him out.

Normally he’d spent his nights in the basement – there’s a couch and blankets and a space heater down there, lots of room to explore and toys to chase, and his litter box. We were keeping him in the den overnight but as he gets older he can’t (or won’t) hold his bladder and he pees on the leather recliner. We can’t have the litter box in the den because the dog will eat/dig in it. I used to be able to lure him with treats, but lately when I get up to go to bed he knows that I’m going to try to catch him, and he hides where I can’t reach. So I leave him upstairs, and he wakes me up in the middle of the night because he wants to go outside.

I let him out.

When I got up just after 5am, I let the dog out and checked for the cat in his favourite hiding spot – under the deck stairs. I called for him, rattled his food dish, shook the bag of treats. I tried again when I took a break with the kids later that morning, and again in the afternoon. I took a walk around my yard, front and back. I was concerned, but he’d been gone longer before. I resolved to go for a walk on the roads once my husband was home – I didn’t want to take the kids, just in case.

I let him out.

I happened to see a post in my neighborhood facebook group about a cat who’d met a messy end at the hands of an animal. Brown tabby. Black back. Black stripes on the tail. He posted his street name. It’s my street. I clicked on the poster’s profile, recognized him and his son. They’re our next door neighbours. He took the body to a local vet in case he’d been tattooed or microchipped. He was, but we hadn’t gotten a call. We called the vet – they can’t give us a positive ID until Monday morning. The neighbour showed Steve a picture of the aftermath. We’re 99% sure.

Because I let him out.