Friendly Arm Inn

First, the library-fortress of Candlekeep. Then, the inn-fortress of the Friendly Arm Inn. To those from far-off Icewind Dale, it so far appears that people down in the Western Heartlands around Baldur’s Gate either value their privacy, or have much to fear in the countryside.

Indeed, on this morning in the Friendly Arm’s common room, mutterings and rumors among the various patrons speak to the prevalence of bandits on the nearby roads. The Flaming Fist mercenaries of Baldur’s Gate frequently send patrols around the more civilized parts to help keep the peace and provide safety to the locals, but in a time when one can hardly trust their own iron, "safety" seems akin to a hedge-mage’s illusions.

For the party from Icewind Dale, that illusion has been shattered.

An assassin even within the most fortified and warded walls of Candlekeep, a deadly ambush on the road, and then another killer in the upper storeys of the Friendly Arm Inn steals the face of a trusted friend. Not to mention the band of hobgoblins that abducted Sheemish just outside the Friendly Arm’s lauded walls, or the hordes of gibberlings wandering the land. And yet, at the behest of Jaheira, Khalid, and others, the young adventurers of Icewind Dale (and their local friends) have decided to remain in this exotic land and investigate the ongoing "Iron Crisis".

Still, it’s hard not to eye the other patrons of the Friendly Arm without suspicion. Is that the hint of a blade beneath that man’s cloak? Or are the trio whispering in the corner hiding glances this way? A surly halfling and green-robed necromancer, known to the party as Montaron and Xzar, respectively, almost seem trustworthy by comparison. The two seem to be arguing. Always arguing!

Aiwȅ, Stella, Sheemish, Dieter, and Runeson sit near to each other at a pair of tables near the hearth as they eat their warm breakfast of fresh bread, glazed ham, and cheese. Piles of bags and equipment litter the floor beneath the tables. Alongside the group are several others: Imoen, Wirrow, and Keggruk.

In moments, Aiwȅ's songs transform the patrons in the common room from mysterious strangers to cheering fans. Even Xzar stands up to dance along, until Montaron's calloused hand grabs his robes and pulls the necromancer roughly back to his seat.

In the cheery revelry, only the most attentive of observants notice the hearth's flames change. Rather than random flickers of fire, they almost seem to reach toward the tavern's main door. A few seconds later, the door opens and two figures enter...

Sheemish had learned long ago to never let a good meal go unfinished. You never knew when you might get abducted by dragons, goblins, or snapplegobs. Best to always take advantage of the opportunity. He eagerly eats, his metal gauntlets, always on, clinking with the silverware. He looks at his companions noting how young, tired, and unsure they look. Their journey had taken so many crazy turns lately it was amazing they were all still functioning. And what were they to do now? It looked like half their party was leaving already. Was he going to be the oldest now, just him and some anxious though talented teenagers? And where was this adventure even taking them? Sheemish loved puzzles, but right now he didn't even know if any of the weird things going on were part of the same picture? There had to be a way to make some of these pieces fit together.

Sheemish scans his eyes around the room but decides against drawing attention to himself. Drumming his gauntleted fingers on the tabletop, humming to Aiwe's music, he taps a distinct rhythm and a small winged orb unhitches from his shoulder armor. Stitch, Sheemish's tiny creation and friend, takes her cue, gives a mischievous whirr and then stealthfuly moves around the room sneaking under tables, chairs, or up in the rafters as she tries to spot anything suspicious or of note.

Stitch can communicate short distances with Sheemish, so anything she overhears Sheemish will hear it as well.