Episode 0: The Arcadian Rose

It is close to midnight, and by hook or by crook you have found your way to the Arcadian Rose, on the island of Eglar. You have nothing but the equipment on your back, a few coins in your purse, and a passphrase for your Pale Deva handler Rhiann Vequaniel.

The three-story stone edifice rests at an intersection upon a hill overlooking the harbor, its walls covered in a layer of salt and hardy lichen. Unlike many of the homes in the neighborhood, the Arcadian Rose was built to withstand the strong ocean storms that crop up from time to time and has become a landmark for the locals. Perhaps for this reason the Arcadian Rose enjoys a brief area of isolation, her closest neighbor a general goods store across the way. Two braziers flank the main entrance and illuminate the front like a beacon.

You open the thick wooden door and step into a lively scene. As it is near the apex of the evening, most tables are occupied with a few citizens looking for an night of festivity and mirth, mixed with some individuals that seem out of place with their finery unsuited for the docks. The clientele range from human to halfling, dwarf to elf, and even a number of tieflings and gnomes.

Stepping past the orc bouncer at the door, you make your way to the bar where a middle-aged human woman commands the tavern. Her face as hard as the salted air, she maneuvers her girth along the counter like a masterful warship; not so much parting the sea, but the sea itself respectfully getting out of her way. She is dressed in working clothes covered by an apron, her hair bundled under a scarf that hangs upon her shoulders. She meets your gaze with an expression that would tolerate no wasteful time, though she politely asks what you will have.

You place your order. "A side of prawn, buttered. And a room for two," which is the passphrase you were ordered to use regardless if you arrived alone. The woman fixes you with a hard stare, then nods. "Aye, 'tis 10 silver for an outlander like you," she replies, and it is the correct response. This woman is Rhiann Vequaniel.



Rhiann summons a young Turami woman. "Morena, send this one to room three," she orders. The one known as Morena curtsies silently, her skirt barely brushing against the reclaimed wood floor. Morena is also dressed in working clothes and an apron, but her attire fits her frame near-perfectly and accentuates her youth.



The young woman escorts you up to the second floor, where there are three doors leading to individual suites. Despite asking for Room Three, you realize that none of the doors are marked with any numbers. Somehow Morena knows where to go, drawing a key to unlock the door and reveal an empty room. She points out the foot locker for your equipment and says that you may return to the common area where your order will be ready once it has been prepared. Morena advises you to not leave the tavern, for any reason, and heads downstairs.

One by one, each of you performs the same ritual. You are shown to a room on the second floor to drop off your belongings and asked to remain in the common area. As the evening is winding down, there are several tables available for you to choose from. The air has the aroma of steamed crab and pan-fried fish, seasoned to perfection. The flow of wine and alcoholic ciders moves freely from the tap to a number of waiting cups.

None of the occupants in the tavern seem to be paying you much attention. In fact, neither Morena nor Rhiann have acknowleged your presence since your arrival, at least through their own initiative. Morena moves among the tables (except for yours) to deliver food and drink, making light conversation with the locals before moving on. Rhiann addresses those at the bar and occasionally steps into the kitchen through a door behind the counter, either to deliver an order or to bring out a completed meal for Morena to take.

What do you do now?

The tables in the common room each hold their own conversation, and none pay any of you much attention for the time being. There are others who are by themselves enjoying relative quiet time, so you don't appear to be out-of-place in your isolation.

Spice and seasonings waft from the open door to the kitchen, and the sound of hissing pots on the boil mixed with sizzling pans add a layer of background to the numerous discussions and laughter in the tavern.

Aside from your bread and water, you haven't been given anything of food or drink. Morena is constantly on the move, and while she passes by your table more than once, she does not stop.

"Don't touch me!" snaps the dour man, reeling back from Rhodrick and warding off the nudge with his elbow. He eyes the sailor warily, instantly suspicious of the sudden appearance. His brown hair is a mop of wavy locks hanging just past his year, and looks like he might have worn a hat earlier in the day. The man's other hand is tight against his waist, where a dagger is peace-knotted.

The woman at the table, once bubbly and expecting something exciting to happen, seems caught off guard by just how exciting this encounter is. Her eyes are wide and face near-petrified, and she appears uncertain of what to do next. Her slender hands tug at the curls of her long blonde hair.

The third occupant of the table, a raven-haired man with seemingly much confidence, makes a dismissive gesture. "Easy, Cedrick," he says, holding back a laugh. He leans forward and addresses Rhodrick. "Forgive my friend. He's had a rough week and I thought coming here would help relax him. Come, sit and share a drink!"

All three are dressed in common clothes, nothing that stands out much amidst the general trend of the crowd. They are young and lack the weathered features of many sailors and other laborers, yet seem to hold themselves with some dignity and poise.

"I'm Foucaut," he continues, introducing himself. "The young miss is Eleanor. Er... you said you haven't seen me before? Perhaps you just didn't notice, as I'm something of a regular here. I don't quite recall seeing you, though."

The one known as Cedrick releases his hold on his belt and begrudginginly places his elbows upon the table, where he shields his drink from Rhodrick by turning his shoulder.

Foucat shrugs, almost too non-chalantly. "I might know someone. Give me your name and what ship you served upon."

The old man at the bar seems jarred out of his contemplation by the presence of Parallel Greenbottle. He looks over his shoulder, sees nothing, then turns his gaze downward to the halfling. The nobleman's blank expression takes in the small individual standing by his side, and he remains that way as though waiting.

The old nobleman appears to consider the offer, but gives a slight shake of his head. "That's kind of you," he says, lips curling into a gentle smile at the corners, "but I am fine by myself. I wouldn't be much company for you, anyway. Appreciate the gesture, though, and I wish you well." With that, he returns to his cup.

Foucat nods. "Vutha, of the Wyrm's Tongue," he repeats. "I'll pass along your name, then. If someone's interested, they would find you here?"

Cedrick scowls, but says nothing. Eleanor's eyes flit between Foucat and Rhodrick, intensely listening to their conversation as though committing every single syllable to memory.

Rhodrick does not notice the halfling's nimble fingers slipping the coin purse into the folds of his clothing.

The rest of the evening passes without much incident. Several tables enjoy themselves while others tolerate the noise as pleasant ambiance. Rhiann announces last call and Morena sees to orders from both the bar and the kitchen, from which wafts the enticing aroma of spiced and seasoned seafood. After another 30 minutes, the orc starts ushering those remaining out the door, though a glance from the innkeeper seems more than enough to get people moving.

Once the tavern is cleared, save for yourself and a few other individuals, Rhiann speaks to the orc and hands him a pouch. The orc smiles and gives a casual salute before he takes his leave and departs. The braziers outside are extinguished somewhat instantly before Rhiann closes, locks, and bars the front door.

Rhodrick knows that Jyehm Cay is an island of no importance. There's little economic value compared to other coastal villages as there's not much to export or trade, and the lack of other port cities in the area means there's hardly any naval traffic passing by since there are no shipping lanes. While Rodrick has never heard of the village of Whitburn, he suspects the village supports itself through fishing and whatever can be gleaned from the local terrain.

As for The Red Cutter, Rhodrick has never heard of that vessel. The planned route seems standard for any private charter attempting to traverse large distance in the least amount of time, taking into account favorable wind and weather.

Having finished your seafood dinner, you all retire to your rooms. Rhiann and her waitstaff clear your table and secure the tavern, and the night passes uneventfully. With your assignment and passage off the island, your new day will come soon enough with the rising sun.