[RP] Averancia: Hero's Call

The town of Redstone sits at a crossroads of its own history, a place where the past lingers in its architecture and the present feels uncertain. The town takes its name from the deep red stones that pave its central square, once part of the proud and formidable Castle Redstone. The castle, now dismantled, was torn down long ago during a time of peace, its stones repurposed for other buildings. But what once symbolized unity now feels more like a scar—a reminder of what the duchy of Averancia has lost.

As you approach the town, the streets are quiet, though not abandoned. Merchants still sell their wares from small wooden stalls, though fewer than there might have been in better times. Children chase one another through narrow alleyways, their laughter echoing off the walls of buildings that are sturdy but weathered. There’s no hustle, no sense of urgency—just the slow, deliberate rhythm of a town waiting for something to change. The faces of the townspeople tell their own stories: some wear the lines of hardship, others carry an air of quiet determination, but most seem guarded, as though uncertain of what the future holds.

At the heart of Redstone is the square, a wide open space paved with the deep red stone that once held the foundations of Castle Redstone. The remnants of the town's former grandeur are here in the form of half-crumbled statues and broken columns that line the edges of the square, now overgrown with moss and weeds. The marketplace, once bustling with trade, now only has a few scattered vendors offering basic goods—simple tools, stale bread, a few trinkets from travelers passing through. The imposing Lord Chamberlain Amberstead’s mansion looms on the far side, one of the only buildings in town that hasn’t completely fallen to disrepair, though even it shows signs of fading. Its walls are dark stone, and the iron gates, though rusted at the edges, stand firm, watched over by a pair of listless guards.

Those arriving in Redstone may feel the weight of its history, of a town that was once vital but now seems uncertain. Yet, not all is without hope. Though few openly talk of it, word has spread of Lord Chamberlain Amberstead's summons, the letter calling for aid in the name of the duchy of Averancia. It's said that Amberstead has plans to restore Redstone and perhaps even reclaim the glory the duchy once held. Some believe him a fool clinging to the past; others whisper that he has secrets, knowledge, or resources hidden away, waiting for the right hands to seize them. The town's atmosphere is a curious mix of resignation and simmering potential, like kindling waiting for a spark.

Should you choose to follow the letter's call, the path leads to Amberstead's mansion, where a few guards—more in appearance than readiness—stand watch, waiting to guide any willing souls inside. For those less inclined to answer the call immediately, the town offers space for reflection. There’s the Broken Blade Inn, with its weathered sign and warm firelight flickering from within, a favorite haunt for travelers and mercenaries seeking a meal and bed before deciding their next move. Or the Cathedral, a temple dedicated to the Church of Elion (now in some level of disrepair) where the faithful once prayed for the duchy’s salvation.

Whether to heed Amberstead’s summons or to explore Redstone further is up to you. The town itself seems patient, waiting to see what its few visitors—be they heroes or opportunists—will decide.

The sight of the four arrivals—a strange band to be sure—did not go unnoticed by the townspeople of Redstone. As Rafn the savage Beastmaster stalked through the streets, it was clear that the trappings of civilization sat uncomfortably upon him. His wild appearance, fur-lined clothing, and the wary gaze of the animal companion that shadowed him made the locals shuffle away, whispering behind their hands. Children were quickly pulled from his path, while merchants glanced up from their stalls with equal parts curiosity and unease. To them, Rafn was an intruder from a world they barely understood—a wild force stepping into the decaying remains of a once-civilized town.

Aengus the Shepherd, though a simpler figure with his humble staff and plain woolen cloak, was met with kinder stares. The people of Redstone, farmers themselves for the most part, saw in him a man of the earth, a kindred spirit. There was something comforting in his presence—a quiet, steadying force. Some nodded in recognition, others whispered that it was good to see a man of the fields answer the call for arms. Still, there was a lingering sense of confusion—what place did a shepherd have in a summons for war and glory?

On the other hand, the sight of Wilfrid Aelwynd and Aundovold stirred a different kind of reaction. Wilfrid, with his noble bearing, clean attire, and delicate fingers that spoke of a calligrapher’s craft, was met with polite bows from the few locals who recognized his station, albeit as a lesser noble. They saw in him a man from their own world, yet one perhaps untested by the dangers that lay ahead. Aundovold, however, clad in gleaming armor, was a vision of the past. The old days, when knights and champions rode into battle under the banners of House Anvilstar, still echoed in Redstone's memories. Aundovold's noble-hearted presence stirred whispers of hope, admiration—and perhaps skepticism—among the guards.

At the gates of Lord Amberstead's mansion, the guards straightened as they saw Aundovold’s approach, their gaze lingering on his armor. They glanced between each other, unsure whether to show deference or maintain their indifference. As the party approached, one guard, trying to suppress his discomfort, stepped forward with a wary eye toward Rafn, while acknowledging Aundovold with a respectful nod. "Lord Amberstead has been expecting you." the guard said, though his voice held a touch of hesitation. Behind the gate, a few of the staff peered out of windows, curiosity piqued by the mix of figures answering the call.

"Please leave the animals in the garden. Lord Amberstead will see you in the dining hall." They open the doors and usher the others into the older mansion.

Scene: Rafn confronts the Lord Chamberlain's GuardsAs Rafn forges forward with the large wolf at his side, the two guards look at each other briefly. One looks like he is about to say something but the other one shakes his head at him vigorously. They return to their guarding positions and admit the others in if they do not attempt to engage them in some way.

As you step into Lord Chamberlain Amberstead's foyer, the faded glory of the mansion becomes immediately apparent. The tiled floor beneath your feet, once a pristine white marble, now bears the marks of age and neglect. Several tiles have cracked, while others have been haphazardly replaced with wooden panels cut to fit the same shapes, a makeshift patchwork that hints at the dwindling resources of the estate. The brass ornaments that line the walls—once gleaming symbols of wealth and power—are now dulled with tarnish, their luster long forgotten. Yet, despite the wear and tear, the room exudes an air of what it once was: a grand entrance befitting a noble of high standing. The intricate design, though faded, still holds a ghost of its former ostentation, and one can only imagine the splendor this room held in years past.

The dining hall beyond is no less revealing of the mansion's decline. The long wooden table that dominates the room, likely once used for elaborate feasts, is now completely covered in disorganized stacks of paperwork—scrolls, letters, and documents spilling over in uneven piles. The only hint of warmth in the room comes from the small fire burning in the large stone fireplace to one side, though the flames do little to chase away the chill that seems to cling to the walls. The servants move about in threadbare garments, once fine enough to reflect their master's status, but now faded and patched. Their clothes are frayed at the edges, barely holding together, a somber reminder of the fortunes that have withered away in this household.

At the far end of the table, Lord Chamberlain Amberstead sits, his posture one of weary authority. His garments, much like those of his servants, are threadbare and worn, though meticulously rehemmed as if to preserve some semblance of dignity. Behind him looms a stained glass window, once a masterpiece of color and craftsmanship, now a patchwork of opaque, milky glass and wooden tiles—hasty repairs made with whatever materials were available. The dim light filtering through the mismatched panes casts strange shadows across the room, illuminating the solemn figure of Amberstead, a man burdened by the weight of a once-great duchy now teetering on the edge of ruin.

The guards have taken up their formal defensive positions, but one of the guards nods and jerks his head towards the door.

Lord Amberstead stood quietly as Rafn's outburst subsided, the wild man's rage and grief giving way to a sudden, almost jarring, moment of empathy. The fiery accusation that had brought the beastmaster and his wolf crashing into the hall lingered in the air, unanswered. The heavy stillness in the room was broken only by the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth and the weight of both men's burdens pressing down on them. For a moment, the papers strewn across the table, the endless reports, and the broken tiles of the floor seemed irrelevant in the face of such raw emotion.

Amberstead, for once, did not respond immediately. He let the silence stretch between them, his tired gaze lingering on Rafn, taking in the wildness and sorrow that had come so unexpectedly into his life this day. He ran a hand through his graying hair, as though brushing away the weariness of countless days spent drowning in the troubles of his crumbling duchy. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more measured than the commanding tone he so often used, no longer the voice of a statesman but of a man who understood the weight of loss.

"I have spent the day, and many days before it, drowning in the troubles of men," Amberstead began, his tone almost mournful. "And in all that time, I have forgotten that there are other lives—other worlds—affected by the choices made here."

His eyes met Rafn’s, no longer filled with frustration or ambivalence but with the understanding of a man who recognized the pain before him. "I know the names of the men who took from you, though I did not know their crime until now. Your wolves—" he paused, his words careful, "they are more than beasts to you. I see that."

Amberstead's gaze drifted for a moment to the wolf at Rafn's side, and then to the broken marble beneath his feet. He let out a slow breath. "I cannot bring back what was taken. But, as the one who carries the weight of this land's laws, I can see to it that those responsible understand the cost of their actions."

His voice, weary but resolute, softened further. "Our law, though… it is thin. Like old cloth stretched over a wound too large to heal. I will do what I can, beastlord. It is all I can offer."

Amberstead paused again, as if weighing his next words carefully. The beastmaster had spoken with a raw intensity that had shaken the Chamberlain’s usually unflinching demeanor, but now there was something new in the wild man’s eyes—pity, even empathy. Amberstead, though surprised by it, understood. "How am I alive under such a burden?" he echoed softly, almost to himself. "Perhaps I am like Atlas. But we each carry our own weight, do we not?"

He let the thought hang for a moment, before turning back to Rafn with quiet conviction. "I know your wolves were not simply animals, not to you. Their loss… the damage it caused is not something I can truly understand. But perhaps you can help me to right that wrong."

It was a small offer, perhaps even inadequate given the weight of Rafn’s grief, but it was sincere—a fragile connection between two men who bore the weight of the world in different ways.

As Wilfrid Aelwynd spoke, his voice cut through the heavy air, bringing a shift in the room's focus. Lord Amberstead’s eyes moved from Rafn to the nobleman, the Beastmaster’s wild grief now tempered by this sudden offer of calm, composed assistance. Wilfrid stood with the poise of a gentleman, his words respectful and measured, yet beneath the formality was a sense of earnestness—of someone who had come not for personal glory, but to contribute in whatever way he could.

Amberstead studied the man before him, noting the sharpness of his attire, though like much in this crumbling duchy, even Wilfrid’s fine clothes bore signs of wear. Still, the scribe carried himself with dignity, and his introduction—proprietor of the 'Worn Nib', a small scriptorium—was an intriguing contrast to the wild figure of Rafn, who moments before had filled the chamber with fury. The Chamberlain’s expression softened slightly as Wilfrid continued, revealing something more than just a desire to serve with pen and ink.

"I am not a warrior, but I believe I have been given this power so that I may serve Averancia. I would be honored to contribute what little I can, my Lord."

The mention of healing gave Amberstead pause. In a land fraught with wounds—both physical and spiritual—such a skill was no small thing. His tired eyes flicked to the papers on the table, filled with reports of unrest, sickness, and injury across the land. This man, a scribe of all things, now claimed to have been blessed with the ability to heal—whether by divine grace or some other means, Amberstead was unsure. But such an offering, however humble, could not be dismissed.

"You speak well, Master Aelwynd," Amberstead replied, his voice quieter now, more contemplative. "A scribe, and yet you bring more than ink and paper. Healing..." He trailed off, considering the significance of what Wilfrid had said. "That is no small gift."

Amberstead straightened, casting a glance between Rafn and Wilfrid. The contrasts could not be starker—the wildman grieving over slain wolves, and the nobleman offering the power to heal. Yet both had come, drawn by some calling. He nodded, his tone shifting to one of guarded appreciation. "The burdens on this land are many, and heavy as you say, Master Aelwynd. If your hands, both to write and to heal, can help ease even a fraction of what we face... then they are welcome."

He paused, looking toward the others in the room, aware that each of them—whether wild or noble—had a role to play. "Averancia needs more than swords, it seems. We need those who can heal its wounds, whatever form they take."

Though brief, there was a spark of hope in Amberstead’s words. His weariness had not left him, but the quiet, steadfast offer from Wilfrid had eased some of the weight on his shoulders, if only for a moment.

As the conversation between Wilfrid and Lord Amberstead reached a quiet pause, Aundovald took a measured step forward. His armor caught the flickering light from the fire, gleaming faintly, and his voice rang with the formal sincerity of one who had long served both the land and its people.

"Hail, my Lord Chamberlain. I am honored to be here," he began, his tone respectful but carrying the weight of his conviction. "I am Aundovald, a Ryder of the southern hills, and of all the wondrous lands of the Duchy."

His words carried a clear and noble purpose, and Amberstead, still standing at the head of the table, shifted his gaze toward the armored knight with a glimmer of interest. Aundovald’s bearing was different from the others—his formal manner, though not without warmth, spoke of a deep sense of duty, not just to the Chamberlain but to the land itself.

"I too came in answer to your summons. I heard your recent call-to-arms read aloud, and it moved my spirit to action in an instant. I would hear your directions, my Lord." Aundovald’s hand rested on the hilt of his weapon, not out of threat but as a symbol of his readiness. His eyes remained fixed on Amberstead, unwavering.

"What is it that must be done to gain an advantage for this land, our folk, and most of all for our Rightful Sovereign the Duke, whose return we long await?"

There was a brief pause as Amberstead took in the sincerity of Aundovald’s words, his mind already turning toward the troubles that lay ahead. The mention of the Duke, still missing after all these years, struck a chord, though it was one that remained buried under the weight of daily survival. Amberstead’s face softened slightly, as if acknowledging the Ryder's steadfast belief in the Duke’s return—a belief that even he struggled to maintain.

"Aundovald, Ryder of the southern hills," Amberstead began, his voice carrying a note of appreciation, "your loyalty to the Duchy and to its sovereign is commendable. Your spirit, like those of the others here, is what this land desperately needs."

He paused, glancing briefly at the piles of paperwork cluttering the table. "There is much that must be done, though the path is far from clear. The Duke’s absence has left us vulnerable, and there are forces both within and outside these borders that seek to exploit that. What must be done, Ryder, is to restore order—to uncover what festers in the dark corners of this land, and to ready ourselves for the day when our Duke returns."

Amberstead’s gaze returned to Aundovald, his expression growing more resolute. "We need men like you—those willing to ride into the unknown, to seek out the threats that have taken root in our land, and to strike before they grow beyond our control. If we are to gain any advantage, we must be swift, and we must be vigilant. Your weapon will be needed in more ways than one."

Though the burden remained heavy on Amberstead's shoulders, the presence of Aundovald, with his clear sense of purpose, brought a further spark of hope to the chamber. The Ryder’s dedication to the duchy, the land, and the long-lost Duke was a reminder of the values that had once held Averancia together.

"You say you were called here by a vision of Father Elion?" Amberstead’s voice, though quiet, had a note of curiosity. He had heard many tales of divine intervention over the years, but rarely did they come from the lips of such a humble man. "There are forces at play in Averancia, forces beyond the reach of men like me. If Father Elion has seen fit to send you here, Ængus, then your presence is no accident."

Amberstead’s eyes shifted briefly to Brutus, who sat patiently at Ængus’s side, then to the staff Faithful, held firmly in the shepherd’s hand. "The burdens of this land are heavy, and the road ahead dangerous. Yet I find no reason to doubt the guidance you have received. If Father Elion has brought you to us, then you shall walk with us on this journey, wherever it may lead."

Amberstead nodded slightly, acknowledging Ængus’s humble yet profound role in the days to come. "What you will do, Shepherd, is what we all must do—serve this land in whatever way you can. And if Elion has chosen you, then I would be a fool not to accept their judgment."

Lord Amberstead, after hearing the introductions and heartfelt pledges of the four men before him, allowed a moment of silence to settle in the room. His gaze, heavy with the weight of responsibility, swept across each of them—the unknown beastmaster, Wilfrid, Aundovald, and Ængus—seeing in each not only individuals but the hope of a land teetering on the edge of ruin. Though their backgrounds were wildly different, there was a fire in each of them, a potential Amberstead could not afford to waste.

With measured steps, he moved toward the mantle above the fireplace. There, a small armoire of dark wood stood, simple yet polished, flanked by four small wooden and metal chests, each with a key protruding from its lock. His hand hovered briefly over the armoire before he opened it, revealing within a gleaming golden fleur-de-lis, the revered holy symbol of Father Elion. The soft firelight reflected off the symbol’s polished surface, casting an ethereal glow in the room.

He turned to face the four men once again, his tone no longer merely that of a weary administrator, but one now infused with solemn authority. "Before I accept your formal service to the Duchy of Averancia, I must ask each of you to swear an oath of loyalty. This oath, though spoken in your own words, must come from your heart—pledged not only to me, not even only to our land, but to the very spirit of Averancia itself."

He paused, his hand resting gently on the symbol of Elion, his voice softening as the weight of the moment deepened. "It is not an easy thing I ask of you, for the road ahead is uncertain, and the burdens many. But it is through these oaths that you will bind yourselves, not just to the Duchy, but to the ideals we strive to uphold. I do not ask for obedience, but for faithfulness. I do not demand submission, but commitment to the land, its people, and the values that guide us."

Amberstead’s gaze moved to each of the men, his words carrying the gravity of generations past. "Swear, in whatever manner you choose, that you will serve the Duchy faithfully and protect it from the forces that threaten to tear it apart—be they from within or from without. Swear, and let this be the first step in restoring the balance we have lost."

With those words, Amberstead stepped aside, the golden fleur-de-lis gleaming before them, awaiting their oaths. The chests on the mantle remained untouched, their keys poised for when the men would seal their commitment with the words that would bind them to Averancia. The room, now bathed in a hushed reverence, awaited the voices of those who would take up the mantle of its defense.

The chamberlain nods as he then hands the four coffers, the small chests (about 4 x 6 x 4 inches) to each of the four heroes of Averancia. "I hear and accept your bond; and I thank you for your honesty."

Each of the four chests is a symbol of both practicality and commitment to the Duchy of Averancia. Crafted from polished wood and reinforced with metal, they are small but ornate, with finely detailed locks and brass fittings. Inside, the chests are meticulously organized. 1,000 silver coins, stacked neatly in rows, glint softly in the firelight, reflecting the wealth and promise of service. Beside the coins rests a map of Averancia, slightly unrolled, displaying part of the land’s intricate geography. A brass and wood compass and a brass spyglass, both finely crafted, lie next to the map, tools meant for navigating the duchy's rugged terrain. The final piece in the chest is a copper cloakpin shaped like a gryphon rampant, a clear symbol of office, indicating the bearer’s service to the duchy. The gryphon, fierce and majestic, seems almost ready to leap from the brooch, symbolizing protection and vigilance.

The chests and their contents, though humble in size, reflect the gravity of the task set before those who would take them up.

"If it were up to me, I would give you gold, but the duchy's resources are, I fear, limited. And before you ask, I cannot brook any further advances of payment. If you do something to alleviate this circumstance, or take up some other position that would normally receive payment, then further rewards or pay will be forthcoming. But for right now, these are the rewards I can provide to you for your service, as promised in the letter."

He looks briefly at the beastmaster. "I am not certain I caught your name, beastlord. Do you wish to share it for the records or do you prefer to remain anonymous?"

As everyone looks through the contents of their coffers, Lord Amberstead busies himself by clearing some of the stacks of paperwork from the table and chairs. He gestures to one of the servants with a nod, and a wooden tray bearing sliced meats, bread and cheese is brought forward, as well as glass carafes of both mead and wine. "As Master Aelwynd has surmised, the details ahead of us are left to lay out. So I turn to you, now heroes of Averancia, what would you most desire to do? Where does your spirit lead you? And will you select a leader from among you to help focus your efforts?"

The chamberlain gently refuses the proffered cup. "My thanks, beastlord. But I cannot share your sacred water. Perhaps if we were in less dire straits than we are currently - But, if you do wish to remain anonymous, that is within my power, and you will be known throughout the duchy as... the Beastlord, or Beastlord."

The chamberlain looked over at the shepherd, bemused but not pitying. "These coins are for you to use to support yourself as you take on quests or whatever it is that you are called to do in the name of the Duchy or Father Elion. Though, if you truly seek to hear more from our Creator, you may wish to speak to Bishop Alrien. He is several miles away at the other end of the Duchy." At this, Amberstead unrolls Aengus' map and points to the Sanctuary of Avlin. "Here, in the Cathedral City of Avlin." He also calmly demonstrates the use of the compass, showing how the needle always points North.

Lord Amberstead stood quietly for a moment, listening to Ængus's earnest question. The simplicity of the shepherd’s words was striking, and though they carried no malice, they revealed a wisdom born from the fields. Amberstead, with all his weariness, felt a sense of respect for this plain but profound insight.

When he spoke, his tone was measured and thoughtful, though there was a warmth beneath his words. "Ængus, I understand your comparison, and I respect the honesty in your words. But let me make one thing clear—you and those who have sworn oaths today are not sheep. You are not a flock to be herded or led without thought. Each of you is an individual, with your own strengths, your own wisdom. You are not here simply to follow commands. You are here because you possess something this Duchy desperately needs—insight."

He paused, his gaze moving from Rafn, to Wilfrid, to Aundovald, and back to Ængus. "I see each of you as heroes of this land. Your opinions, your experiences, are valuable in the grand scheme of things. You are not mere soldiers waiting for orders; you are voices that can shape the future of Averancia."

Amberstead took a step closer to the hearth, the golden fleur-de-lis reflecting in the firelight as he spoke. "Before I list all the troubles that plague this Duchy—and there are many—perhaps one of you already has an insight that could address a problem more swiftly than I can with my limited resources. Perhaps there is a burden you see more clearly, one that you might resolve where I cannot. My reach is short, and the power I wield is stretched thin across many issues. I would be foolish not to trust in the wisdom you bring."

His voice softened slightly, and he glanced toward the piles of papers that lined the table. "And so, I ask this of you, not as your lord but as a man seeking your counsel—where do you see the most pressing need? Where should we prioritize our efforts? For you may know better than I where your strengths lie, and where we might make the most difference. I will share the many symptoms of our Duchy’s ailments, but first, I seek your insights and the direction in which you wish to focus your strength."

Amberstead’s words hung in the air, not as a command, but as a call for collaboration. He looked at each of them, waiting for their thoughts, knowing that these men would play a pivotal role in guiding the Duchy through its darkest days. If no one speaks up in response, he will start reaching for one of the stacks of paperwork that he had recently moved, though he motions for the others to take their leisure and eat and drink freely if they desire.

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Amberstead looks up with some apprehension as the scribe looks through the documents. While there are other stacks to go through, this particular conflict seems to be taking up most of the Chamberlain's efforts and attention.

The Chamberlain shakes his head as Master Aelwynd glances over the letters scattered across the table. "I do not expect you to resolve that particular issue," he admits with a weary sigh. "But there are many other matters that desperately need attention—revitalizing the economy, retraining men-at-arms to defend the civilized lands, reinforcing outlying territories. There is much to be done, and I’m only trying to understand where your strengths lie so that I can guide you in the right direction." Despite his words, it’s clear that Amberstead is deeply stressed and frustrated by the ongoing struggle with the nobles.

Amberstead glances over at the Beastlord. "The desperate outnumber those with means by a gross factor. I have convinced most of the people with houses of their own to help house those who have lost theirs, in return for cooking and other services; though what there is to cook dwindles by the day." He points to the wooden tray of basic meat, bread, and cheese. "Even this is considered a sumptuous meal, the bread and cheese are only a few days old." He ponders their situation for a moment. "I have heard things are better in Market Town. But it has been some time since I last could afford to go there." He reaches for a different stack of papers from the one that Aelwynd is currently digging through and glances at the top few papers briefly. "Of the original 56 hamlets, farms, and small villages that were once part of the Duchy, thirteen are currently inhabited. Many of the widows and orphans have been sent to the larger villages of Blackhill and Balgold, both to help work the farms there and because food is more readily available in the villages."

As the conversation in the chamber grew tense, a sudden, sharp rap at the door interrupted the moment. The door creaked open, and a messenger entered, his brow furrowed with urgency.

"Urgent report from Blackhill, my lord," the messenger announced, stepping forward to hand over a sealed parchment.

Amberstead took the report and quickly scanned its contents, his face tightening with a grimace as his eyes moved over the words. Without a word, he tossed the letter to Wilfrid Aelwynd, his frustration palpable.

"Well, Master Aelwynd, you wanted an imperative," Amberstead said, his tone heavy with resignation. "There it is. I would ask that you four head to Blackhill and deal with this situation. Perhaps along the way, you might find companions or allies to assist you." He paused, his eyes narrowing with concern. "If you travel by the main road, be cautious near the village of Balgold—bandits and highwaymen have been known to plague travelers in that area."

As the messenger delivered the report, he also produced a small cage containing a white dove, which he gently handed to the Chamberlain.

"From the Bishop, my lord," the messenger added.

Amberstead’s gaze softened as he looked at the bird, a faint mist clouding his eyes. His expression became more somber, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Whatever can be said about Duke Frederic Anvilstar, there is one thing we know for certain..." He paused, the weight of unanswered questions hanging in the air. "...he is still alive."

The room fell silent as Amberstead's words settled over the group, the unspoken tension filling the space between them.


Urgent Report from Blackhill Village
To Lord Chamberlain Porlyn Amberstead,

My Lord,

I regret to inform you that the situation in Blackhill has worsened. For several nights now, we have seen the flicker of campfires in the Blackridge and heard the steady beat of war drums echoing through the valley. The Beastmen are gathering in numbers we have not seen before. The village guards, already stretched thin, fear they may not be able to hold the village should an attack come.

Just last evening, a scouting party sent to investigate the ridge did not return, and we have found no trace of them since. The villagers are terrified, and many have begun to flee into the forests or seek refuge at the Sanctuary of Avlin. If reinforcements or aid is not sent soon, we fear Blackhill may fall entirely, and the Beastmen will have an open path to the heartlands.

We implore you, my lord, to act swiftly. Time is running out, and the enemy is at our doorstep.

Yours in duty,
Captain Branek Malor
Commander of the Blackhill Militia

The Chamberlain carefully opened the cage and pulled out the dove, petting it lovingly. He then checked to see if any paper had been put into the small leather tube tied to its foot. "No, nothing about the Duke's state and location. But he lives." He gestures towards the dove. "This is a communication between the Bishop at Avlin and myself. He and some of the other priests perform a divination fairly regularly to see what they can determine about the Duke. Although they have never been able to ascertain his whereabouts; they can confirm that Duke Anvilstar lives."

Amberstead notices Aengus's impatience but also realizes that Master Aelwynd has not yet read the letter aloud, so he is surprised to see the young shepherd so eager to leave already. "You are in luck, Aengus. The village of Blackhill has called for aid, and Blackhill lies in the foothills of the Blackridge Mountains. If you truly mean to make your goal those dark hills and mountains, you can make your way there with the others. Perhaps your guidance is alerting you to what is already affecting the Duchy."

Amberstead nods his head graciously.

"You shall of course stay the night here. I have a few additional rooms here in the manor that still have fresh bedding and linens. And in the morning, after a swift breakfast and perhaps some supplies from my own livery, we shall ride in my carriage to Market Town where I hope you will find horses."

He turns towards Rafn. "As for a horse of that description, I doubt you will find one in the towns. Perhaps at one of the villages or a farm."

"As for reinforcements, it will be easier to find able bodied men at Market Town. You four ride ahead. I shall raise what forces I can and bring them to Blackhill within a few days."

Lord Nysell studies Aundovald for a moment before nodding, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I see that your spirit remains as noble as ever, Aundovald. Sigaric will serve you well, of that I have no doubt." He closes the lock-box and slides it back towards Aundovald. "Take him, with my blessing. We both know this adventure will be perilous, but I trust you will make good use of his service. Pay me when you return, not before." Lord Nysell is an upstanding and honorable noble, more than willing to part with Sigaric for a noble cause.

The driver nods to Aundovald and slows the carriage, scanning the horizon ahead. He points out a small rise or hill almost 300 feet ahead. The road passes through a small valley that splits the rise. "Potential ambush point."

Aundovald charges up the slope to the forested cliff of the small hill, his noble mount glad to be free of the slower pace they had been maintaining on the road. As he passes the trees swiftly, he espies a shadowy humanoid in the green, overlooking the valley below the cliffs.While Aundovald can tell that the creature is humanoid, it is dressed in black leather armor and has a hood and scarf over its face, preventing him from making out any further details. It is most likely a human, armed with a bow which while strung, currently poses no threat as the humanoid holds no arrow. You can tell, though, that the armor is of better quality than you would think bandits or highwaymen might possess.

AU - Aundovald on horse.
A1 - Unknown Assailant (Human? in black leather armor, hood, armed with bow but not readied) - surprised.

1 Hex = 10 feet across.

Aundovald's attack had significant force behind it. It caught the assailant by surprise, and the morningstar bounces off the armor with a satisfying thud. However, the assailant expertly rolled away from the attack, shifting slightly to a more aggressive stance. He reaches for his belt and Aundovald realizes that there is both a small blade and a signaling whistle at the assailant's waist.

Aundovald is frustrated that he could not capitalize on the moment of surprise. Now he must regain the momentum.

The young warrior dismounts, to keep Sigaric out of the fray, and to face his opponent in single combat. Barreling in, he swings his weapon with all his might.

Initiative.
Attack.

Aundovald's leap off of his horse helped him gather even more momentum into a powerful swing that made vicious contact with the armored chest of the mysterious assailant, the sickening thud and crunch when the morningstar made contact informing the Nobiran what he most needed to hear. The assailant collapsed to the ground, his breathing labored for a few seconds before it became a death rattle and he slipped into oblivion.

10 xp

AU - Aundovald
RV - Ravn
SV - Silver
AE - Aengus
A2 - Unknown Assailant 2
A3 - Unknown Assailant 3

1 Hex = 10 feet across

As Ravn and Silver stalk through the brush and tall grasses with ease, they emerge from a treeline and finally see their prey. Two unknown humanoids (human?) in black leather armor are looking across the small valley between the cliffs of the hilltops. They seem to be very anxious of what is happening on the other side and pay no attention to Ravn or Silver's entrance.

Silence hangs in the air, eerie and unnatural, as Rafn's sling whirls soundlessly through the air. Without a whisper of warning, the projectile strikes the back of the unknown assailant's head with a brutal impact. The brigand crumples instantly, body twitching once before falling into a final, deathly stillness.

10 xp

With a swift, silent lunge, Silver closes the distance between himself and the enemy, fangs gleaming in the dim light. His powerful jaws clamp down on the brigand's throat, a muffled gurgle escaping as they are pulled to the ground. The struggle ends almost as quickly as it began, leaving Silver standing over the fallen foe, eyes sharp and alert for the next threat. Seeing none, he arcs his head up and releases a piercing howl.

10 xp

Despite Silver's loud declaration, the day remains still and a feeling of peacefulness descends over the area. After a few seconds of silence, the sound of birdsong fills the air, indicating that the birds too are at peace and no longer disturbed by the conflict going on in their demesne.

Aundovald, you take a quick peek down into the valley below and are quietly surprised that there is no further presence of enemies, at least none that you can immediately see. Across the valley, you can see Rafn (I just realized I'd been calling Rafn "Ravn" for the past few posts. Oops) and Silver standing over two other assailants' bodies on the other hilltop, and Aengus catching up to them. You can see that the carriage had come closer, just a bit, down the road, but was now at a full stop, waiting for the return of the heroes. To the east, the river Haven glitters peacefully, and just beyond that, you can make out the defense tower and buildings of Market Town, with the Crimson Sea beyond, some of the sparkles from the water a brilliant red color. The road winds back to Redstone to the west, but it is not visible from the hilltop. You can see a few other farms and outlying buildings scattered around, but there seems to be no other activity and the wind rustles through the trees around you.

On the assailant you find:
- fine quality black leather armor (one step lower than masterwork quality).
- a long steel dagger with a leather wrapped pommel that has been cared for meticulously
- a signal whistle made of silver metal
- a short bow
- a quiver with 10 arrows
- a hood and scarf of black fabric
- a coin pouch with 12 silver pieces
- a rolled up piece of parchment. At one point the parchment was sealed with wax (no particular seal design), but the seal has been broken.
- a small satchel containing 2 dry rations
- a wineskin half filled with water

To Whom It May Concern,

Let it be known that the individual bearing this letter is hereby granted authorization to act in the interest of the Duchy's future stability. A substantial reward of 5,000 silver coins is promised for the capture or demise of the one known as the Chamberlain. Said individual must be delivered to a place of our choosing, or proof of death must be provided to receive the reward.

The target travels under the banner of a gryphon rampant, his carriage easily recognized by this coat of arms. The method of interception is left to the discretion of the bearer, provided that the act is swift and conducted away from the prying eyes of the public. Silence and secrecy are imperative.

This commission is granted under the understanding that should the bearer be discovered, they shall not reveal the origins of this letter nor the hand that writes it. Failure to do so will result in forfeiture of any reward and an immediate retraction of favor.

Proceed with caution, for many eyes watch these troubled roads.

By Authority of Those Supporting the True Heir of the Duchy

Across one of the corners of the parchment is another word scrawled in a different hand. It reads: "Bitterturn M."

On the two assailants, you find
.... everything that was on the other assailant, except for the following:
neither of these two had a rolled up parchment.
- coin purse with 8 silver pieces
- coin purse with 10 silver pieces
- one of them had a satchel with only 1 dry ration
- one of them had an empty wineskin

Also it should be noted that one of the fine quality suits of black leather armor is thoroughly bloodied and lightly damaged and will need a quality cleaning by a tanner or leatherworker before it can be serviceable.

When Aundovald returns to the carriage, he finds Lord Amberstead and the driver discussing something rather animatedly. The driver looks over as he approaches. "What news? Are there thieves or brigands ahead?" He gestures towards Lord Amberstead. "I've been trying to get this fool back into the carriage for safety."

Amberstead shakes his head. "I am certain that if there was some other threat here, we would sense it.... Or someone would at any rate." He turns towards Wilfrid. "That reminds me, Master Aelwynd. I have something for you, once we arrive in Market Town."

A large cluster of yarrow bush was readily available, Rafn knowing he could boil and retan the leather also takes the soiled leathers. After pulling enough yarrow to do as intended he gathers the loot and carries it back to the wagon.

Wilfrid examines the workmanship of the leather armor. It is very neat stitching with black leather piping in a scrolling design, though this wouldn't be apparent from a distance. He can tell, though, that the leather armor is black enough that anyone wearing it could more easily hide in shadows as the leather seems to have been treated with an oil or some other treatment that prevents light from reflecting off of it. The scrolling design may be a signature of a particular leatherworker or may just be a typical design used in armor. If it is a signature design, Wilfrid is not aware of the manufacturer.

It should also be apparent to everyone that the fine quality leather armor is sturdier and more practical than hide armor for defensive purposes.

Lord Amberstead grimaces as the letter is read loud, agreeing with Wilfrid's conclusions. "It is most likely one of the noble houses, though which one? I do not recognize this penmanship, and of course no seal or heraldic symbol is present."

He suggests that Wilfrid hold onto the letter as his scribe's eye may catch some detail that the rest of them would miss.

Lord Amberstead listens to Aundovald carefully.

"I appreciate your concern. But my presence is needed to raise the men at arms for the defense of Blackhill. I will of course take what precautions are necessary, and once I am surrounded by men loyal to me and Duke Frederic, I hope that your fears will be assuaged. As for Bitterturn, the name sounds familiar, but I cannot place it."

He looks over to the driver, then back to the heroes of Averancia. "Do you think it is safe to continue?" He recalls, briefly, Master Aelwynd's warnings of future dangers.

The driver, one Jareth Mullen, shrugs helplessly as he finally ascents to the demand. "I was just... trying to make it clear to the Chamberlain how dangerous the roads have become lately. He says he's doing what he can, but it seems like more can be done." He shakes his head ruefully. "And now we have mercenaries after the Chamberlain directly? Things are becoming more dangerous by the day. The bandits and highwaymen were bad enough."

"Wait here, I will whistle if I find something."

With that Rafn and Silver set off to find trouble. Circling the site of the conflict.

After a thorough search, Rafn and Silver find nothing more suspicious than heavy wagon tracks in the road east of the valley, as though a wagon had been waiting there for some time. No wagon is present right now, however, and it is impossible to determine if the presence of the wagon was even related to the mysterious assailants.

After a few more hours travel through the bland landscape, the Chamberlain's carriage (and company) arrive at...

Market Town
As you crest the hill, the bustling expanse of Market Town spreads out before you, nestled within the valley like a precious gem. The town pulses with life and color, a striking contrast to the somber landscape you’ve journeyed through. Sunlight glints off the slate rooftops and the whitewashed walls of buildings, each painted with bright hues that range from the blues and greens of the sky and forest to the rich golds and reds of autumn’s bounty.

The main road into the town is paved with cobblestones, well-maintained despite the constant flow of cart wheels and foot traffic. The air is filled with the enticing scents of spiced meats, fresh bread, and aromatic herbs, wafting from the many market stalls that line the Great Square at the town’s heart. The chatter of merchants and townsfolk creates a lively din, punctuated by the occasional shout of a vendor advertising their wares.

Market Town is a place of commerce and culture, its streets thronged with traders, artisans, and travelers from all corners of the duchy. The buildings here are taller and more ornate than those found in smaller villages, with decorative wooden shutters, flowering window boxes, and signs hanging over shop doors depicting the symbols of their trades. You see children darting between legs and carts, dogs barking, and musicians plucking cheerful tunes on lutes and pipes.

Notable Locations in Market Town:
The Golden Plough Inn
One of the first places to catch your eye is The Golden Plough, a large, two-story building on the edge of the Great Square. Its sign swings lazily in the breeze, depicting a shining plow under the rays of a stylized sun. This inn is known for its warm hospitality, hearty stews, and local brews. Inside, you’ll find a roaring hearth, stout wooden tables, and benches crowded with travelers swapping tales of their journeys.

Bramwell’s Emporium
Just off the main square is Bramwell’s Emporium, a sprawling shop with an intricately carved wooden storefront. The shelves inside are lined with a bewildering array of goods: exotic spices, bolts of finely woven cloth, mysterious trinkets, and even small casks of rare liquors. Bramwell himself, a portly man with a jolly demeanor, greets every customer with an eager smile, always ready to haggle or offer advice on his diverse stock.

The Artisan's Row
Down a side street, you discover Artisan's Row, where the sounds of hammering metal, churning looms, and rhythmic chiseling fill the air. The buildings here house various craftspeople: a blacksmith's forge belching smoke into the sky, a tanner's workshop wafting the pungent scent of curing hides, and a potter’s studio displaying rows of beautifully glazed ceramics. There’s even a quaint glassblower’s shop, its shelves filled with delicate, multicolored baubles.

The Cathedral of Father Elion
Rising above the rooftops of Market Town, the Cathedral of Father Elion stands as a testament to both faith and the town’s deep connection to the Church. Its towering spires and stained glass windows, depicting scenes of light and divine protection, cast colorful reflections upon the cobblestones below. The cathedral’s entrance is flanked by statues of angels holding swords, their expressions stern yet serene.

Inside, the cathedral is filled with the scent of incense, and the high-vaulted ceiling amplifies the sound of every footstep. Shafts of sunlight stream through the stained glass, bathing the interior in hues of red, gold, and blue. Rows of wooden pews lead to an ornately carved altar, where a massive golden symbol of the Fleur-de-lis—the sacred emblem of Father Elion—hangs prominently.

Father Ivor, the cathedral's stern but kind-hearted priest, offers blessings, healing rites, and guidance to those in need. In the side chapels, acolytes tend to candles and arrange offerings. The cathedral is not just a place of worship but also a center for community gatherings and the dissemination of news, both sacred and secular.

The Temple of the Green Grove
Tucked away on a quieter street is the Temple of the Green Grove, a place of worship dedicated to the ancient woodland spirits. Its stone facade is almost entirely covered by creeping ivy, and within its courtyard, a gnarled old oak tree spreads its boughs protectively. Visitors can offer prayers or purchase charms and herbal remedies from the temple's priests and priestesses, who are often seen tending the small herb garden around the oak.

Edit: This is a "white magic store" so it offers special components and ceremonial kits (not Chthonic).

The Merchant's Guildhall
A grand building with marble pillars and stained-glass windows, the Merchant’s Guildhall stands as a testament to Market Town’s wealth and influence. The guildhall is a hub of business dealings, where traders meet to negotiate contracts and plan caravans. It's said that those who seek investment or employment need only ask at the guildhall's imposing double doors.

The Stables of Redmane
Along the eastern edge of the town is Redmane Stables, known for housing some of the finest horses in the region. The scent of hay and the sound of horses snorting fills the air around the wooden structure. Here, travelers can hire horses or buy riding supplies from the stable master, a stern but knowledgeable man named Galen. The stables are also a meeting point for local couriers and messengers.

The Grand Market
At the center of it all lies the Grand Market, a sea of brightly colored tents and stalls where traders hawk everything from fresh produce and spices to intricate jewelry and weaponry. As you walk through, you hear snippets of conversation in different dialects, reflecting the town's diverse visitors. A spice merchant tempts passersby with fragrant samples, a weaponsmith displays gleaming blades and arrows, and an herbalist arranges dried bundles of rare plants. The market is a place of endless opportunity and the occasional hidden danger.

Old Mallory's Bookshop
A small, ivy-clad building on the edge of Artisan’s Row, Old Mallory’s Bookshop is a haven for scholars and adventurers alike. Inside, the air smells of aged paper and ink. Shelves brimming with scrolls, tomes, and maps cover every wall. Mallory, a wizened man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, shuffles about, offering bits of lore to those who seek ancient knowledge or direction.

Overall Atmosphere
Market Town is a living, breathing entity full of contrast—where wealth and poverty rub shoulders, where danger lurks in back alleys while music and laughter fill the streets. The energy here is infectious, making you feel as if anything is possible. Yet, there's an undertone of anxiety; rumors swirl of troubles beyond the town's borders, and in every alley and shop, you catch whispers of growing unrest throughout the Duchy.

Where to Next?
This town holds many opportunities for those willing to explore its nooks and crannies. Whether you seek supplies, rumors, allies, or simply a place to rest, Market Town has something for every adventurer bold enough to step into its vibrant streets.

As the carriage rolled into the vibrant Great Square of Market Town, a remarkable transformation came over Lord Amberstead. The weight that had hung so heavily on his shoulders seemed to lift, replaced by a light-heartedness that was almost infectious. His eyes sparkled with an uncharacteristic joy as he gazed upon the bustling scene: the brightly colored stalls, the chattering townsfolk, and the lively throng of merchants hawking their wares. With a sudden burst of exuberance, he leaned out of the carriage window, waving to the passersby with a broad smile.

"Look, it’s the Lord Chamberlain!" someone cried, the words quickly taken up by others in the crowd. "Good old Amberstead!" The cheers and greetings grew, and more townsfolk turned their heads, their faces lighting up with recognition and warmth. For a moment, it was as if all the troubles of the Duchy had been forgotten, replaced by the simple pleasure of this unexpected reunion. Amberstead waved back, his laughter mingling with the delighted exclamations of the townsfolk, filling the air with a sense of fleeting but precious camaraderie.

As they approached the Golden Plough Inn, Amberstead signaled the driver to bring the carriage to a halt. He turned to you with a grateful yet purposeful expression, his demeanor shifting back to that of a man with pressing responsibilities. "Heroes, our journey together has been one of shared burdens," he began, his voice carrying a mix of gratitude and resolve. "But now, I must ask for your leave."

Stepping out of the carriage, he gestured to the inn, its golden sign swinging gently in the breeze. "Here, within the comforts of the Golden Plough, you shall find a place to rest and plan your journey to Blackhill. The inn’s warm hearth and hearty fare will do much to restore you. Should you need anything else for the road ahead, remember that the market of Market Town lies at your feet, brimming with goods and supplies."

He paused, his eyes scanning the bustling square once more before turning back to you. "As for me, I must speak with the Lord Mayor immediately. Blackhill’s defense must be swift and decisive. I will do what I can to raise a force here, though the times are difficult. Rest assured, you shall have what support we can muster."

With a final nod and a small, almost wistful smile, he turned towards the grand buildings lining the square, his expression once again set in determination. But before taking his leave, he paused, turning to Wilfrid Aelwynd with a knowing glance. "Master Aelwynd, I have not forgotten your services. There is a gift I have arranged for you, but it lies with the bookseller, Old Mallory. I must retrieve it first. I will return to the inn this evening to present it to you properly."

Amberstead's eyes softened as he gave Wilfrid a slight bow of respect. "Until then, may the time in this town treat you well. I shall meet you again tonight." And with that, Lord Amberstead strode off into the crowd, leaving you standing in the heart of Market Town, the Golden Plough’s inviting warmth at your back and the open market ahead.

Lord Amberstead turns back to Aengus, shaking his head with a smile and his eyes sparkling with laughter. "Enjoy the Day, Aengus. What is left of it at any rate. I'll return with your answer tonight." And with that he disappears again.

Aundovald's interest in the old magic of the Nobirans intrigues Wilfrid. He knows little, if anything at all of the Nobrian magics, save that it is a rare gift only given to the Nobiran race. "Ay, a Remnant of the Ancients and a worthy pursuit. I will seek out what I can. There is more we must do for our journey as well, come..."

Leading the young Nobiran into the inn, Wilfrid coordinates the room assignments for the evening, ensuring that he has a private room with lock and key. He secures the bulk of his equipment in the room. He dons his cloak and secures it with the gryphon pin. He is proud to brandish his newly gained office, and wants the enemies of the realm to see such. Then he speaks with Aundovald, coordinating the day.

"Take this, a sizable portion of my gift." He hands the warrior a purse filled with half of the silver awarded by the Chamberlin. "We should arrive to Blackhill ready to aid those in need there. Gather supplies - healing herbs, food stuffs enough to help a few hungry, and a couple of strong men to serve as escort and watch over our cargo and pack animals to carry it all. It won't be much, but it is our duty." After som additional planning and discussion, Wilfrid sets out to the bookshop.

At Redmane Stables:
As Aundovald approached the Stables of Redmane, the stablemaster Galen greeted him with a brisk nod, quickly setting to work preparing the horses and tackle without hesitation. Galen moved with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years caring for steeds, his hands steady as he selected the finest bridles and saddles for the Nobiran Ryder and his companions. Yet despite his efficiency, something felt off. Galen’s eyes flicked toward the distant pastures more than once, his brow creased with an unspoken concern.

The stablemaster offered little in the way of conversation, keeping his responses short and professional, but it was clear to Aundovald that the man’s thoughts were elsewhere. Whatever weighed on Galen, he kept it tightly guarded, and though his hands remained busy, his mind seemed far away. He was clearly unsettled, though by what, Aundovald couldn’t yet discern. For now, the stablemaster seemed focused solely on his task, delivering the horses and tackle as requested—but there was an air of quiet tension, as if Galen was wrestling with troubles he wasn’t ready to share.

Unfortunately, Ravn's discomfiture in civilized areas has him make several social faux pas. He ends up behaving more savagely than people are used to and many of the merchants and leatherworkers are unwilling to deal with him. Or if they are, they offer much less coin than the hides are worth. It's up to Ravn if he wants to accept this or press the issue.

The bell above the door jingled softly as Wilfrid Aelwynd entered Old Mallory's Bookshop, its cozy interior a sharp contrast to the bustling streets outside. The air smelled of aged paper and leather, the scent of countless tomes crammed into shelves that stretched to the ceiling. Dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight filtering through the narrow windows. Despite the clutter, every book seemed to have its place, curated by the ancient man who now shuffled from behind a high stack of volumes.

"Ah, Master Aelwynd," croaked Old Mallory, adjusting the small spectacles perched on the end of his nose. "What brings you here today? More ink for your scriptorium, or are you in search of something… more?"

Mallory’s eyebrows arched, the hint of a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Ceremonial magic, eh? And tied to the Nobiran, no less. Well, you won’t find a codex or grimoire of such things here, but," he added with a sly glint in his eye, "there are bits and pieces, fragments of history, if you know where to look."

The old man beckoned Wilfrid toward the back of the shop, leading him to a small alcove where lesser-used tomes lined the shelves. Mallory reached up, his fingers brushing over faded spines until they stopped on a particularly weathered volume. "This," he said, pulling the book down and placing it carefully on a nearby table, "is a collection of oral traditions and rituals, nothing definitive, mind you, but it does give insight into the practices that surround the Nobiran culture."

Opening the book, Mallory flipped through the delicate pages, his fingers surprisingly nimble for someone of his years. The parchment crackled softly as he turned to a section on rituals of protection and the role of Nobiran bloodlines in ancient ceremonies. "The Nobirans," he began, "are known for their long-standing connection to ritual magic, particularly in the binding of oaths and the sealing of powerful artifacts. It is said that their blood holds a certain resonance, making them particularly suited to ceremonial magic. Some Nobirans are even able to focus their blood into great magical power and can manifest magic with only a thought. They call them Wizards, I believe."

Later that evening... The Golden Plough
The Golden Plough Inn is alive with the warm glow of evening, its main room bathed in the amber light of a roaring hearth. Shadows flicker across the sturdy oak beams overhead, mingling with the faint scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread that fills the air. The long wooden tables are crowded with travelers and townsfolk alike, their low conversations creating a soft murmur, punctuated by the occasional hearty laugh or the clinking of mugs.

Three or four musicians sit near the hearth, strumming a lute and playing a mellow flute tune with drum accompaniment that drifts through the room, blending seamlessly with the inn’s lively atmosphere. The innkeeper, Bera, moves deftly between tables, her apron swishing as she balances trays laden with steaming bowls and tankards of ale. The inn's wooden floorboards creak with the weight of footsteps, adding a rhythmic cadence to the bustling scene.

Along one wall, a few smaller, more private tables are set beneath the dim glow of oil lamps, offering a quieter space for more intimate conversations. It is here, in one of these cozy nooks, that the evening’s meeting is to take place. A corner table is set with a small pitcher of wine, a few cups, and a platter of bread and cheese. The air is thick with anticipation, as if even the old timbers of the Golden Plough sense that something significant is about to unfold within their well-worn walls.

Presumably the Heroes of Averancia have laid claim to a private table.

If you all want to use this as your strategy discussion time before Lord Amberstead returns, please do so. That may also give us some time for the wizard to arrive.

Later, That Evening

As the lively crowd at the Golden Plough begins to settle, the atmosphere softens to a low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of mugs. The warm glow of the hearth flickers against the timbered walls when Lord Amberstead enters the tavern, carrying a large, carefully wrapped bundle under one arm and a smaller, pristine square package in the other.

With a nod to the gathered heroes, he strides over to Ængus, placing the larger bundle on the table before him. "You asked how you would be able to communicate? These should help," Amberstead says with a smile, pulling back the cover to reveal a well-crafted wooden cage, inside of which are several homing pigeons, their feathers neatly preened. "If you need more, just stop at any chapel dedicated to Father Elion. They usually keep one or two birds on hand for various messages." He gestures toward the small compartment on the side of the cage. "There’s enough food and water to keep them for about three weeks, so hopefully you’ll return by then."

Turning next to Master Aelwynd, Amberstead presents the compact, square package with an appreciative smile. "I thought you might value this," he says, offering the parcel with a slight bow. "It’s a rarer copy—an exquisite piece of work. The illumination is particularly striking. There are said to be seven books in total, all scripted by the same scribe. The calligraphy is truly elegant. If you happen to find any more of these volumes in your travels, I trust you’ll know how to return them to a good home. I would love to see the full set reunited."

Amberstead’s words carry both warmth and sincerity, and there is a sense of quiet importance as the evening’s exchange is made. The flicker of candlelight reflects in the eyes of those present, hinting at the weight of responsibility, discovery, and the road that lies ahead.

Lord Amberstead nods with a grim expression. "That, I fear, is all too accurate. If you are beyond the limits of civilization, I shall undoubtedly have to send out riders for you. And pray that is enough."

The birds are healthy enough and quite chirp-y/birdsong-y when their cage is not covered. Most of them seem fairly young, but not incapable of being on their own.

With some apologies for the railroading, Ernest. Just have to make a few changes to make it campaign-suitable.

Lord Amberstead inclined his head respectfully, a formal bow acknowledging the priest who knelt before him, extending a sealed envelope of red vellum with a steady hand. Amberstead accepted it with care, his eyes tracing the intricate seal embossed with the symbol of a sunburst overlaid with the Fleur-de-lis of the Church of Elion.

"The Hallowed Sun?" Amberstead murmured, a hint of surprise in his tone. "I thought the order had faded into history, disbanded nearly fifty years past. But perhaps," he mused, glancing at the emblem again, "the Church of Elion has chosen to adopt a quieter path since then, no longer summoning its priesthood to the call of adventure."

With a slight pause, his eyes shifted back to the priest, whose humble demeanor and weathered robes carried the weight of countless journeys. A flicker of recognition passed over Amberstead’s face as he inclined his head once more, this time in deeper acknowledgment. "You are welcome here, Father... Veritate." He spoke the title hesitantly as though uncertain whether or not it was appropriate for the moment.

He points towards the others that are present, "This is Aengus de na Treada, a humble shepherd whose faith in Father Elion is as deep as it is profound; this man I call only 'Beastlord' as he seems to care more for the beasts of the wild than of our communities, but he is still willing to fight for what is right; and of course the noble Aundovald on the course of his knighthood. We did have a Master Aelwynd with us as well, but I have not yet seen him this night; he was a scribe who had a passing interest in religion and magic and a bit of a diplomatic tongue as well."

Lord Amberstead steps away for a moment as he opens the envelope and scans its contents briefly.

Just a quick correction—we’re in Market Town, not Redstone.

Lord Amberstead looks up with a grin from the paper he’s reading, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. "I haven’t heard many people call the house I keep here a ‘palace,’" he chuckles, shaking his head. "Though I suppose some might think it is, at that."

His expression shifts as he turns his attention to the newcomer, an unmistakable Nobiran Wizard standing among them. The sight catches him off guard, his brows lifting in surprise as he takes in the figure before him. "But... I thought your people had all returned to the continent!" His words are tinged with a mixture of awe and reverence. "I hadn't realized any remained."

Lowering his head in respectful acknowledgment, Amberstead speaks again, his voice carrying a genuine warmth. "It is an honor to have another of the Istari here in Averancia. Your presence brings a certain... gravitas to our cause." He casts a glance around, as though searching for other arrivals, but when he realizes Athan Brandshot is alone, he straightens, smoothing his composure.

"Welcome, Athan Brandshot." His tone is both formal and welcoming, a nod to the rare distinction of having a Nobiran Wizard in their ranks. "It feels as though our group is finally coming together, each new face a piece of the puzzle. With you among us, Averancia may yet find hope."

Lord Amberstead lets out a quiet sigh, the weight of recent burdens evident in his gaze as he regards the gathered company. He straightens, folding his hands thoughtfully before addressing them. "In truth, the aspiring knight Aundovald might be best suited to answer such a question, for the matter calls for both courage and decisive action. But, as it stands, I shall explain as fully as I am able."

He pauses briefly, gathering his thoughts before continuing, his voice carrying both concern and resolve. "The village of Blackhill, to the east, has reached out in distress, sending word of a troubling threat. They speak of a strange presence of beastmen—creatures prowling too close to their homes, stirring unrest among the people. It is unclear whether they are scouting for a larger force or simply terrorizing the village as a diversion. Either way, their presence cannot be ignored."

Amberstead’s eyes harden as he continues, his determination visible. "I am sending you all ahead to Blackhill to investigate, to ascertain the extent of this threat and, if possible, to take steps in answering it. The people there are fearful, and I would see that fear eased, with the knowledge that aid has arrived."

He glances toward the east, almost as if he can envision the village and its people in need of protection. "If it becomes clear that a larger force is necessary, I will do all I can to raise a defense here in Market Town. But until we understand the scope of this danger, we must act with both caution and urgency. May your courage bring reassurance to those in need."

Amberstead’s words hang in the air, the gravity of the task unmistakable.

"Speaking of need. I've noticed, Aundovald, that you've already purchased horses and hired retainers. See to it that these newcomers are equally equipped." He tosses him a small velvet bag bulging with coin.

The next morning, as the heroes prepare to set out, they may find themselves surprised by a small gathering of additional horses and retainers—courtesy of Aundovald. Though the young knight had vanished unexpectedly, he had arranged for support beforehand, a testament to his foresight and commitment. The new recruits are primarily grooms, skilled in handling horses and accustomed to long journeys across the duchy. Some are seasoned packers and messengers, adept at bearing supplies and managing logistics. While few of them are trained for combat, each is prepared to contribute meaningfully, lending their expertise to ease the heroes' burdens on the road ahead.

As the group readies to depart, they notice Lord Amberstead engaged in an animated discussion with a portly gentleman, likely the Mayor of Market Town. Despite the obvious urgency of his conversation, Amberstead breaks away to address the party, his eyes flickering with a mixture of concern and encouragement.

"I cannot say what dangers the road ahead may hold for you," he begins, his voice steady but carrying an edge of warning. "If you decide to travel cross-country, please be cautious of the abandoned farms and hamlets scattered along the way. Some of these places have been forsaken for a reason, and not all of them are empty of threat. There may be hazards out there far more menacing than beastmen, dangers that have claimed more than just deserted lands."

He lets the words sink in, his gaze moving between each member of the group as though he wishes to impress upon them the weight of his warning. "Being the vanguard of a defense force has its advantages—you'll have the first glimpse of what lies ahead—but keep your senses keen. Remain vigilant for any potential danger or hidden foes. Do not underestimate the perils lurking in a forsaken land."

Amberstead pauses, his expression momentarily softening with an almost paternal concern. "In about two days’ time, we shall begin our journey along the main road with whatever forces we can muster here. Reaching Blackhill may take longer than I would like, but we shall come. In the meantime, I urge you all to take no reckless risks. Yet if an opportunity to seize the upper hand presents itself, do not hesitate. May Father Elion guide you."

As he steps back, he nods solemnly. "We will also uncover what has become of Master Aelwynd and the young knight Aundovald, in due time. But first, let us deal with the crisis in Blackhill. Stay safe, all of you."

With that, Lord Amberstead returns to his conversation, leaving the heroes with his blessing, a call for vigilance, and the knowledge that Averancia’s hopes ride with them.

"Not really. Most of the farms near Market Town are still operational. Its the ones further out that have been abandoned."

Lord Amberstead pauses in his conversation with the mayor, glancing up as Agamir Strongarm steps forward, his presence as solid and unyielding as his name suggests. Amberstead’s eyes narrow in approval, clearly recognizing the value of an experienced warrior in their dwindling forces. He offers a welcoming nod and gestures toward the rest of the gathered heroes.

"Ah, excellent—a new warrior to strengthen our thinning ranks." His voice carries a note of encouragement, the tone of a man well aware of the challenges that lie ahead. "Welcome, Agamir Strongarm. Your presence here is a boon, one I am sure we shall come to rely upon."

Amberstead motions toward the party, his gaze lingering briefly on the others. "Join your fellow travelers, Agamir. I am certain there will be time for proper introductions on the road, where every bond forged will become our strength. If you’re in need of a fresh mount, please make use of one from our stables. We've prepared well for this journey, and I would see every warrior equipped with the finest we can provide."

With a final nod, he resumes his conversation, though a faint smile lingers on his face as Agamir steps into his new role. Amberstead’s confidence in each member of the group is evident, his words carrying the weight of a man who trusts in those he has assembled.

"A few hours? Not along the road at any rate. I am more worried about any bandits past the village of Balgold than I am about any assassins lurking in decrepit buildings."

How do you wish to approach Blackhill? Will you be traveling by road (to the east, then north), or following the river (to the northeast)? Travel by road may be safer; but travel cross country could be more eventful and interesting.