Spring rode the month of Mirtul in the year of the Rising Elves upon the backs of many storms.  Record numbers of wrecks were reported in the taverns on the Moonsea shores, as weather, sea monsters, and pirates appeared to conspire against the seagoing trades.

  As the cold gave way to warmer days, the conflict between Zhentil Keep and Hillsfar erupted anew, drawing sellswords, battle mages, and all the resultant commerce that comes from such misery west along the southern coast of the Moonsea.

  In Waymeet, within the rolling hills between Yulash and Hillsfar, the town rejoices over the release of Malcho, the local Druid from his magical servitude to a lesser demon.  Adventurers Quilro the elf, DonBrappo the judicious hammer of Clanggedin, Eydis the Swordsman, and Coglosio the Druid unmasked the treacherous work afoot, and defeated the enchanted Woodfriend in his keep.  Vern the Ranger gave his life for the effort, and now the town and its inhabitants do their best to ensure the party wants for nothing of way of food and drink.  The party has inherited an ornate wooden traveling wagon, and local smiths and wheelwrights are ensuring it is repaired and updated.

  The Fist and Flagon continues to thrive as traffic picks up, although all tend to scowl when Red Plumes from Hillsfar trample through.  While business booms, there are several local power structures in a vacuum, and both nature and evil abhor a vacuum.  Already several unusual looking outsiders have been observed in the Flagon, and weaving their way around and through the town, obvious in their furtive ways to appear surreptitious.

  The church of Helm in Hillsfar heard word of the Demon Prenych, and is rumoured to have funded a small party of war-priests to investigate.

  The druid convacle of Cormanthor has put word on the wind that a vacancy must be filled, now that Malcho was turned and has fallen.

  While terrific and horrible stories of dark elves are the standard of goodfolk everywhere tucking their children abed, more than a few reports of goods laden wagons expertly ambushed with no survivors have driven up the price of weapons, building materials, and foodstuffs in a period that would otherwise be a bonanza.


This message was last edited by the GM at 16:54, Sun 14 Aug 2022.

This message was last edited by the GM at 15:39, Tue 31 Mar 2020.

  Until the traveler is almost directly upon it, the only indication of Waymeet is the scent of burning peat from its rough-hewn chimneys.  Astride the well-worn cartpath marking the route between Yulash and Hillsfar, Waymeet’s outskirts begin with a few outlying farmsteads eeking out a meager harvest of tubers and legumes.  Approaching close enough to see the village, perhaps twenty-five structures, a mix of stone, daub, and thatch buildings cluster north and south of the road.  Wagons and men-at-arms are lined up, both within and without the village proper, as some choose to camp with their goods under the stars, while other pay for stabling and seek the comfort of a straw bed.  The red flashes of Hillsfar can be readily seen among the traveling parties; as is the unmarked but also unmistakeable black dyed cloak and armor of Zhentil Keep.  As long as their purses are full and their weapons sheathed, commerce trumps cold stares.  Interspersed throughout are various persons, displaying a wide breadth of seasoning and road experience.

  At the center of the village, surrounded by the various service and goods providers tailoring to the caravan trade, the weathered carving a large faded green goblin fist closed around a foaming goblet marks the Fist and Flagon.  Wagons and mounts fill the open stable that runs just off the main road, partially enclosed by the two low slung wings of the inn.

  The large open hall is loud and busy, with customers filling the long tables that make up the center, as well a many of the darker more secluded booths lining the walls.  The bar along the back is nearly standing room only, as both villagers and the tradesmen spend the coin the spring caravans are bringing.

  Standing back behind the bar, a portly human beyond middle age hooks his thumbs in his leather belt and takes it all in.  “Rest Malcho’s poor soul, things have certainly picked up since those companions did him in.” He thinks ruefully, reflecting on older years when the Druid would lead assist the local clerics in a variety of religious rites.  “He may naught appreciated the reds and blacks returning in such numbers; but I certainly do!”  Belgar’s fortunes had certainly swelled in recent months.

  In a rear corner, farthest from the entrance, and opposite the wing housing the rooms for hire, a muscled but gnarled human observes the floor silently, nursing a flagon.  Appearing without weapon, he wears polished but old black leather armor.

  At the end of one of the tables flush with drinking caravan men and guards, a slight but lithe dark-haired human in road worn chain and a peace beaded bastard sword picks at his dinner, attempting to furtively scan the room.

  At least sixty patrons fill the ‘Flagon this afternoon, and the smell of cooked meat, spiced potatoes saturate a growing din, making any direct conversations unintelligible to those without specific skills.


This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 13:53, Sat 30 Oct 2021.