The rain had not yet come, though the air over Alexandria carried its promise. Salt and smoke hung together above the streets, and the rebuilt stone of the city still bore the pale scars of fire long past. Life had returned in full voice, dockhands shouting, merchants arguing, and adventurers arguing louder than either, but memory lingered in the mortar. Inside the Lucky Griffin, the lamps burned warm and low. Quintin stood behind the bar with his arms folded, watching four figures gather near the long oak table set aside for Guild work. He had seen this moment many times before, new licences, stiff backs, uncertain eyes and he knew better than to expect quiet. “Right,” he said at last, raising his voice just enough to cut through the din. “You four. Together.” Lucan turned first, tall and rigid, his jaw already set as if the world had personally offended him. Béibhinn followed, composed but wary, hands folded before her. Dallea nearly fell off her chair getting up, laughing at something only she found funny. Vaerilyn rose last, smooth and unhurried, her eyes already scanning the room. Quintin nodded once. “Congratulations. You passed. That alone puts you ahead of most.” Before he could say more, something small scrambled up onto the bar. A goblin. He was thin, sharp-featured, his fingers stained with alchemical residue, and his eyes flicked constantly between exits. He set a bottle on the counter with careful precision. Lucan stared. “I hate goblins.” The words landed hard. Dallea barked a laugh. “Straight to the point, then!” Béibhinn turned sharply. “Lucan—!” “I’m sorry,” she added quickly, leaning toward the goblin. “He doesn’t speak for us.” Vaerilyn said nothing, though her gaze lingered on Lucan just long enough to make him uncomfortable. The goblin, named Fizzle, did not respond. He slid the bottle closer, blue liquid sloshing gently inside, then vanished behind the bar with surprising speed. “Well,” Quintin said dryly, “that went about as expected.” --- ### **Potions and Introductions** Introductions followed in uneven fashion. “Dallea,” said the half-elf, lifting her mug. “Archer. Probably better sober.” She grinned. She was not sober. “I’m Béibhinn,” said the cleric Tiefling. “From Neverwinter.” Her jaw tightened. “Or what’s left of it.” Lucan a human man crossed his arms. “Lucan. Fighter.” Nothing more. “Vaerilyn,” , said the last Elf. “I listen.” The potion sat between them like a dare. “I’ll drink it,” Dallea said at once, already reaching. “No, you won’t,” Béibhinn replied, calm but firm, placing her hand flat upon the table. “Absolutely not.” Dallea scoffed. “You don’t even know what it—” “I will,” Béibhinn said, and before anyone could argue further, she took the bottle. For a brief moment she hesitated, eyes flicking toward the goblin’s hiding place behind the bar. Then she lifted the vial and drank. Nothing happened. The silence stretched just long enough for Dallea to smirk. Then Béibhinn’s breath caught. Colour drained from her face, darkening swiftly until her skin took on the deep navy hue of moonlit water. She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes widening — not in fear, but surprise. “Oh,” she murmured. “That’s… strange.” Lucan leaned closer, squinting. “You’re blue.” Béibhinn drew in a breath — then another — then realised she did not _need_ to. Her eyes lit with sudden wonder. “I can hold my breath,” she said slowly. She laughed then, a soft, startled sound. “I don’t think I’ll need to breathe for a very long while.” Dallea burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s unfair.” Almost at once, another bottle was placed upon the table — then another beside it, as if the goblin behind the bar had decided resistance was no longer worth the effort. Dallea’s eyes gleamed. Dallea snatched the second one, red-tinged, and drank again. Her hands began to glow. Heat shimmered around her fingers, orange and red, and when she clicked them together a spark jumped, blooming into flame. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh I _love_ this.” Béibhinn stared. “This is wildly irresponsible.” A third potion — clear as glass — was placed carefully at the edge of the table. Vaerilyn nudged it toward Lucan. “If you’re going to make enemies,” she said softly, “make them less permanent.” Lucan hesitated. Then drank. The noise of the tavern shifted. At first Lucan thought it was only his head swimming, the aftertaste sharp on his tongue, but then the words around him began to settle into meaning. Not Common alone, but Goblin, Dwarvish, Elvish, and others besides, layered atop one another like threads in a woven cloth. Conversations that had once been noise now carried sense, tone, intent. Lucan turned slowly toward the bar. “Oh,” he said quietly. Then, a little louder, as understanding deepened, “OH.” He faced the goblin’s hiding place and spoke, not rehearsed, not careful, but clear. “Your brewing is skilled,” he said in flawless Goblin. “Your courage is greater than it seems. I am sorry for what I said before.” The words surprised even him. There was a brief, stunned silence. Lucan began to sing. It was not a good song, but it was earnest — a rambling thanks delivered in flawless Goblin, praising clever hands and brave brews and apologising profusely. Fizzle burst out from behind the bar, clapping furiously. “Yes! Yes! Music man!” he cried, dancing in place. “Drink for them! Drink later! Quest first!” Quintin exhaled slowly and shook his head. “After the job,” he said, already resigned. “Grunk!” Fizzle added, pointing toward the door with both hands. “Grunk waits!” --- ### **Grunk and the Road Out** Grunk stood outside pacing, muttering to himself, his shoulders hunched forward like a man bracing against weather that had not yet arrived. Béibhinn approached first. “Hello,” she said gently. “We’re here to help.” Grunk squinted at her, then nodded. “Yes. Help. Bandits bad.” Lucan stepped forward, still smiling faintly. “He says you’re doing a good job,” he added quickly to the others. “Very respectable.” “What?” Béibhinn asked. Lucan responded with “Nothing.” The understanding faded as suddenly as it had come. Grunk repeated himself in broken Common, gesturing wildly. Bandits on the road. Merchants afraid. He wanted a licence too. “And the pay?” Lucan asked. Grunk turned and walked away. “…I think that means follow,” Dallea said. --- ## **Folly on the Road** The road south of Alexandria wound gently at first, broad and well-travelled, but it did not take long for the mood to sour. Dallea walked with too much sway in her step, laughter bubbling up at nothing in particular. She hummed tunelessly, boots scuffing stones, occasionally twirling her bow as if it were weightless. Béibhinn watched her for some time before finally stepping closer. “Dallea,” she said carefully, “you’re going to fall into a ditch if you keep that up. I can fix this. Just—” She reached out. Her foot slipped on loose gravel. Instead of steadying Dallea, she slid forward and caught only her ankles. Dallea yelped. “Hey—!” She staggered, flailed, and loosed an arrow by sheer reflex. It buried itself in the dirt a few feet away. Another followed, just as wide. Lucan spun. “What in the hells are you doing?” “Improvising!” Dallea shouted back, still trying to regain her balance. “Stop that,” Lucan snapped, striding forward. He shoved her hard in the shoulder, sending her flat onto her back with a startled _oof_. Béibhinn wasted no time. She climbed atop her, planted one knee to keep her still, and pressed a glowing hand to her chest. “Hold still,” she murmured, voice steady despite the mess of limbs. “This will pass.” A soft prayer followed — quiet, practiced — and the haze left Dallea’s eyes as suddenly as it had come. She blinked once. Twice. “…Oh,” she said. Then, after a pause, “That’s… rude.” Lucan snorted and walked away. Not long after, Vaerilyn drifted back toward Grunk, who was trudging along with exaggerated care, glancing often at Béibhinn as though guarding a priceless relic. Vaerilyn leaned down slightly. “Think you could steal our coin pouches?” Grunk froze. Then his eyes lit up. Moments later he reappeared, giggling to himself, holding the pouches aloft like trophies. Vaerilyn inspected them, nodded once. “Good,” she said. “Now protect Béibhinn.” Grunk straightened at once, chest puffing. “Protect,” he said solemnly. ## **The Roadblock** The road narrowed where the trees grew close and the light thinned beneath their boughs. There, across the path, someone had dragged a rude barricade of split timber and an overturned cart, the wheel still turning faintly as though it had not long been heaved into place. Two men waited at its edge. They were not soldiers — not truly — though they wore scraps of leather and carried steel well enough to make honest folk hesitate. One lounged against the cart with the indifference of practice; the other stood nearer the centre of the road, spear in hand, eyes sharp and suspicious. Béibhinn slowed at once. She lifted her hand, a quiet signal for the others to hold, and stepped forward before Lucan could speak. “Good day,” she called, voice bright with forced ease. “We didn’t mean to wander into anyone’s way.” The standing bandit raised his spear slightly. “Road toll,” he said. “Merchant tax. Pay it and pass.” “We’re not merchants,” Béibhinn replied quickly. “Truly. I’m… I’m only looking for a lake.” The lounging bandit barked a laugh. “A lake?” Béibhinn nodded as if the thought were perfectly ordinary, though her cheeks had begun to colour. “Yes. A lake to bathe in. We’ve been on the road… and I’ve heard there’s water nearby.” “There’s no lake here,” the spear-man said, and his gaze slid past her shoulder, counting heads. “And you’ve got more behind you than you’re pretending.” Béibhinn’s mouth went a little dry. She swallowed and tried again — gentler, softer, the way clerics spoke when they hoped the world might be kinder than it usually was. “No harm is meant,” she said. “May the road be blessed beneath your feet, and your days be—” The lounging bandit straightened, amused and wary at once. “Did she just bless us?” Lucan muttered behind her, “This is painful.” Béibhinn shot him a look without turning. Then, like someone trying to salvage a crumbling wall with bare hands, she reached into her pouch and produced a small token — nothing grand, only a simple charm and a few copper coins. “Perhaps,” she said carefully, “a small offering instead. For your… trouble. And then we part in peace.” The spear-man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not toll,” he said. “That’s insult.” Behind Béibhinn, Dallea shifted, boots scraping stone. Heat still lingered in her hands from the earlier potion, and a faint glow winked at her fingertips when she clenched them. Vaerilyn’s expression did not change, but her attention sharpened, as if she had been waiting for the road to show its true shape. Grunk leaned forward, confused by the stillness, and whispered to Béibhinn far too loudly: “Should I stab?” The lounging bandit laughed again, but it was harsher this time. “What in the hells is that thing?” Béibhinn felt the moment slipping — the lie about the lake hanging ridiculous in the air, her blessing twisted into mockery, her small mercy offered and refused. “Please,” she said one last time, voice tightening. “We don’t want—” The spear moved. Vaerilyn acted. The spell left her hand like a shard of storm-light, striking the spear-man in the chest and driving him backward off his feet with a sound of surprise more than pain. Everything broke at once. Grunk charged with a wild, delighted cry, stabbing at ankles and knees. Dallea loosed an arrow that went wide, then another that struck true. Béibhinn rushed forward — too fast, too close — and struck once, clean and terrible, and the man fell in a way that could not be undone. Lucan hit the second bandit like a hammer to stone, ending it before the man could properly rise. Silence returned, swift and heavy. Béibhinn stood over the fallen, shaking. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, and dropped to her knees. She bowed her head and spoke a prayer — not for herself, and not for victory, but for the dead, because something in her could not bear to leave the moment unmarked. Behind her, Grunk whooped, stamping his feet in triumph. The barricade had scarcely settled back into stillness when Grunk’s attention wandered. Beyond the roadblock, half-hidden among the trees, stood a squat wooden frame bristling with rope and warped beams — a crude siege engine abandoned in haste. Its arm hung slack, its counterweight cracked, but to Grunk it might as well have been a marvel of wonder. “Oh,” he breathed, already moving. “Big thrower.” “Grunk— no,” Béibhinn said sharply, scrambling to her feet. “Don’t touch that.” Too late. Grunk had climbed onto the frame, hauling himself up with eager strength. He produced a small bomb from somewhere entirely inappropriate and began fumbling with it, humming to himself. Lucan swore and rushed forward. “Get down from there!” Dallea grabbed Grunk’s ankle. “You are _absolutely_ not allowed to explode today.” Vaerilyn scanned the treeline, voice tight. “If anyone hears this—” The bomb flared. For a dreadful heartbeat nothing happened. Then the blast tore through the siege engine in a thunderous crack, splintering wood and flinging debris into the undergrowth. The frame collapsed in on itself, smoke and dust billowing outward. Grunk slid down the wreckage, unharmed and beaming. “It worked!” The others stared at him — half in disbelief, half in dawning realisation. Béibhinn exhaled slowly. “We keep him alive,” she said at last. “All of us. No matter what.” Grunk nodded solemnly, unaware of how close he had come to proving otherwise. And with the echo of the explosion still rolling through the trees, the party turned at last toward the bandit camp — knowing now that danger did not only wait ahead of them, but walked at their side. --- They travelled on in uneasy quiet, the forest thickening around them as the light dimmed beneath the canopy. The air carried the faint smell of smoke now, distant but unmistakable, and the ground bore the marks of many careless boots. Dallea slowed first, crouching instinctively, and pointed ahead through the trees. “There,” she murmured. The camp lay in a shallow hollow beyond a rise, ringed by crude palisades and watch platforms lashed together with rope. Fires burned low. Figures moved within, unhurried, confident in their isolation. These were not men expecting trouble. Béibhinn drew closer to the others, voice low. “We don’t rush them. We draw them out.” Lucan nodded once. Vaerilyn’s eyes were already mapping angles, exits, shadows. Grunk tilted his head. “Draw?” “Like bait,” Dallea said, flashing him a grin. “You and me.” Lucan opened his mouth to object, then closed it again as Dallea was already moving. She stepped into the open without hesitation, boots crunching loudly against stone, Grunk following a pace behind her, humming tunelessly and dragging his feet as though wandering rather than advancing. It took only moments. “Oi!” a voice called from the camp. Two men emerged between the tents. One reached instinctively for his bow. Everything happened at once. Vaerilyn’s spell struck like a crack of storm-light, slamming into the archer’s chest before he could draw. Béibhinn surged forward, finishing the motion in one clean, brutal strike. The man fell without a sound. The second barely had time to shout before Lucan and Dallea hit him together, steel and force overwhelming panic. Grunk stabbed enthusiastically at anything that came within reach. The body hit the ground. Silence followed. Lucan held his breath, listening. No alarm came. The camp beyond remained unaware. “We keep moving,” Vaerilyn said quietly. They reached the main gate moments later. Dallea slipped ahead, light-footed, blade ready. Her foot slid on loose gravel. Her strike missed. The guard shouted. “Run!” Béibhinn cried. They ran _into_ the chaos. Lucan loosed an arrow as he moved, the shot clean and true. A bandit on the watchtower pitched backward and vanished from sight, his scream cut short by the drop. Vaerilyn stormed the gate, arcane force tearing through wood as Grunk planted himself at her side, stabbing furiously at anything that approached. “Protect!” he yelled, as though it were a battle-cry. Dallea scrambled up the tower ladder, firing down into the camp, then leapt from the platform in a reckless arc that ended in blood and bone. Lucan and Béibhinn crashed through a side window together, glass and timber exploding inward as they rolled into the interior, weapons already moving. Inside, the fight was close and brutal. A man stood out among the rest — heavier armour, sharper eyes. He screamed something incoherent, struck flint, and lit two bombs at once. Lucan barely had time to see it. The explosion tore through the room. Stone cracked. Wood splintered. Lucan was hurled bodily through the wall, his body smashing through masonry before he hit the ground beyond. Béibhinn struck the floor hard and did not rise. Smoke swallowed everything. Outside, Vaerilyn staggered but did not fall, shielding Grunk with her body as bandits rushed them. Dallea hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up running. She saw Lucan still. Saw Béibhinn unmoving. “No,” she breathed — and dropped to her knees beside them, hands already glowing as she dragged them back from the edge. Her voice shook, but her focus did not. They lived. The remaining bandits did not. When the noise finally died, the camp felt hollow, as though the forest itself were holding its breath. Most of the bodies held nothing — empty pouches, cheap blades, desperation laid bare. Lucan, bruised and furious, noticed a long crack running through one of the inner walls. He slammed his shoulder into it. Stone gave way, revealing a hidden space beyond. A chest sat within. Vaerilyn slipped into a side room and found a rough map nailed to the wall, buildings marked, routes sketched in haste. She took it, along with a handful of coins and a book filled with strange, crawling script that made her skin prickle. Behind them, Grunk was shoved through the broken wall. He found another chest. And stuck to it. “I can’t move!” he shouted. “There’s an eye! It’s looking at me!” Béibhinn’s breath hitched. “Lucan—!” Lucan tore the rest of the wall down with brute force, stones crashing aside as they hauled Grunk free. The chest peeled away with a wet, reluctant sound. They pried it open. Inside lay gold, a strange bag of stamped, curling metal, a blank sheet of paper — and an egg. Round. Warm. Faintly pulsing, as though something inside were breathing. Vaerilyn took it without a word and moved to a quiet corner, lowering herself into a chair as instinct guided her hands. The shell cracked softly. From within unfurled cloth — pale, widening — a cloak like the wings of a luna moth, breathing with unmistakable magic. Grunk hugged a small monkey toy he’d found somewhere along the way, oblivious to the weight of the moment. The blank page shimmered. Golden words appeared in Elvish script: _Speak word and enter._ Vaerilyn looked up sharply. Across the camp, the trebuchet hummed faintly, its engravings matching the script in the book. She copied them carefully onto parchment, hands steady despite everything. Behind her, Grunk began threading ears onto a cord. No one stopped him. --- They reached Alexandria by the time the lamps were being lit, the sky bruised purple and gold above the harbour. The city’s noise rolled over them in familiar waves — shouting dockhands, clanging rigging, laughter spilling from tavern doors — and for the first time since leaving, none of it felt threatening. Exhaustion settled in its place. The Lucky Griffin welcomed them with heat and light and the smell of food that made Dallea groan aloud. Quintin looked up from behind the bar as they entered, his eyes travelling over them slowly: the soot in their hair, the bloodstains half-cleaned, Béibhinn’s careful step, Lucan’s stiff posture. “You made it back,” he said. “That’s more than I get from some.” They gathered at the long table near the hearth and laid out what they had brought. The rough map, edges torn and hastily marked. The coins. The strange book. The blank sheet of paper that wasn’t blank at all. Quintin examined them one by one, hands steady, expression unreadable. Lucan, bored and sore and still riding the edge of adrenaline, reached for another potion before anyone thought to stop him. The first thing he said afterward burst into a cloud of brightly coloured paper that drifted gently onto the table and the floor beyond. There was silence. Lucan stared at the confetti floating around his hands. “…Huh.” Every word that followed sent more spilling from his mouth. Quintin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t,” he said tiredly. Meanwhile, Vaerilyn leaned closer to the book as Quintin pressed the strange page against its cover and murmured a word under his breath. The book shuddered. The page dissolved into light. Vaerilyn reached out without quite meaning to— —and the world fell away. She gasped, gripping the table as something vast and cold tore through her thoughts. Stars burned behind her eyes. Power screamed without sound. A shape formed, terrible and precise, and when it passed she sagged into her chair, breathing hard. “I know how to do something,” she said slowly. “Something I didn’t know before.” Quintin nodded. “That’ll happen.” He pushed a small stack of coins across the table. “Fifty gold. You earned it.” The door slammed open before anyone could answer. A kobold stumbled inside clutching two ducks like precious cargo, eyes wide and frantic. “Tax!” he squeaked. “I pay tax! Lucy! Burt!” The ducks quacked indignantly. “Goose is missing,” the kobold added, voice breaking. “Goose is gone.” The docks were chaos even by Alexandria’s standards, lanterns swaying over black water, ropes creaking, sailors shouting in half a dozen languages. They spread out to look, peering between hulls and crates. Lucan and Béibhinn found the duck. They also found trouble. “Oi,” came a sharp voice from above. “That ship’s not yours.” Squeeb stood on the deck, thin and sharp-eyed, hands on his hips. Lucan looked at him. Looked at Béibhinn. Then made a decision that would later feel both sudden and inevitable. He picked Béibhinn up and threw her. She landed on the duck. There was a crack. She screamed. Blood poured from her nose. Lucan pointed upward and shouted, “Captain Poop!” The docks went quiet in the way places do right before something terrible happens. Squeeb descended the gangplank one slow step at a time. “I want a word,” he said. Lucan knelt. Squeeb patted his cheek almost kindly. “Don’t call me Captain Poop.” Then he bit Lucan’s ear off. Lucan howled as pain and something colder burned through his veins. “That’s poison,” Béibhinn choked, clutching her broken nose. Lucan threw a handful of gold at Squeeb. It bounced wrong. Fake. They ran. Eggs were bought. Apologies were not. The eggs were delivered. Squeeb accepted them without comment. Vaerilyn had already gone. Back at the Lucky Griffin, Dallea and Vaerilyn sat in a booth with drinks, watching the door like spectators at a play they’d paid to see. Béibhinn approached the bar, nose crooked, voice nasal. “I would like,” she said carefully, “to speak to Sordia Vignti management. Over the harbourmaster.” Quintin stared at her. “…Alright.” A portal opened behind the bar, light spilling across the floor. Ellette stepped through, calm as judgement itself. Lucan felt his stomach drop. Béibhinn told the story through clenched teeth. Ellette listened without interruption, her gaze drifting occasionally to Lucan, who suddenly found the floor deeply fascinating. “You have a slight renown,” Ellette said at last, looking at him. “For not getting on with other races. While you’re here, it would be wise to learn how.” She summoned Squeeb. Apologies were exchanged — stiff, reluctant, but real. Lucan apologised. Béibhinn did too. Ellette nodded once. “There’s a cleric’s temple two streets over. Get yourselves fixed. You did well today. Better than you realise.” Then she was gone. Later, healed and stitched and whole again, Lucan and Béibhinn returned to the Lucky Griffin. Dallea shoved a drink into Lucan’s hand. Vaerilyn raised hers in quiet salute. They ate. They drank. They laughed — shakily at first, then freely. Outside, Alexandria breathed, unaware of how close four new adventurers had already come to ending their story before it had truly begun. And somewhere beyond the lamplit streets, the road waited.