a page in Lungorthin’s journal

The haul of treasure we collected in the sewers makes me hesitate to complain. I alone was able to lift some magical boots (they have exceptional traction) from a hidden tomb, a tight-fitting black leather armor, and an alchemical flask of a dark liquid that seems to be corrosive. I know this because some of the Kobolds the party encountered chucked them at us, repeatedly. Not before we were harrassed by rats, bats, more kobolds, and a trash hulk. By this time Orn had gone missing – later we learned he had jumped into another pit- we had very few healing potions, and after barely defeating a small horde of ghouls, we decided enough was enough. After locating a hidden switch that controlled the door blocking the way we came and setting a magic alarm in the hallway ahead of us, we hunkered down and took a much needed rest. Thankfully, by the time we awoke Orn had managed to catch up so, made confident with renewed vigor, we ventured further into the maze of tunnels…straight into a pair of gelatinous cubes. What curious and dangerous monsters they are. Having never heard of them before, I never saw them coming. Literally. One good thing resulted from that encounter: I realized how useless I was when unable to flank with my allies and resolved to find a way to avoid being grabbed in the future.

Following the flow of the rotten river, we came into an open chamber. Seeking to redeem myself to the party, I volunteered to explore the perimeter of the room because all we could see was a large pool in the middle where multiple drainage pipes met in a cyclone. I had just spied the small mouth of another tunnel entrance when I heard a loud gushing noise coming from somewhere. The next thing I knew I was swimming in shit, having been sent reeling by the blast of sewage that spewed from a pipe next to my head. The party seemed to brace itself at the entrance to the chamber, apparently unconcerned about the filth fever I was contracting. Suddenly, a slimy, brown tentacle rose out of the water, followed by five more attached to a large beast with a gaping mouth. It seemed upset we had disturbed its home as it grabbed my leg and pulled me closer, suffocating me with a somehow even more unbearable stench. Seeing their scout in actual danger, the party sprang into action. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, a second Otyugh appeared above us. After an exhausting battle and many upheavals, I had contracted so much filth fever I though I would die there. However, I noticed my hot blood had stiffened my new armor in critical spots, and that I was less hurt than I appeared.

The rest of the creatures we encountered were no match for us, and we soon smelled sweet air and found a ladder to the surface. But without those damned rocks we couldn’t leave yet. Orn spotted them resting on an altar near the opposite wall of a large cavern filled with kobolds. When we slew them, one wearing a headdress became excited and an eerie glow issued from the altar. What happened next was horrifying. The dead reptiles re-animated and began to attack us again with sluggish determination. Finally, after slaying most of them twice and retrieving the stones we returned to a surface abound with fresh air and moonlight. Wanting nothing more than to bathe and sleep, we traveled back to the Split Shield, which does not smell as terrible anymore.

a section of Lungorthin’s journal

When Rurik and I heard the Halfling ferryman shouting at us unintelligibly from his raft we knew that we must be close to Vaerhaven. As the great shadow upriver became more defined, I was impressed by the bridges which branched from each side over the fork in the Zehuari River. It didn’t take long for the Wardens to hail us. I’m sure they thought we were pirates when they saw us on their own craft. We were allowed to port and explain ourselves to their captain, Warden Faulk. He was sensible and gave us a voucher for a sufficient amount of coin as reward for returning the skiff and one of the thugs which helped steal it.

After collecting the reward from a rather impatient gnome and learning of some odd jobs and current events within the city’s walls, the party decided to find shelter and seek the Order of the White Star in the morning. Although I don’t hold our purse, I knew the budget would only allow stay at a less-than-desirable inn and stables. We quickly found just that. The Split Shield is owned by a greasy, swindling dwarf whose name I didn’t bother to learn. Far more interesting was the doorman, Twofer, who appeared to be a warlock and a potentially powerful ally. I was unable to convince him to join us. That night I was haunted by visions of my adolescence, likely brought about by the familiar setting I found myself in. Images of blood and fire I have managed to suppress for years.

In the morning we found the home of the Order of the White Star. What a depressing lot they were. Consisting of two ancient men, a single squire, and a building strewn with thousands of scrolls, there was nothing orderly about it. They told us their previous headquarters had been seized by the Crows, and any information on the Sunderer would likely still be there, safe in the vault. Of course, my friends promised to rid the building of Crows in return for any knowledge they could share with us.

In anticipation of battle, the party decided to find supplies in the merchant district, which was fortunate because I happened upon a small vial of a curious fire which I guessed was an alchemical reagent. Knowing the Crows were likely hundreds strong, I decided some extra artillery couldn’t hurt and purchased the flask as well as a small alchemy case to replicate it with. The shopkeeper, Ishak Farazad, believed me when I told him I was practiced in the study of such volatile and magic substances.

At sundown we began reconnaissance of the former home of the Order. On the outside, the first floor appeared to be a butcher’s shop. We only saw a cart go to the back door once, but nothing else. Without any plan, we began the assault by approaching the back door with Rothar hidden in a cart, posing as a delivery. When that failed, Rurik had to try a few times to knock the front door down, by which time I had already jumped through a window and engaged two men and their dogs. Althaea teleported inside while Orn provided cover fire from outside. At the end of the battle I was bloodied, but in better shape than the butcher, who Rurik had run through. After a short rest, we continued to clear the building of gangsters. The second floor took little effort, but we ran into more trouble on the third. A slippery villain grabbed Rothar by the throat but when his friends were all dead the coward tried to escape, exposing his back to one of Orn’s arrows. When all was quiet, I attempted to break into the magic vault, only to be blasted in the face by an arcane explosion. I am grateful for it, as not many thieves live to learn from their failures.

Back at the Split Shield, we were greeted at our dinner table by a sniveling bitch who called herself Cassandra. She works for the leader of the Crows. She expressed his interest in us and relayed his request of meeting in the merchant district the following day. When she left, I easily followed her to what I assumed to be their hideout, a building very much like the surrounding warehouses, save for the guards patrolling its perimeter.

We decided it would be best not to completely disrespect the crime lord while we reside in his territory, and so resolved that Rothar and I would meet him. This night I was haunted by Xavos, as if he existed somewhere between my consciousness and reality, binding my dreams in iron chains. In the morning I became focused on the alchemical item and kit. Upon inspection, I realized I had no idea where to start and would be lucky not to lose a hand if I tried to combine any of the contents with the flask of energetic flames. The morning passed uneventfully until it was time to meet the King of Crows.

Although his gang seems well established in Varhaven, Kraul is not so arrogant as to walk the streets in open daylight. Even with an open bounty for his capture, or head, I had expected him to personally meet us near the Bulwark wearing some kind of disguise. But Cassandra appeared to us and bid Rothar and I follow her. Little did she know I could have found the way myself. I was very distracted during our meeting and let Rothar do the talking. It was difficult not to stare at Kraul’s tusks, not to mention Cassandra’s disturbingly hairy hands, so I focused instead on the dagger which Kraul had set in the table before him. I envied the air of intimidation it commanded but knew that stealing it now would be suicide. Only later did I learn why Kraul had summoned us. Apparently he was sore about us taking back that building and killing his friend Cragan. He threatened to harm us and the good folk who helped us get here unless we cleared his smuggling tunnels of some unknown force that was stopping his cronies from finishing their jobs. Coincidentally, these “smuggling tunnels” as he called them were actually just passageways through the city’s sewage system. In addition, we were to locate and return a hinged, wooden box containing three simple stones. No one was eager to go diving in and we retired, aiming to enter the sewers at sunrise.

*Translated from Giant

Lord of Battle we have bested many weaker mortals in your name. The mighty bears in a hill giants cave. The arcane hermit and his hired men in the ancient stone outpost. Cursed fallen warriors of the south and pig men from the north risen from the graves by dark forces. The Scum of that gang known as The Crow. You have also brought to us a silver tongued halfing trader; One whom I will not let out of my sight for a single moment if I wish to retain my belongings. You have favored us on our journey to Red Harbor.

We depart for Vaerhaven in the morn with the tiny man up river, may the gods smile on yet more victories. Your champion’s spear thrists for more blood of the crow. The south makes me weary as many men do not measure themselves in strength and steel in these forsaken cities. I will crush their bones in your name and smite them with mighty thunder. Amen.

It’s been a few hours since everyone has gone to sleep; my own rest was disturbed by images of Tol-Zurbak. While the northman Rurik has been a brother to me in my time of exile, I still long to be amongst kin in my home. Oh father…how you must be ashamed of your son, hiding while usurpers walk your halls.

Rurik and I decided to help this elf lad, Orn, investigate the disappearance of his hunting partner, Garm. Upon finding his friend deceased we were attacked by a party of goblins. Rurik and I put goblin after goblin to the blade but if not for the elf’s marksmanship we might have lost the battle. Rurik was clever enough to leave one alive to take back to Orn’s uncle Azar, the only other elf in Hathwick and the only one who could understand this horrid goblin tongue.

After a heated interrogation we learned the chieftain of the Pale Heart elves, Taal, had allowed these goblins into an ancient elf barrow. We ventured out with the goblin (who we learned was called Griznak) and though traveling with a prisoner made the journey more difficult, he’d begun to grow on me. His kin abused him and that’s no way to live, even if he is just a wretched goblin.

Upon our arrival at the barrow we discovered a man who had been taken captive by the goblins. We freed him and he helped us slay the goblins around the entrance to the barrow. He told us his name was Lungorthin and he had been planning to search the tomb for riches, not expecting it to be overrun by goblins. Orn didn’t say anything but I could see the anger behind his eyes. Humans, goblins…it didn’t matter; they were both defiling his ancestors’ tombs.

We delved into the old barrow and when we reached the first antechamber a heat shimmer unexpectedly appeared in front of us. Within a few seconds, this shimmer erupted into a ball of fire. We all dove for cover and drew our weapons, ready to face whatever monster was responsible for this fiery show of magic, only to see a confused eladrin woman. When we called out to her she assured us she came in peace, and was merely searching for information on an ancient elf king she suspected was interred within the barrow complex. We informed the lass (who introduced herself as Althaea) of the goblin infestation and she decide to travel with us.

After many battles with the goblin squatters and the restless spirits of elves buried within the tomb, we reached the goblins’ chief, a stout creature named Zagrat. After a brutal shakedown, the goblin told us a tale of Taal meeting with masked riders. As the goblin was begging me to spare him, Orn shot him between the eyes. At first I was outraged, having promised the chieftain his life for the information he gave us…Orn assured me that he took no joy in the act but that he had sworn a blood oath to avenge his fallen friend Garm, and would not break it. While elf customs are very strange to me, I understand vengeance; hopefully mine will come swiftly as well.

We spent the rest of the night clearing the tomb of goblins and repairing as much of the damage to the barrow as we could. It took all of my strength to seal the tomb, calling upon my rudimentary Earth-Forging ability to close off the entry with great stones.

On the journey back to Hathwick we came upon an elven warband, and by eavesdropping we learned that they planned to attack the village with a sizable force. We quickened our pace in a desperate race to reach Hathwick in time. When we arrived we quickly informed Marshal Brand, leader of the town guard, and began helping him shore up the defenses of the town. The elves came at dusk the next day. After a long and hard battle the people of Hathwick prevailed, but it was a bittersweet victory for Orn; his uncle Azar fell in battle, bravely defending the lives of others who were not as strong as he. Orn took the loss hard, attending to Azar’s funeral rites alone. I and the rest of the group respected his decision.

Later, Orn sorted through the things Azar had left for him. He found a map showing the site of the elves’ sacred grove. The lad told the rest of us that he wanted to seek out Taal for revenge. I wouldn’t see him set off to complete this task alone so we all decided to head to the grove in the morning.

Other than a run-in with a pair of grizzly bears and the giant who turned out to be their master, the journey to the grove was rather uneventful. When we arrived, however, we found the grove littered with the bodies of dead elves and the sacred trees a smoldering ruin. Althaea quickly used her arcane talents to tame the remaining fires. A single survivor lay beneath a standing stone, and he told us that Taal was responsible for this great betrayal, forsaking his kin and leading these masked riders in their slaughter before joining their number and donning a black iron mask himself. The riders seemed to answer to some one or something called the “Sunderer.” The nature of this entity is unknown, but the name alone sends a chill down my spine.

I overheard Orn telling Althaea that these trees were said to be where his ancestors’ spirits resided in the afterlife, and that Azar had believed his spirit would come to rest here as well. Though I find it hard to grasp the notion of spirits residing in something so soft as a tree, I understand how it feels to lose a loved one and have your world turned on its head. Orn has not said much tonight. Lung, Rurik and I spent most of the day trying to clear the grove of the ash and fallen trees, while Althaea assisted Orn in collecting the bodies of the dead and laying them to rest deeper in the forest as per elven tradition. Rurik and I both said our prayers from the campsite and left Orn to grieve in solitude.

I know he must be confused and hurt, but I hope realizes that none of his new companions will let him face this crisis alone.

We determined that the masked riders rode off in the direction of the city of Vaerhaven, to the northwest. Our plan is to travel to a nearby port on the river, Red Harbor; there we hope to book passage via boat to Vaerhaven, where we might learn more of these masked riders or this Sunderer character. While boat travel makes me uneasy, I know it will provide us the speed crucial to staying on the trail of these masked riders while it’s still warm. We depart in the morning.

May Moradin help us all.

-Rothar Rockhide, Son of Tulthor

Written in broad, flowing script with expert penmanship.

Only the trees will remember.

Only the trees and the rocks and the roots; the creeks and the streams and the hidden glades.

Who else will remember the Shadowfoot?

My time on the earth now draws to a close; the twilight of my life is almost ended, and night fast approaches. Each day the ancestors call to me a little more loudly, beckoning me to join them. Soon my body will feed the beasts and the birds and the roots of trees that were ancient when I was young, and my spirit will find peace among my ancestors in the Sacred Grove, becoming one with the hearts of the mighty trees planted by the first tribes in an age long past.

When I am gone, what will remain of the Shadowfoot’s time in this world?

Ah, but I’ve forgotten Orn.

My nephew…he has always been touched by the spirits, of that I am certain. He has a noble soul, and is respectful of all he meets; his father would be proud to see how he has grown.

And yet…

I fear that when I am gone, the Shadowfoot will go with me. The Men of Hathwick have been most gracious, and I’ve no doubt of their sincere acceptance of Orn and myself, but still…if only the boy had more time among his own people, more time to learn our ways before that life was ripped away from us. I’ve done my best to teach him, and he has been an earnest pupil, but I fear that, through no fault of his own, he will let the Shadowfoot fade from memory. He has a good life among the Men, and why should he want to change that?

And maybe that is as it should be…the cycle is ever in motion, greater than the wistful musings of a venerable elf.

I just hope Orn keeps the spirits in his heart after I am gone.

Written with slow, deliberate, almost childish penmanship…it’s rare for an innkeeper to be literate beyond what is required to keep a basic ledger.

The elves are coming soon.

Marshal Brand and his men were going door to door telling folk earlier this morn. By the time they reached the Jug I already knowed what they was going to tell me.

Brand said I should make room in the cellar, that it was a safe place. So I had Hroddi and Elsi, the new barmaid, clear out some room and bring down blankets. I figure folk might be down there for some time.

Hroddi and me will stay up top and defend the Jug. Might be we’ll die.

Shame that’d be. I’d like to live, so’s I can open the cask of dwarven spirits I’ve been saving these past few years.

I figure them adventurers, Orn and his new friends…well, they’re our best hope.

All that’s left to do now is wait.

Maybe I’ll pray.

After being brought together by equal parts happenstance and common purpose, five intrepid heroes-in-the-making stand ready to defend the village of Hathwick:

Rurik, the boastful northman soldier-turned-priest, who is determined to honor his warrior god by testing his mettle against any foe the world can throw at him.

Rothar Rockhide, paladin of Moradin and exiled scion of a proud dwarven clan, who seeks to exonerate his family name and reclaim their ancestral holdings.

Orn, ranger of the Ardenwood and one of the last survivors of the elven Shadowfoot tribe, whose peaceful life among the humans of Hathwick has been turned upside-down.

Althaea, the eladrin pyromancer, a student of lost knowledge who travels the land in search of the arcane and the forgotten.

Lungorthin, the tiefling drifter, whose cursed Turathi blood is only the first of many secrets.