The Port of Shalannan
The journey across the sea to Hyebrenia, and the port of Shalannan, had been long but largely uneventful. With the salty breeze at their backs, the Roving Adventurers watched as their ship cut through the final waves and entered the great bay of Shalannan. The towering lighthouse of Point Torun stood sentinel on the northern shore, its stone walls weathered by centuries of wind and waves, while Point Frun lighthouse marked the southern edge, its beacon still burning despite the bright midday sun.
Before them, Shalannan stretched out over rolling hills, its three great walled rings stacked one upon the next as the city ascended toward the grand cathedral at the summit. To the southeast, the rugged mountains loomed, their peaks sharp against the sky. To the south, the vast woodlands stretched beyond sight, their emerald canopy promising both adventure and mystery. Across the river to the north, fields of golden grain swayed in the wind, a testament to the city’s prosperity.
As the ship pulled into the dock, the scent of fresh-baked bread and roasting meats mingled with the ever-present tang of salt air. The day was bright, the sky a brilliant azure with only the softest of clouds drifting lazily. A cacophony of voices filled the air—merchants hawking wares, sailors unloading cargo, and street performers drawing in passersby with song and dance.
The Roving Adventurers had arrived.
Landfall
No sooner had their boots touched solid ground than Makhulim Metalbrewer stretched with a groan. “Bah! If I never step on a ship again, it’ll be too soon. Me axe arm’s gone soft from all this sitting.” He flexed his fingers as though testing their strength, but the weight of This and That at his sides reassured him.
Marcho Longbottom adjusted his pack, eyes scanning the dockside streets. “A warm meal and a stiff drink first,” he said, already moving toward the bustling city. “Then we’ll see what trouble we can find.”
Faylen Naemenor trailed behind, her longbow Charm slung over one shoulder, the whispered voice of its spectral inhabitant murmuring to her. She paid it little mind, too distracted by the sheer size of Shalannan. It was far larger than any city she had ever visited. “It’s… breathtaking,” she admitted.
“Aye, and filled with souls in need of enlightenment,” Nayzungit added, his towering half-orc frame drawing wary glances from passing dockworkers. His greataxe Clementine rested on his back, the faint green glow of its blade casting odd shadows across his armor. “Perhaps we shall find some converts among them.”
Makhulim scowled. “Keep yer preaching to yerself, or at least don’t do it in my ear.”
A Tavern to Call Home
The party made their way through the winding streets, past vendors selling fresh fish, exotic spices, and trinkets from distant lands. Their destination was the Leafy Seadragon Inn, the most well-known establishment for travelers and adventurers alike. The sign outside depicted a stylized sea creature with leafy appendages curling outward, giving it an almost mystical air.
Inside, the tavern was alive with laughter, music, and the clatter of tankards. A towering bartender with a thick mustache gave them an appraising look as they entered. Behind the bar stood Amira Nyrond, the inn’s owner and a former ranger, her sharp green eyes scanning the newcomers. She was a tall woman with pale skin and long black hair, her movements graceful but purposeful. Nearby, her primary assistant Kronk, a massive half-orc with scarred green skin and broken tusks, hauled a keg onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. His brown eyes met theirs briefly before he turned back to his work.
Amira smirked. “New blood, eh? Welcome to the Leafy Seadragon. What’ll it be?”
Makhulim wasted no time. “Ale. Dwarven, if ye have it.”
Marcho grinned. “Something strong and sweet.”
Faylen hesitated, distracted by a bard singing in the corner. “Wine,” she finally said, slipping into a seat.
Nayzungit folded his arms. “Water will suffice.”
Rumors, Lore, and Quests
Their drinks arrived, and as they clinked mugs, the adventurers settled in. Around them, the tavern bustled with locals and travelers alike. At a corner table, a group of merchants murmured about rising tensions between Shalannan and the inland city-states. Near the hearth, an old sailor regaled a group of young men with tales of a ghost ship that haunted the southern waters.
From the next table over, a grizzled dwarf with a thick gray beard and a scar over one eye leaned in, catching Makhulim’s attention. “Ye lot look like the adventurin’ type,” he grunted. “Heard tell o’ somethin’ strange up in them mountains. A whole caravan disappeared near the high pass last month. No bodies, no wreckage—just gone.”
At the bar, Kronk set down a fresh keg and nodded toward Faylen. “If you’re lookin’ for a hunt,” he rumbled, his voice deep and slow, “folk in the lower ring been talkin’ about shadows movin’ in the streets at night. Things vanish. People, too.”
Amira poured another drink and set it in front of Marcho. “Rumors,” she said, “but sometimes, rumors have teeth. If you’re planning to stay in Shalannan long, I’d keep my ears open.”
Makhulim took a long drink and wiped his beard. “Aye. Seems like adventure finds us, one way or another.”
For now, it was time to drink, rest, and listen. The city of Shalannan was full of stories, and some of them were just waiting to be written.
A Grand Entrance
The doors of the Leafy Seadragon burst open with a dramatic BANG, causing several patrons to jump. In the doorway stood Magistrate Kennwall, a foppish man clad in a garishly embroidered coat, his feathered hat askew atop his sweat-dampened hair. He panted, wild-eyed, and jabbered incoherently, his hands flailing as though shooing invisible specters from his face.
“Ghosts! Specters! Wailing phantoms in the night; and the DAY!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with hysteria. “The basement! My basement! It’s haunted, I tell you! HAUNTED!”
A hush fell over the tavern. A few patrons exchanged bemused glances, while others scooted their chairs back, wary of the madman in their midst. Amira folded her arms. “Magistrate,” she said coolly, “you’re making a scene.”
Kennwall gulped, straightened his jacket, and smoothed his mustache. “Ahem. Yes. Well. I do apologize, but this is a matter of utmost urgency! My wine cellar—no, my very home—is infested with horrors most foul! I demand assistance!”
Makhulim raised a bushy eyebrow. “Ye sure it ain’t rats?”
Kennwall clutched his chest as though mortally wounded. “Rats? Rats? My dear dwarf, these creatures are unnatural! Shadows that move on their own! Whispering voices in the dark! And the moaning—oh, the moaning!”
Marcho leaned forward, intrigued. “Sounds like a job.”
Faylen sighed, already knowing where this was going. “And a paying one, I hope?”
Kennwall nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes! You shall be handsomely rewarded! Just—please—rid my home of these ghastly fiends!”
And just like that, their first adventure in Shalannan had begun.
Add-Time
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