The Watch Wood and Volland
The sun had only just begun its westward descent when The Roving Adventurers departed Shalannan. The road leading westward toward Lake Vollous stretched before them, a well-worn route known to merchants, wanderers, and those seeking fortune in the lake-riding city of Volland. Beyond the farmlands that rolled outward from Shalannan’s riverbanks, the terrain shifted to open plains. The road wound gently along, its path curving through the golden grasses that danced in the afternoon breeze.
Makhulim took the lead, marching with steady dwarven determination. Marcho strode beside him, keeping an eye out for anything worth picking from the roadside. Faylen lagged a few steps behind, her mind elsewhere, occasionally humming an Elven tune. Nayzungit followed at the rear, his greataxe Clementine strapped to his back as he muttered prayers to Angradd under his breath.
The day passed without incident, the journey marked only by idle chatter and the occasional passing of a merchant’s cart. As the sun neared the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet, the group spotted a stand of trees rising against the grasslands. It was an unusual sight in the vast plains—the Watch Wood, a known resting point for travelers halfway between Shalannan and Volland. They decided to make camp beneath its boughs.
Stories by the Fire
A small fire crackled as the adventurers sat in a circle, eating the last of their rations for the day. With the warm glow illuminating their faces, the mood turned toward storytelling. It was Marcho, of course, who first leaned forward with a sly grin.
“I ever tell you lot about the time I outwitted a ghost?” he asked, brandishing a stick as if it were his rapier.
Makhulim groaned. “This isn’t the one with the haunted cheese cellar, is it?”
Marcho smirked. “No, no. Different ghost. I was passing through a little village on the edge of a moor, and they told me about a spirit that haunted the local bridge. Every night, it would appear, moaning and rattling chains, scaring off anyone who tried to cross. Naturally, I figured I’d have a go at it.”
He paused for effect before continuing. “Turns out, it was no ghost at all! Just an old miser hiding under the bridge, scaring folks away so he could keep all the toll money to himself. When I caught him, he tried to bribe me to stay quiet, but I had a better idea—I made him pay me to leave him be. Never let a good con go to waste!”
The group chuckled, and then all eyes turned to Makhulim.
“Fine,” he said, stroking his beard. “I’ll tell ye of the time I bested an ogre in a drinking contest.”
“Did you actually best him, or just outlast him?” Faylen asked, arching an eyebrow.
“A bit of both,” Makhulim admitted. “See, this brute was ravaging a village up north. Took their food, their gold, and worst of all—their ale. So, I challenged him. Told him if I could drink him under the table, he had to leave. We went horn for horn, tankard for tankard. The beast had a gut like a barrel, but he lacked dwarven resolve. By the end of it, he was slumped against a tree, snoring like a thunderstorm. I took his stash of stolen goods and left him there with a splitting headache!”
Nayzungit snorted. “Weak story. Not enough blood.”
He cracked his knuckles and began his own tale, something about a raging fire demon he once helped slay with a warband of dwarves. His version involved far more axes, war cries, and divine smiting than strictly necessary, but it kept them entertained.
Faylen took her turn, brushing stray strands of hair from her face. “I once met a fey lord,” she began, her voice soft. “He had the most beautiful court, deep in the twilight realm of the woods. He offered me a place at his side in exchange for a single secret—any secret. But I knew better than to bargain with fey, so I offered him a riddle instead.” She smirked. “He accepted, and we spent the entire night trading riddles. By dawn, I had won, and he let me go. But sometimes, I still hear his voice whispering when the wind stirs through the trees.”
Marcho gave an exaggerated shiver. “Creepy.”
Makhulim nudged Nayzungit. “What about you? Got another tale that doesn’t end with something getting chopped in half?”
The half-orc huffed. “Fine. Once, I helped a group of stranded travelers make it through a dangerous canyon. No axes. No blood. Just guiding them past rockslides and scaring off bandits with a few well-timed threats.”
Marcho frowned. “That’s it?”
Nayzungit shrugged. “Sometimes, helping is just helping.”
The night continued with more stories, some absurd, some thoughtful, until at last, the fire dwindled and sleep took them one by one.
Arrival in Volland
By mid-morning the next day, the road carried them to the shores of Lake Vollous, where the city of Volland rested upon its waters. Volland was a sprawling, haphazard metropolis—a composite of small towns lashed together with timber, rope, and sheer determination. Built upon vast wooden platforms supported by pontoons, boats, and whatever flotsam the city could salvage, Volland constantly shifted with the tides of Lake Vollous. Bridges of varied construction connected the floating quarters, some sturdy and wide, others rickety and creaking with every step.
A long, weathered walk-pier extended shakily from the shore, its wooden planks warped and uneven from years of exposure to the lake air. Merchants, fishermen, and travelers bustled along its length, some carrying baskets of fresh lake fish, others calling out their wares to those arriving from the road. Volland’s skyline was a patchwork of low, shingled rooftops and taller structures built atop repurposed ships. Bell towers from ancient, half-sunken temples rose above the city, their chimes echoing softly over the water.
At the entrance to a busy square, a wooden notice board stood with parchments pinned to it. One, in bold ink, read:
HELP WANTED: Adventurers needed for urgent matter. Inquire at The Silver Minnow Tavern.
Marcho tapped the sign with his finger. “Well now, that sounds like our kind of trouble.”
Makhulim grinned. “Aye. Let’s see what sort of mess we’re walking into this time.”
With that, The Roving Adventurers made their way into the heart of Volland, ready for whatever came next.
