Day 1: Departure from Volland
The morning sun shimmered upon the floating city of Volland, casting golden ripples across the vast waters of Lake Vollous. The scent of damp wood and fresh lake air filled the streets as the Roving Adventurers stirred from their slumber. The previous day’s victories—besting the Deep One, negotiating an uneasy truce with the Sahuagin, and quelling the fears of Volland’s citizens—had taken their toll. But today, a new task beckoned.
As they readied their horses at the edge of the floating docks, a messenger clad in dust-streaked leathers arrived. A parchment sealed with the crest of Otian was handed to Makhulim, its words terse and urgent.
Calamity has struck the mines. We need aid. Come swiftly.
The party exchanged knowing glances. Without hesitation, they mounted their steeds, guiding them carefully along the wooden bridges that connected the floating platforms of Volland. The moment their hooves struck the firm earth of the mainland, they pressed forward into the rolling plains of Shalannan, bound north toward Otian.
Day 2: The Plains of Shalannan
The endless grasslands stretched out before them, a sea of golden waves swaying in the wind. The journey was steady, the rhythm of hoofbeats accompanying the occasional chirp of unseen birds darting between patches of wildflowers. By midday, the sun blazed overhead, and the party sought shade beneath a lone, twisted oak near a small creek.
As they rested, Marcho Longbottom produced a small wooden pipe, puffing rings into the air while gazing at his companions. “We’ve time,” he mused. “Why not share tales of our past? We’ve fought beasts, outwitted sorcerers, but we know little of what shaped us.”
Makhulim snorted, leaning back against the oak’s rough bark. “Aye, a tale for a tale, then. Who starts?”
Faylen Naemenor, ever the observer, smirked. “Marcho, since you suggested it, let’s hear yours first.”
With a grin, the halfling relayed a childhood memory of sneaking into a noble’s estate, swiping a ruby-studded goblet, only to trip and spill its contents all over the Duke’s prized hunting hound. The laughter that followed echoed across the plains as the group took turns revealing fragments of their past—Makhulim’s first brawl in the forge halls, Nayzungit’s strict yet formative upbringing under his dwarven mentors, and Faylen’s awkward attempts at spellcasting in her youth.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, they made camp beneath the vast expanse of the star-strewn sky. The flickering flames of their fire reflected in their eyes, warming more than just their bodies. The bonds between them, already forged in battle, grew stronger through shared stories.
Day 3: Encroaching Unease
By the third day, the gentle plains began to give way to craggy outcroppings, signaling their approach to the mining regions. The wind carried a different scent now—earthy, with an undercurrent of metal and stone.
The mood of the party, once lighthearted, took on a subtle shift. A strange stillness lay over the land. The usual chirping of birds seemed less frequent, and on more than one occasion, they caught glimpses of dark figures in the distance, only for them to vanish upon approach.
“We’re being watched,” Faylen murmured, her hand resting near her bow.
Makhulim grunted. “Aye. Could be bandits. Could be somethin’ worse.”
They rode on, their hands near their weapons, their eyes scanning the horizon. As twilight descended, they found refuge in a rocky alcove, setting up camp with a more watchful eye than the nights before.
That evening, their tales turned toward fears and pet peeves. Nayzungit revealed his deep-seated aversion to disrespect towards faith, while Faylen admitted her frustration with those who doubted her archery over her spellcraft. Makhulim confessed a hatred for the sound of whittling—something Marcho found particularly amusing, immediately pulling out a small carving knife with a mischievous grin. The ensuing chase around the camp lifted their spirits, but the tension of the day remained.
Day 4: Arrival in Otian
By midday, the dust-caked travelers crested the final hill, revealing the stout, stone-built town of Otian nestled at the foot of the northern mountains. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys, and the rhythmic clang of hammers against anvils rang through the air.
As they rode into town, wary eyes turned toward them. It was clear that recent events had left the townsfolk uneasy. The Roving Adventurers made their way to the heart of Otian, where the town hall stood—a grand yet sturdy structure, carved directly from the mountain rock.
Meeting with the Mayor
Inside, seated behind a heavy stone desk, was Mayor Thandrik Ironvein. The Mayor has a thick auburn beard braided with silver rings, deep-set emerald-green eyes, weathered tan skin, and a stout, muscular build. He wears a reinforced leather coat lined with fur. Practical, Makhulim though, for both the town hall and overseeing the mines. Ironvein’s right hand is scarred from a mining accident decades ago.
His eyes flicked up from a stack of parchment, his scarred fingers drumming against the surface. “Took ye long enough,” he grunted, eyeing the party. “I’d offer a warm welcome, but we’ve got bigger concerns.”
Makhulim stepped forward. “Yer letter mentioned calamity. What’s happened?”
Thandrik exhaled heavily, stroking his thick auburn beard. “The mines. Somethin’s not right. Collapses where there shouldn’t be, tunnels where none were dug, and worse… Miners go in and don’t come out.”
A heavy silence fell upon the room.
Marcho crossed his arms. “Disappearances, eh? Any sign of what’s causing it?”
“Aye.” Thandrik leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Scratches on the walls, deep ones. And whispers. The kind that don’t belong to no mortal tongue.”
Faylen’s fingers tightened around her bow. “Then it’s good we came.”
Thandrik nodded, standing. “Aye. Rest if ye need, but come sundown, we go to the mines.”
With that, the Roving Adventurers found themselves on the precipice of another perilous quest, the mystery of the mines waiting in the shadows below.
