Bryn Shander - Between Warmth and Watchfulness

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Four days in Bryn Shander

The Eastway

The Eastway - the woodline watches

Ambush Preparation on the Eastway

Player Replies

The gates of Bryn Shander close behind you with a sound that is solid, reassuring—and somehow insufficient.

Snow clings to cloaks and boots as the caravan is escorted inward.

The city is settling into evening when you arrive, the long twilight of Icewind Dale already deepening toward night. Taverns glow warm and loud. The temple bells ring low and steady. Guards change shifts with practiced ease.

To most eyes, it is just another cold evening in Bryn Shander.

To you, it feels like standing still inside a tightening circle.

The Temple - What can be saved

The dwarven woman is taken directly to the Temple district to the House of the Triad, her sled escorted beneath watchful eyes. Priests of multiple faiths gather quickly—Tempus, Chauntea, even a grim-faced cleric of Oghma—drawn by the symptoms more than the story.

Fizz lingers when the others step back.

He watches the careful removal of furs, the way the woman’s breathing stutters when the air touches her skin. He listens as the priests confer in low voices, words like psionic scarring, fungal intrusion, and external anchor passing between them.

When he asks to stay, to help, they allow it.

“Stay within eyesight of Shensu, Mave, and Jory,” she instructs quietly. “Report back to me if anything seems unusual. Let me know immediately when the dwarf wakes." she has many questions.

Another sign of elven anxiety. She doesn't see or sense anything, But she does feel something. Near or far, she can’t tell. She can’t pinpoint it. Another thread tugging at her from the ruthless beast, Xal’Zyress. She welcomes the thought of ending him.

Fizz's Medicine Check

Fizz’s hands are steady as he assists, passing tools, observing techniques, asking gentle questions. His understanding grows slowly, piecing together a grim truth:

• The fungal infection is not the root cause, but a symptom

• Heat and alchemical acids slow its spread

• Cold does nothing

• Divine magic alone cannot repair what was unmade in her mind.

Hours later, as incense burns low and crystal lenses are set around the woman’s head, the ritual begins.

Orin feels it even from a distance.

The Oculus, wrapped and warded, thrums once—sharp, discordant—then falls silent.

The link is severed.

The priests sag with exhaustion. Dain Ironfist finally speaks the words no one wanted, but everyone expected: The woman lives.

“We stopped the bleeding,” he says quietly. “We did not heal the wound.”

As Fizz passes a warmed instrument to the nearest priest, he hesitates.

“May I ask… if the fungus isn’t the cause, then why is it still there?”

Dain Ironfist doesn’t look up as he works. “Because it found a wound and made a home in it,” he replies. “Like rot in a cracked beam. Remove the rot, and the beam still breaks.”

Fizz frowns, eyes flicking to the woman’s throat where faint filaments trace beneath the skin. “So heat helps, but cold doesn’t?”

“Aye,” another cleric mutters. “Cold preserves. Heat disrupts. The mind… doesn’t like being preserved when it’s already broken.”

Fizz nods slowly, filing it away. “Then divine magic can’t… knit it back together?”

Dain finally meets his gaze. His expression is not unkind. Just tired.“We mend what is there,” he says. “Not what was taken.”

Later, as the ritual winds down and the last sigil dims, Fizz leans closer to the woman. Her lips move, barely sound.

“…stone… below…”

Fizz straightens at once. “Did you hear that?”

Dain exhales, rubbing his temples. “She speaks sometimes,” he says softly. “Not to us.”

Fizz watches her chest rise and fall, resolve settling in behind his eyes.

“Then we’ll have to learn how to listen better.”

But her eyes no longer track movement. Her words, when they come, are fractured echoes. Names without faces. Places without time.

The window is closed, but the damage remains.

Fizz stays until he is sure she is stable. Only then does he take Peck to the stables and finally make his way to the Northlook, fatigue settling into his bones—but purpose burning brighter than ever.

Azalie - Standing Watch

Azalie does not go to the inn right away.

Azalie checks in with Scramsax and overhears talk of a concert, then a request—for the pretty elf. She’d almost forgotten about her. The realization stirs something unfamiliar in her chest. She’s never been jealous before. Maybe something innocent, like when Fizz finds the best mushroom, or how Dorf can rage on command. This is different. Sharp. Unwelcome.

she finds Sheriff Markham Southwell quickly, he welcomes her back, having many questions about her recent journeys.

“Start from the beginning,” he says. “And don’t spare me the ugly parts.”

Azalie doesn’t hesitate. “Duergar. Drow. Mind flayers working together. And a beholder calling itself Xal’Zyress.”

Southwell’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“He’s building something,” she continues. “Thralls. Conduits. Monsters meant to walk the surface. If he turns his eye on Bryn Shander…” She lets the sentence die where it stands.

Southwell exhales slowly. “You’re saying this isn’t a raid problem. It’s a siege problem.”

“Yes,” Azalie says. “And if he’s patient, we won’t see it coming.”

A long pause follows.

Finally, Southwell nods. “I believe you.”

That simple sentence lands heavier than any oath.

“I can’t panic the town,” he adds. “But I can put eyes on the walls. If you’re willing—unofficially—I could use someone who knows what they’re looking for.”

Azalie straightens. “Put me where I can help.”

Dorf - Instinct and Stone

Dorf does what Dorf does best.

He grounds himself.

Fishing through a half-frozen channel. Checking supply stores. Talking to guards who don’t realize they’re being questioned. Visiting the temple again, standing quietly near the injured dwarf, watching her chest rise and fall.

He doesn’t trust Shensu.

He doesn’t distrust her either.

He trusts his gut—and his gut says this trouble isn’t finished.

He hears talk of supply runs hit along the eastern roads. Of giants seen where they shouldn’t be. Of caravans changing routes, not because of storms, but because something else is moving.

Dorf commits it all to memory.

Mutt - Familiar Music - New Eyes

The Northlook is full by the time Mutt finally takes the stage for an impromptu concert the first night the Howlbears arrive.

The reaction is immediate, he sees many familiar faces in the Inn. The howlbears only just arrived in Bryn Shander, and within hours dozens of patrons have made their way to the Northlook hearing rumors that Mutt is back.

Cheers. Laughter. A few shouts of his name. Scramsax grins like he’s already counting coin. For a moment—just a moment—it feels like old times.

Azalie is already there when Mutt takes the stage.

Dannika is there.

So is Alia.

The energy is different now. Less playful. More intent.

Mutt plays anyway.

He plays for warmth. For memory. For Uptharr. For the room. He earns coin and applause and admiration—and yet, between verses, he notices things he didn’t before.

A man near the back who leaves early. A laugh that cuts off when he looks directly at it. Eyes that aren’t watching the stage so much as the exits.

When it’s over, Dannika congratulates him warmly, lingering just a second longer than strictly professional. She asks about the Chwingas. About his travels.

About whether he plans to stay.

Azalie arrived early, before her watch, lingering near the edge of the common room with a lit smoking pipe that she puffs on to ease her nerves. The warmth, the noise, the familiar creak of the floorboards all press in around her. For a little while, it almost works. Almost feels normal.

When Mutt finishes his last song, the room erupts.

As the applause dies down, Dannika is on her feet first, clapping with genuine enthusiasm.

“That was… wonderful,” she says as Mutt steps down from the platform. “You have a way of making people forget how cold it is outside. Even just for a moment.”

Alia slips in immediately after, smile bright, eyes sparkling. “You were amazing,” she adds, a little breathless. “I swear the whole place leaned forward when you started that second verse.”

Dannika’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens just slightly. “I was just asking Mutt about his travels,” she says, turning back to him. “It sounds like you’ve been very busy since you last passed through.”

Mutt chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Busy’s one way to put it. Icewind Dale doesn’t like letting people get bored.”

Alia laughs, a touch too loud. “Well, if you’re staying awhile, I hope we’ll get another show. Or two.” She glances pointedly at the stage. “The Northlook could use it"

There’s something unreadable in her tone.

Dannika studies him for a moment longer than necessary, then smiles again, softer this time. “Just don’t disappear on us again so quickly,” she says. “Bryn Shander has a habit of missing people who leave impressions.”

Somewhere near the back of the room, a chair scrapes softly against the floor.

And then it’s gone.

Azalie's Night Watch

That night, she walks the walls with another guard, a woman named Kessra, who jokes too much and watches the snowline like she expects it to bite her. They talk about caravans, missing livestock, lights on the tundra that move when they shouldn’t.

Azalie feels steadier with every step.

Kessra adjusts her scarf and peers out over the snow. “You know,” she says, “every time I’m on night watch, I convince myself tonight’s the night something crawls out of the dark and eats my face.”

Azalie snorts quietly. “That’s optimistic.”

Kessra grins sideways. “You’re new. You’ll learn. Most of the time it’s just wolves. Or drunks. Sometimes drunk wolves.”

They walk in silence for a few steps, boots crunching softly.

“So,” Kessra says, more subdued now. “You’ve seen things, haven’t you?”

“Enough,” Azalie replies.

“Bad ones?”

Azalie doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes trace the horizon, where snow and sky blur together. “The kind that don’t stay where they belong.”

Kessra nods, suddenly serious. “Then keep watching that line. Stuff out there’s been… wrong lately. Lights moving uphill. Tracks that vanish. Caravans coming in short.”

Azalie’s hand rests near her bow. “If something comes, you’ll have warning.”

Kessra smiles faintly. “Good. I’d rather hear about it from you than find out the hard way.”

They continue their patrol, two figures against the cold, while far beyond the walls, the storm waits.

Still, beneath it all, the sensation remains—a distant pressure, no longer sharp, but present. Like a storm beyond the horizon.

Before turning in, she gives Mellon quiet instructions. Watch the caravan. Watch Shensu. Watch for anything out of place.

When she finally rents a room at the Northlook, she sleeps lightly, already planning the morning.

Orin - Patterns and Scale

Orin spends most of the next two days buried in study.

The map fragments come out again. So does the lantern of tracking. He overlays locations, notes correlations, and comes to a quiet, unsettling conclusion:

The dwarven woman was not unique. The patterns only made sense if the process had been repeated.

She is likely one of many.

And Lac Dinneshere keeps appearing at the edges of too many of those threads.

When he confirms with the priests that the psionic relay has been severed—and that no resonance remains between the woman and the Oculus—he feels relief... But, he knows better than to mistake it for safety.

Ches 6 - Dannika and the Chwingas

By the morning of Ches 6, the Howlbears reconvene with a shared purpose.

Dannika listens raptly as you recount your observations of the Chwingas—their playful nature, their delicate balance with the tundra, their quiet work preventing avalanches and coaxing frozen plants to bloom.

Her excitement is genuine.

“This is incredible,” she breathes. “If we can learn to protect them—work with them—then perhaps the Dale doesn’t have to be only suffering.”

She pays you as promised—25 gold each—and insists you keep the Lantern of Tracking (Elementals).

Then her expression grows more serious.

“I’ve lost contact with two other researchers,” she admits. “And caravans I rely on are changing routes. Something is… shifting.”

She looks at Mutt. At all of you.

“Be careful,” she says softly. “Icewind Dale needs you.”

That evening, Bryn Shander feels warm again.

Familiar.

But not safe.

The woman in the temple no longer whispers to something unseen—but whatever used her is still out there. Watching. Adapting.

You have time.

Not much.

Next Posts:

You are now settled in Bryn Shander, evening of Ches 6.

Please respond with:

• How long you intend to remain in town

• Any personal goals or preparations

• Which lead, if any, you intend to pursue next (Easthaven, Lac Dinneshere, the raids, or something else)

Your next post can also include any retro actions if there was anything you wanted to respond to in the previous scene, as well as any new actions you want to take.

• Since days have passed - please bring Hunger and Thirst into Compliance. Also tabs are due.

• Treasure added (25 GP for quest completion)

• 500 XP awarded (completion of Chwinga Quest)

Current Time: 6:15 PM

Date: Sixthday 6, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

Four days in Bryn Shander

Retro Posts

After asking around, Mutt finds the half-frozen channel where Dorf has disappeared to “fish.”

The wind bites. The ice creaks. The world feels too big and too quiet.

Mutt doesn’t speak at first. He builds a small fire, sets his grill, seasons meat with a care that looks almost like prayer. He takes a nip from his flask, then offers it toward Dorf without looking at him.

Dorf doesn’t notice Mutt till he smells the meat cooking. He realizes out here he should be paying better attention or who knows what will sneak up on him. After he catches another fish he moves to the fire, hands the fish to Mutt.

“We both know you’re a better cook. See what you can do with this.”

The fish is cold as stone in Mutt’s hands.

The meat sizzles. The fire pops once. For a few minutes, that’s the whole conversation, and somehow it’s enough.

Dorf sits by the fire, grateful for warmth and the quiet friendship. Rage simmers under his skin, not loud yet, but present.

He thanks Mutt for the company and then wanders off to “fish” some more, somewhere even more remote.

The fire burns down to coals behind him.

And Mutt, for once, lets someone walk away without chasing.

The Northlook Retro

The Northlook is full by the time Mutt finally takes the stage.

Cheers. Laughter. A few shouts of his name. Scramsax grins like he’s already counting coin.

For a moment, it feels like old times.

Mutt plays anyway.

He plays for warmth. For memory. For Uptharr. For the room.

He earns coin and applause and admiration and, between verses, he notices things he didn’t before.

A man near the back who leaves early.

A laugh that cuts off when he looks directly at it.

Eyes that aren’t watching the stage so much as the exits.

Mutt finishes his performance with arms outstretched, breathing hard. The Minor Illusion of Uptharr fades with a soft shimmer as the crowd roars.

Dannika and Alia are there when he steps down.

Mutt gives them a conspiratorial wink and holds up his hands in defense playfully.

"I can't say how long we'll be in town. We've got our eyes set on another adventure which I think will make for some pretty interesting new songs. The main reason we're here now is to deliver everything we've learned about chawingas to Dannika here. When we make a commitment, we make sure to see it through."

Dannika’s expression warms at that, the kind of smile that looks like it’s been waiting for him to come back so it can exist again.

Alia leans in a little closer than she needs to, bright-eyed, breath still caught from cheering.

Mutt continues, voice lighter, aiming for normal:

"Although I think Fizz may have done this for free. I haven't seen him that interested and having that much fun as when we were hunting chawingas. I think they fascinated him too."

Dannika laughs softly.

“They would fascinate him.”

Mutt pauses, then chuckles nervously.

"I ... uh, think he'll still take the payment though."

Alia laughs too, a touch too loud, then quickly pivots:

“So… another adventure, then?” she asks. “That means another song?”

Dannika’s eyes flick to Alia for half a second, then back to Mutt.

“I’m glad you came back,” she says simply. “Even if it’s only for a little while.”

Mutt places a friendly hand on both of their shoulders and smiles at the pair.

"Thank you for coming tonight. It's comforting to see friendly faces."

“Comforting,” Alia repeats, tasting the word like it’s either sweet or insulting. “Yes. Comfort.”

Dannika’s smile doesn’t falter.

Somewhere behind them, a chair scrapes softly against the floor.

And then it’s gone.

Watch Duty: Retro

Azalie readies herself for Mutt’s show. No dresses or lace. She has watch duty tonight.

On her way out, she catches her reflection.

Her eyes gazing her own eyes.

Time stops. Her hand rubs the same spot on her necklace.

Both bodies lean closer.

Her mind goes blank, almost not herself.

“You will get your revenge. Just tone it down a little.”

She freezes for a moment as she gazes at her reflection, then it suddenly breaks when she blinks.

Azalie steps away, wary of herself, frightened by how badly she wants the world to bleed back.

She stops for Mutt’s performance.

She wouldn’t miss it for the world.

She quietly weeps at the mention of Uptharr. She keeps to herself through the performance, eyes forward, jaw tight, letting the music do what it can.

When it ends, she attempts a swift exit, but the room crushes inward. Drunk patrons swarm Mutt like moths to a lantern.

She squeezes through the crowd, stopping only to tell the others where she’s headed.

It wouldn’t be wise of any of them to go missing.

Not now.

The Temple & Fizz: Retro

Fizz’s mind is full of questions and his body is tired after a long night of healing.

The priests allow him to assist because he does not flinch.

He passes warmed instruments, keeps his hands steady, asks gentle questions.

He learns a grim truth:

• The fungal infection is not the root cause, but a symptom

• Heat and alchemical acids slow its spread

• Cold does nothing

• Divine magic alone cannot repair what was unmade in her mind

Hours later, incense burns low. Crystal lenses are set in a circle around the woman’s head.

Orin feels it even from a distance.

The Oculus, wrapped and warded, thrums once, sharp and discordant, then falls silent.

The link is severed.

The priests sag with exhaustion. Dain Ironfist finally speaks the words no one wanted, but everyone expected:

“We stopped the bleeding,” he says quietly. “We did not heal the wound.”

The woman lives.

But her eyes do not track movement. Her words fracture into echoes. Names without faces. Places without time.

At one point her lips move, barely sound:

“…stone… below…”

Fizz doesn’t forget it.

Not for a second.

Orins work before the ale is gone: Retro

Orin has maps and notes spread across the table, not arranged for presentation so much as reference.

He waits for a moment when most of the Howlbears are in one place.

He points and adjusts the maps like he’s thinking aloud rather than addressing an audience.

“The dwarven woman wasn’t unique,” he says quietly. “I wish that she was, but this pattern doesn’t allow it.”

Result of 19 Arcana Check

He traces routes, junctions, towns that see travelers pass through rather than settle.

“When I overlaid everything we’ve seen, Lac Dinneshere kept surfacing - as a center or a junction.”

He lets that settle before continuing.

“The Oculus reacted when the priests severed her connection,” Orin continues. “My intuition says that whatever bound her may have noticed when the thread was cut.” He folds his hands. “At the very least, we should nudge these folks to be prepared for whatever may come next.”

Then, quieter:

"But it also means we may be able to use the Oculus to find others like her."

His gaze shifts to Fizz.

"Fizz, you were there,” Orin says. “You saw more of the ritual than any of us. Do you think what they did could be repeated? That we adapt what they've done to help any others we find, and to help limit the beholder's reach?"

DM Call for Skill Check:

Fizz: Make a religion check to determine your understanding of the ritual.

The conversation doesn’t finish in one sitting.

It becomes a thread that keeps returning every day you’re in town.

That night, in the quiet of his room, Orin opens the recovered spellbook. He does not attempt to learn the fire spells within.

Instead, he studies how they are contained.

How flame is told where to exist and where not to.

Circles. Channels. Boundaries.

He stops before exhaustion dulls his judgment.

Curiosity has killed smarter men than him.

DM Call for Skill Check:

Orin: Make an Arcana Check to learn more about the spells within the recovered spellbook.

Four days Pass

Bryn Shander does what it always does: it tries to feel normal.

You let it.

Because you need to.

Because you’re tired.

Because you can’t sprint forever.

The Dwarven Woman

Over four days, the clerics confirm what your instincts already told you:

• The psionic relay is gone. The “window” is closed.

• The mind is… not coming back.

Dain Ironfist is blunt about it, in the way dwarves are blunt when they don’t want to lie.

“Someone scooped her out and left the shell,” he says quietly. “We can keep the shell breathing. We cannot put the person back. Mind Flayers and psionics do not behave like magic. More powerful magic, the likes we don't possess, and no one here could afford, perhaps could help, but....” He stops speaking, his meaning understood.

The woman lives.

But she is not herself.

Sometimes she mutters fragments: “stone below,” “cold chains,” “the eye,” “the king beneath.”

Nothing trustworthy.

Nothing you can safely ignore.

Fizz lingers whenever he can, learning what the temple knows, watching techniques, gathering ideas for fire and acid, for disruption rather than cure.

Mutt's Performances

Scramsax lets Mutt play each evening: a few short sets, not a full concert, but enough to keep the room warm and loud.

Mutt’s Performance (27) carries the week.

Coins clink into his cup. Patrons buy rounds. Scramsax looks happier than a man with a soul should.

Over the four nights, between tips and Scramsax’s cut.

Mutt earns 22 gp total.

(And yes, he also earns about fifteen new people who think they know him personally because he sang near them once.)

Mutt asks around the taverns and shops about Hagag.

Half-orc women are rare enough that the answer is consistent:

No one in Bryn Shander has seen her.

But a few people mention the same thing, unprompted:

“Sometimes caravan folk pass through and don’t stay. If she came through, it would’ve been quiet. Or deliberate.”

Not a dead end.

Just not a trail you can follow here.

Azalie's Watch

Azalie takes her night shifts. She keeps her answers short. She listens more than she speaks.

Kessra jokes too much and watches the snowline like she expects it to bite her.

The guards are tense.

Caravans are coming in light.

Supply runs are getting hit.

More than one guard has heard the word “giants” muttered by travelers who won’t meet your eyes while they say it.

Azalie calls on Mellon.

“Friend, it’s cold and crisp tonight. Let your eyes be mine. Show me what you see.”

Mellon flies high and far, and returns with no clean answers.

But he does return unsettled.

Not panicked.

Just… uneasy.

Like something out there is moving in circles, staying out of sight, waiting for a better moment.

Dorf's Days

Dorf fishes.

Dorf checks the temple.

Dorf listens.

Dorf disappears into quieter places when the world feels too loud.

His instincts catch the same rumors Mutt hears:

• supply runs raided eastward

• caravans rerouting for reasons that aren’t weather

• “giants” seen where they shouldn’t be

And in the quiet parts of the day, the grief comes back in waves.

The kind you can’t punch.

A Quiet Table, and Sharp Conversation:

On the fourth day, the Northlook is quieter than usual, the kind of lull that feels temporary.

The Howlbears take a back table. Low light. Fewer ears.

Orin lays his maps down again.

Not dramatically.

Just like this is the only sensible thing to do.

He speaks softly, but the words land hard.

Lac Dinneshere keeps showing up.

Not as an answer. As a junction. A repeated point. A place where things cross and don’t always come out the other side the same.

Continued Result of Arcana 19 roll:

He speaks of the dwarven woman like a case study, not a tragedy, because treating it like a tragedy makes it harder to act.

Then he gives the piece that matters most:

“The Oculus is not shouting our name into the snow,” he explains. “But it does resonate when psionic energy is near. That makes it a warning. Not a beacon.”

He looks around the table, eyes lingering on each of you.

“The relay was the danger. That woman was the relay. Without something like her, it’s harder for him to pinpoint. Not impossible. Just harder.”

And then the part nobody wants to hear:

“He already knows we are in Bryn Shander. That was true the moment we spoke to her. What he does with that knowledge… is a question of timing.”

The silence that follows isn’t fear.

It’s calculation.

Mutt exhales slowly, fingers drumming once against the table before he stills them.

“Then tell me straight,” he says, voice low. “Is there any way to end this problem for good?” His gaze flicks briefly to Orin’s pack. “The Oculus. Can it be destroyed? Or at least locked down hard enough that it stops being a liability?”

Orin doesn’t answer right away. He studies the map, then the grain of the table, as if the answer might be hiding in either.

“Destroyed?” he repeats at last. “Not with anything we have access to. Not safely.” He lifts his eyes. “And trying, here, would be reckless. If it fails… we’d announce ourselves louder than any beacon ever could.”

He taps the table once, thoughtful.

“Contained, though?” Orin continues. “Warded. Isolated. Used as an early warning instead of a weakness.” A pause. “That’s possible. Not perfect. But better than pretending it isn’t there.”

His expression tightens, just slightly.

“The truth is this: the Oculus isn’t the knife at our throats. It’s the hand that might steady the knife—or knock it away—depending on how carefully we treat it.”

He looks around the table.

“And how long we give Xal’Zyress to decide his move.”

As Orin finishes speaking, the lute at Mutt’s side gives a soft, almost curious twang—a single string plucked by no visible hand.

For just a heartbeat, Whimsyweft hums under its breath, a whisper only those closest to the table catch:

“Hands that hesitate tend to bleed the least.”

The string stills.

The lute is quiet again, as if nothing happened.

After a moment, Orin continues, "Drow complicate everything. They can move easier under the perpetual twilight. They can watch and wait and vanish, And if Xal’Zyress is patient, he doesn’t need to strike now.

He can strike when he has opportunity"

Everyone understands the same truth at once:

You cannot stay here forever.

And you cannot assume you are unseen.

Leaving Bryn Shander

By the end of the fourth day, you’ve eaten real food. Slept in real beds. Warmed bones that were starting to feel like they belonged to the tundra.

Bryn Shander feels familiar again.

Comforting.

But not safe.

The dwarf woman remains in the temple, breathing, watched, tended.

Her mind is gone.

Her link is gone.

But whatever made her is still out there.

And it knows you exist.

Player Actions:

You are preparing to leave Bryn Shander.

Please respond with:

• Your confirmed next destination (Lac Dinneshere, Easthaven, treasure map location, raids route, or something else)

• Any specific precautions you take as you leave (travel formation, scouting, disguises, travel timing, etc.)

• Any last in-town actions you want to squeeze into the morning before departure

(If you want the party to have one last brief check-in with the dwarf woman before leaving, include that too.)

You can follow up to anything in this post via table chat, or in character chat if you want, the next DM post will be covering the party's journey out of Bryn shander in the direction you indicate.

I have activated Long Rest mode - you can prepare or change spells you wish, make sure to bring hunger and thirst into compliance since 4 days have now passed (remember you can eat and drink at the Taverns, but also make sure to finish any food that may be spoiling after the 4 days. I don't spoil the food during time skips, so you can utilize anything that is set to spoil. (It's assumed it was used during the 4 day period).

Free time awarded for the four days spent in town.

Do all your shopping and crafting while you can, as the next post will take you back into the wilderness and shops and forge will be turned off.

Tabs & Vault

There are also some player tabs to cover the room rents, axe beak stable fees, and your vault fees. Make sure you remove things from your Bryn Shander vault if you want to take them with you.

Treasure Claims:

22 GP - Mutt for performances

8 SP - Azalie for night watch payments for four nights

If you haven't claimed your Epic Reward tokens, make sure you get them. two if you haven't claimed them: Mutt & Azalie

Current Time: 8:00 PM

Date: Tenthday 10, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: City Rest

The Eastway

Retro Post - Before Leaving Bryn Shander

Dorf - The Weight of Survival.

The temple is quiet in a way that feels deliberate.

Incense hangs low in the air, not heavy, just enough to soften the edges of sound. A single cleric sits nearby, pretending to read, giving Dorf space without pretending he isn’t there.

The dwarven woman lies still.

She breathes.

That is all.

Her eyes are open, unfocused, fixed on something that isn’t the ceiling. Her hands twitch now and then, fingers curling as if remembering tools they no longer hold.

Dorf sits beside her bed and says nothing.

He doesn’t need to.

After a time, a cleric approaches. An older dwarf, iron-grey hair braided tight against his skull, his holy symbol tucked rather than displayed. He does not interrupt the silence. He waits until it feels unavoidable.

He studies Dorf for a long moment, then speaks quietly.

“I’ve seen this before,” he says. “Not often. But often enough.”

Dorf doesn’t look away from the woman.

“Fizzbum mentioned she was a miner,” the cleric continues, matter-of-fact. “Or worked the stone, at least. It fits.”

He gestures faintly toward the woman’s hands.

“Those who live below. Who listen to the earth. Who learn its moods.” A pause. “Whatever touched her… it knew how to find them.”

The cleric’s voice doesn’t carry judgment. Only observation.

“We don’t think this happened quickly,” he adds. “There are signs of… preparation. Testing. Like something learned how to use her before it finished breaking her.”

He exhales slowly.

“She wasn’t chosen for who she was.” His eyes flick briefly to Dorf, then back to the bed. “Only for what she could perceive.”

Silence settles again.

When Dorf finally rises, the woman’s fingers twitch once more.

Not reaching.

Not grasping.

Just curling, a reflex that refuses to die.

As Dorf passes, the cleric bows his head slightly.

“Whatever did this,” he says quietly, “doesn’t need monsters all at once.”

“It only needs one person who can hear.”

Dorf leaves the temple carrying a promise he does not speak aloud.

Fizz - Preparation, Frustration, and Purpose

Fizz throws himself into preparation with the kind of focus that borders on defiance.

The Tailor

Elsbeth’s shop smells of waxed thread, old leather, and wool that has survived more winters than most people.

Fizz spreads his ideas out in excited bursts. Snaps. Hidden pockets. Weight distribution. Reach without looking. Access without fumbling.

Elsbeth listens.

Then nods.

Then she starts sketching.

What emerges over the next day is a custom winter coat, heavy enough to ward off Icewind Dale’s bite, but tailored to move with Fizz rather than swallow him.

Item: The Fieldweave Alchemist’s Coat

A reinforced winter coat with concealed alchemical storage.

• Replaces Fizz’s current winter cloak

• Contains four concealed, reinforced hand-sized pockets

• Each pocket allows instant access to one stowed item (bomb, potion, scroll, vial, etc.)

• Retrieving an item from these pockets does not require a bonus action

• Items remain hidden from casual inspection

Cost: 10 GP

Completion: Finished before departure from Bryn Shander(Fizz may retroactively confirm payment)

Elsbeth smiles as she hands it over.“Try not to blow yourself up in it,” she mutters. “I’d hate to lose good work.”

The Alchemy Shop

Gold Rustweed does not budge.

Not in price.Not in availability.Not in sympathy.

Elara barely looks up when Fizz tries to argue the cost.

“Trade routes are broken,” she says flatly. “Giants smash caravans. Roads vanish. If you don’t want it, someone else will.”

Fizz’s persuasion earns him nothing but a longer stare.

The price stands.

Orin’s earlier gift of a single sprig suddenly feels far more valuable.

Axebeak Feed

This, at least, is easier.

A stablehand talks about Rendaril usually sells feed, but with the supply runs thinning out, he doesn't carry it right now. Still they have plenty of feed available at the stables. With a bit of coin and no small amount of side-eye, Fizz secures several bags of preserved axebeak feed, enough to keep Peck well-fed on the road.

“Hard times,” the stablehand says. “But birds still gotta eat.”

Fizz ends the day with a hot meal, his pack heavier, his mind sharper.

(let the DM know how much feed you want, and I'll drop it in treasure, for 1 gp per bag)

Orin - Fire Contained

That night, Orin studies the recovered spellbook by lantern light.

The fire magic within it is… unsettling.

Not wild.

Not reckless.

Contained.

With an Arcana check of 11, Orin discerns the following:

• The spells are designed around strict containment principles

• Fire is never allowed to spread freely

• Every working relies on circles, channels, and boundaries

• The magic assumes fire is inherently dangerous and must be commanded, not unleashed

What Orin does not find is reassurance.

These spells were written by someone who understood fire intimately… and feared what would happen if they ever lost control of it.

This reinforces a troubling idea:

Whoever created these workings believed power must always be constrained, because once it isn’t, it stops obeying intent.

Lac Dinneshere appears again in his notes.

Always near places where things go wrong slowly.

Azalie & Mutt – Quiet Words, Heavy Truths

The wind howls through the streets when Mutt finally finds Azalie.

She smells him before she sees him.

Her body warms instantly at the familiar scent, betraying her before her mind can catch up. She has missed a few meetings lately, and she knows why he is here. She never meant to miss them. She just did not think she had anything useful to offer.

She rises as he approaches, accepting the offered flask but not drinking. There was a time when she would have taken it without hesitation, drained it, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

She takes a puff off her smoking pipe and offers the frosty toby back to Mutt.

“If I drink that,” she says quietly, “we’ll both regret it.”

She knows it would weaken her resolve, loosen the control she works so hard to keep. That kind of boldness would cause problems. It is not time for that.

She listens as Mutt explains the plan.

Lac Dinneshere.

Easthaven first.

First light departure.

Then he asks the question.

“How are you doing, Az?”

Time stalls.

“I… I think I’m okay.” A pause. “I’ve been busy with work.” Another pause, thinner. “And I’m pretty sure Kessra wants to sleep with me.”

It doesn’t hold.

“I miss him, Mutt.”

The words come out raw.

“I miss the laughter. The safety.” She wipes her face, angry at herself. “What if someone else dies? What if… what if you die?”

She steadies.

“I’m ready to go wherever you point,” she says. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. I just need to know you’ll help me kill the beholder.”

She doesn’t look away.

She waits.

(Mutt may respond to this in his next post as a retro action.)

Before the Road

By the time night settles over Bryn Shander again, preparations are complete.

Promises have been made. Some aloud. Some not.

The road east waits.

The Eastway – Leaving Bryn Shander

You say your goodbyes and leave Bryn Shander at 8 AM on Firstday, 11 Ches.

The gates of Bryn Shander open without ceremony.

No horns.No blessings.Just iron creaking against ice as the city exhales you back into the cold.

It's about a 12 hour ride to Easthaven, with short breaks for rest, food and drink.

Axe beaks stamp and snort as the Howlbears take the Eastway, the packed road stretching thin and pale between drifts of wind-carved snow. The city vanishes behind you faster than it should, its walls swallowed by white and shadow.

The cold is sharper out here. Less forgiving.

Above you, the sky never quite commits to being day.

The sun crawls just high enough to remind you it still exists, then begins its slow retreat almost immediately. A few hours of dim, colorless light before twilight reclaims the land again. It is wrong. Not natural. Even for Icewind Dale.

And you feel it.

Every mile, someone glances back. Every shadow feels one step too close. very pause stretches longer than it should.

The road is quiet.

Too quiet.

No birds. No distant travelers. Just the crunch of snow, the creak of leather, the steady rhythm of axe beak talons.

You expect something to happen.

It doesn’t.

That somehow makes it worse.

Breaking the Tension - the Caravan

3 hours pass into the journey toward Easthaven.

As the road stretches on in silence, Whimsyweft shifts in Mutt’s pack.

Not a note.

Just a soft, discordant tuning chime, like a string adjusting itself without being touched.

The sound fades quickly, swallowed by the wind—

but the lute does not settle.

The sound comes first.

Voices. Hoarse from cold. Familiar in their mundanity.

A caravan crests the road ahead, heading the opposite direction. One wagon, pulled by shaggy donkeys. Maybe ten people bundled in mismatched furs, armed more out of habit than readiness. They slow when they see you, relief flickering across tired faces.

No ambush.

No trap.

Just people.

They exchange quick greetings. Practical ones. The kind travelers use when they don’t want to linger.

They’re coming from Easthaven.

Supplies. Grain. Lamp oil. Salt fish.

When asked about the road ahead, the mood shifts.

Not panic.

Caution.

One of them spits into the snow and gestures eastward with his chin.

“From here on, the road’s watched.”

They don’t say by whom at first.

Then they do.

A giant.

Not roaming. Not raiding.

Waiting.

They describe it sitting just off the road near the stretch where the Eastway skirts a wooded rise. Too far back to see at a distance. Close enough to hear wagons coming. It doesn’t charge. It doesn’t chase.

It demands.

Toll paid, travelers pass unmolested.

Those who don’t… don’t always make it.

No one lingers on details. Everyone knows better than to speculate out loud.

Before parting, the trader adds quietly:

“If you’re smart, you’ll see the woods before it sees you.”

The caravan moves on toward Bryn Shander, their wagon shrinking into the haze behind you.

The road is quiet again.

(You may post retro actions/questions to the caravan in your next post)

The Woodline

An hour later, the terrain changes.

The Eastway bends slightly, running close to a stand of dark, frost-laden trees. Their branches are heavy with snow, their trunks packed close enough to swallow sound. The wind behaves differently here. It gusts, then dies, as if unsure where it’s allowed to go.

Just off the road, half-buried in drifted snow, you spot signs of trouble:

• Broken crate boards, split cleanly

• A torn length of rope frozen stiff

• Dark stains beneath the snow, old and scattered

• Stones piled deliberately near the roadside, not naturally fallen

No bodies.

No movement.

Just absence.

The woods loom to your right, thick enough to hide anything.

The road continues straight ahead.

You are close now.

Close enough that whatever watches this stretch of the Eastway might already know you’re here.

You are still about 8 hours ride to Easthaven.

Next Posts:

You may respond with:

• How you approach the wooded stretch (continue openly, slow, stealth, diversion, scouting, etc.)

• Any immediate precautions or formations

• Whether you send a scout (Mellon or otherwise)

• Any retro dialogue or questions you want to ask the caravan

The next DM post will resolve what happens at the woods, based entirely on your choices here.

The road does not force you.

But it is waiting.

Current Time: 12:24 PM

Date: Firstday 11, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Eastway - The woodline watches

Retro: Mutt & Azalie

The wind howls through the streets of Bryn Shander when Mutt finally finds Azalie.

She smells him before she sees him. Mutt offers Azalie a pull of his flask

“If I drink that,” she says quietly, “we’ll both regret it.”

She knows it would weaken her resolve, loosen the control she works so hard to keep. That kind of boldness would cause problems. It is not time for that.

Mutts takes back the offered flask wordlessly and takes a long pull. He refuses Azalie’s offer of Toby and takes another pull. They each had their own coping mechanisms.

He listens to her. He’s present. And when she says she misses Uptharr, he nods solemnly in agreement.

“I miss him, Mutt.” The words come out raw. “I miss the laughter. The safety.” She wipes her face, angry at herself. “What if someone else dies? What if… what if you die?”

“I miss him too. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that Paladin, but I’m working to on my short term memory.” Mutt jokes and jiggles his flask before taking a final pull and putting it away.

He places a comforting hand on Azalie’s shoulder. “And don’t worry about me. I’m too handsome to die. I’m not going anywhere.” Mutt grins and continues to deflect the feelings swirling inside him. “The Howlbears are the first thing I’ve cared about in…a very long time. I’ve been careful not to get attached or care about anything because I’ve always been afraid of exactly this. Caring about someone like Uptharr and losing them. I figured no one can hurt me if I never let them get close. It’s how I’ve managed to survive all these years.”

Azalie absorbs Mutt’s words and holds her breath the moment the bard’s hand settles on her shoulder. She keeps her muscles still, not even allowing her lips to quiver.

This touch is different from the times Uptharr had steadied her. His wide, bold hands had gripped her shoulders more times than she could count, always knowing exactly how much pressure to apply to keep her on her feet, never breaking her stride.

This is different.

There is tenderness here, subtle but unmistakable.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “He will be very hard to forget.”

Time moves differently for her. They will all be long gone before age ever truly touches her. Mutt, though—he may linger for a few hundred years. She secretly hopes that is their future.

She giggles when he refers to his appearance. “It’s very apparent how attractive people think you are. I’ve seen garments thrown in your direction.”

It doesn’t sit well with her. Not out of jealousy, but because they never really know him. They see a pretty face, a smooth voice, and a generous smile. She lets the rest of that thought fall away.

Mutt sits in silence for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“But I’m happier now that I’ve met you all. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. It’s worth the risk of getting hurt.”

Mutt fixes Azalie with a look of conviction. “We will kill the fuckers that took Uptharr, but we can’t charge headlong at them. We’re not ready. We need a plan, we need supplies, and we need allies. Uptharr would want us to extinguish their evil from the world, but he wouldn’t want us to throw away our lives in the attempt. I promise you we will go after them but I want to make sure we all come home when we do.”

That’s all she needs to hear.

“Damn right we will.” Her posture straightens.

------------------------- End Retro Scene ----------------------------------------------------

The eastway Road, current scene

The wind carries sound strangely here.

It steals some things. Carries others too far.

Mutt looks over the site of the wreckage from afar and scans the tree line. He squints looking for signs of movement or recent tracks (Passive Perception 17)

Mutt pulls his axebeak up near Azalie and nods at the scene before them.

“Well, if someone was going to set up an ambush, this certainly seems like the perfect place to do it. What do you think? Should we ride though the tree line? Stay out of sight?”

Azalie doesn't immediately answer, she looks, and listens. Her sensitive elven nose can smell something too, but the cold winds of the tundra cause the scent to be frustratingly evasive.

Fizz pulls Peck up next to Mutt and Azalie as they discuss the shadowy woods in front of them. Running his fingers through his frosty beard, Fizz speaks up.

"I don't like the idea of a big ol' mean giant trolling this road. I'm not sure if the Howlbears can handle him, but I'd be willing to give it a try."

Glancing at the wreckage for a minute with more focus than the party is accustomed to, "Nature has a way of finding balance... but this isn't it. This is just another reason why this frozen world isn't right." Looking intently up at Mutt, "We're just a few, but I think we're meant to change this Mr. Mutt. I think we NEED to change this."

Silence reigns for a moment, and then Peck squawks and drops a sizable bird poop steaming into the snow. "Well! At least it'll be fun right!" Fizz says with an instant change in energy. Fizz hops down, and begins to walk Peck away from the party to give him a moment for his absolutions.

Returning to the party, Fizz is pacing with excitement. "I could check it out Mr Mutt. Maybe me and Mellon? I'll go low, he can go high? That big ol giant will never even see me!!" Fizz smiles and slicks back his red hair, as a mischievous look comes into his eyes. With a slightly disturbing shift in reality, Fizz shrinks and stretches into the form of a red crested Snow Marten, built for speed and stealth through the snowy landscape.

Dancing around in excitement for a moment, the Marten vanishes into the snowbank.

“That’s a great idea, Fizz,” Says Azalie, directing Mellon upward. “Fly high and back him up.”

She leans close to her bird. “If you see anything heading toward Fizz, you screech with all your might and scratch their eyes out.”

Mutt looks down in surprise at Fizz’s unexpected boldness. Mutt’s time with the Howlbears had certainly changed him, so the fact that it had changed Fizz too shouldn’t surprise him, but Fizz’s suggestion catches him off guard just the same. Before he has a chance to respond, the little druid wild shapes and dashes towards the tree line. Mutt shoots a look of concern at Azalie as Fizz disappears into the snow.

“Well, shit.” Mutt unshoulders his crossbow and looks for any sign of movement.

Orin pulls up next to Azalie and Mutt with his sled.

He does not answer immediately. He watches the snow marten vanish into the drift, eyes tracking the subtle displacement of powder until even that sign is gone. Mellon’s ascent draws only a brief glance skyward.

The woods ahead are quiet.

Not empty.

Quiet.

Dorf watches everyone else’s actions, listens to them talk. In the back of his mind it all makes sense sense. But what if something happens to fizz and he’s too far away to save him? He mentions,

”I don’t mind being the bait. I’ll march right up the road while you all ambush whatever might pop up. What do you guys think?”

“I’d say we wait until Fizz returns, or we get something from Mellon. We keep an eye on the treeline and be prepared to deal with an overlarge toll collector....”, replies Orin. A brief pause. “If we proceed, it should be with intention. Either concealed along the tree line, or openly with purpose.” There’s a faint crease between his brows. "If this is the giant's doing, then I'd say we have a decision to make."

He settles back in the saddle, eyes still on the woods.

“Let’s make it with information.”

Behind him, Azalie slides from her mount and disappears into the snow with practiced ease, arrows already notched. Mellon climbs into the sky, wings cutting shallow arcs through the dim light, rising high enough that even the road seems hesitant to acknowledge him.

The party holds.

Waiting.

Fizz – Into the Drift

@Party - This information is not yet known to the rest of the party.

Players may not act on it until Fizz returns or communicates it in character.

Fizz moves like he belongs here.

His small body parts the snow without sound, paws finding packed crust and frozen brush instinctively. Branches loom ahead, their bases swallowed by drifted white. The forest floor is darker, harder, marked by traffic that doesn’t bother hiding itself.

The first thing he notices isn’t tracks.

It’s damage.

Crates shattered not by animals, but by blunt force. Wood split cleanly, not chewed. Rope torn and discarded, not gnawed through. Drag marks leading away from the road, into the trees.

Then the footprints.

They’re enormous.

Each one sinks deep enough that snow has not yet reclaimed them. Toes splayed. Weight uneven. This thing stands just off the road, not roaming. Waiting.

But that’s not what makes Fizz’s fur prickle.

There are other tracks.

Boots. Many of them. Crude, mismatched, circling in patterns that suggest routine. Ambush routes. Fallback paths. Places where people have knelt, waited, watched.

This isn’t a lone giant bullying travelers.

This is an operation.

Fizz edges closer, heart pounding—not with fear, but with the electric thrill of certainty.

And then he hears voices.

Low. Crude. Laughing.

Humanoid voices.

“Pretty one rides with them,” someone says. “Elf. Bet she fetches more than coin.”

Laughter follows.

Mellon – From Above

High above, Mellon circles wide.

From this height, the road feels naked. Exposed. A pale scar cut through snow and shadow. The woods feel different. Dense. Watchful. Heavy with places to hide.

Mellon’s flight pattern shifts.

He banks hard once. Twice.

Something down there has his attention.

He does not cry out. He does not dive recklessly.

Instead, his wings stiffen. His circles tighten. He angles away from one stretch of the road entirely, refusing to pass over it again.

When he finally breaks off and returns, it is fast and low.

Back at the Road

The party waits.

The silence stretches long enough to feel deliberate.

Whimsyweft shifts in Mutt’s pack.

Not a melody.

Just a single, muted harmonic. A chord that never resolves, like a warning swallowed mid-thought.

Then Mellon returns.

He does not screech.

But he lands hard, talons gripping Azalie’s shoulder, wings tight, body tense.

And Fizz—still unseen—knows now exactly what this is.

The giant is muscle, but there are others hiding out of sight that are the mind. Bandits perhaps.

They’ve found a way to make the road bleed without drawing attention. Let the giant take the blame. Let the travelers pay. Let the ones who don’t… disappear.

What You Know

Whatever is happening here feels organized, not just some random giant.

This is not a place where travelers vanish by accident.

Mellon’s behavior suggests more than one threat, and not all of it is on the road itself.

Fizz has not yet returned.

No one has announced themselves.

No one has attacked.

That does not feel like mercy.

It feels like restraint.

You are not exposed.

Yet.

Decision Point

You are still about 8 hours from Easthaven.

The road ahead is narrow. The woods are thick. The tundra to the left is open, but slow-going.

You may respond with:

• How you proceed:

  • Openly on the road

  • Stealth through the woods

  • Diversion or bait

  • Withdrawal and bypass

• Any immediate formations or signals

• Whether Fizz remains forward or withdraws

• Whether you attempt parley, ambush, or avoidance

• Any retro whispers or planning dialogue

Current Time: 12:30 PM

Date: Firstday 11, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

Ambush preparation on the eastway

Fizz sees, smells and hears the ambushers around him. Such a nasty trap he thinks.. If only they could all be Martens they could sneak right up and bite their ankles, but unfortunately this group has the upper paw. How to get by them?

Fizz darts from snow bank to snow bank, log to tree, and down the shadowed snowy paths. Emerging from the edge of the forest a ways down from the ambush path, Fizz scoots quickly into the upper branch of an old bare branched pine. Standing up as high as he can on his short legs, he lets out a single Marten bark that echoes off the snow and across the frozen meadow to the party. Looking over his furry tail at the woods behind him, he waits for the party's decision to join him and let him show them the vulnerable backsides of these nasty bandits.

As Mellon returns, Azalie casts Speak with Animals:

Azalie recalls Mellon to her hidden spot.

“What did you see? Where are they? How many did you see? Did you see a giant? Where’s Fizz?”

Mellon tilts his head sharply when the magic settles, eyes bright and focused. His wings twitch once, then he answers in clipped, instinctive bursts.

“Big one… there.” He jerks his beak toward the woods beside the road, feathers ruffling.“Tall. Heavy. Smells old. Does not move.”

He hops once, talons scraping ice.

“Others too. Many feet. Hide. Trees. Snow.”

His wings spread briefly, then tuck tight again.

“They watch road. Eyes down. Big things.”

At Azalie’s last question, Mellon turns his head, sharp and intent, and points with his beak down the road, away from the choke point.

“Small red one… safe Moves like snow. Clever.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“Danger waits. Not chase. Wait.”

He leans into Azalie’s shoulder, feathers tense, ready to launch again if needed.

Fizz is now positioned down-road from the ambush site, partially concealed in the branches of a bare pine. From here, the forest opens slightly behind the bandits’ position, offering approach paths that avoid the road entirely.

No alarm has been raised. No pursuit follows him.

Whatever is waiting near the road has not yet realized it is being watched from behind.

Azalie relays what she can in low, careful whispers, gestures more than words. The woods to the right. The road watched. Fizz safe, clever, somewhere ahead where the forest thins.

The party holds position.

Snow drifts. Wind shifts. Nothing attacks.

That, somehow, is worse.

Mutt listens intently as Azalie relays Mellon's report. He sighs dramatically and looks to the sky for a moment.

"I hate being right all the time."

He looks back to Dorf and Azalie, both aching for a fight. It's not in Mutt's nature to look for a fight, but he knows they need a release. They need someplace to direct their anger. Mutt worries that if they aren't able to direct that anger at their enemies, it might get focused inward towards the group. He feared losing this group more than he feared whatever was out there waiting for them, the giant included.

Mutt raises the hood on his cloak and dismounts from Valorcrest. "Well, they want an ambush. Let's give them one. Azalie, you try to stay out of sight. I'll create a distraction and try to lure them out of hiding. Let's see how many and who we're dealing with here."

Mutt signals to Azalie and whispers,

"Azalie, stay unseen. I’ll draw them out. Just enough to see who bites.”

Quietly, he traces a practiced sequence along his grimoire. The air tightens, settles, a barely-seen lattice snapping into place as Mage Armor takes hold. Another ward follows, subtle and ready.

His gaze moves once between Mutt’s path, the treeline, and the road ahead.

“Mellon has given us something rare,” he continues. “Information without escalation.”

He adjusts the strap of his pack, careful around the Oculus.

“If this turns ugly, I can move someone where they shouldn’t be seen.” A pause. “If it doesn’t—we learn exactly what we’re dealing with.”

He nods once toward Mutt.

“Proceed.”

The Illusion Moves

Using Minor Illusion, Mutt creates the sound of Azalie tripping over a broken crate and loudly cursing in Elvish. He has the sound originate from behind the broken wagon, out of line of sight for the where the ambushers are hiding. A moment later, he casts Minor Illusion again, this time as an image of Azalie peeking around the corner of the broken wagon, looking towards where the ambushers are hiding. He projects the image of her peeking around the corner a little too far, in the hopes it makes her more noticeable while still giving the impression she's trying to remain hidden.

Then it happens.

A sound breaks the quiet.

Not loud. Not frantic.

The unmistakable scrape of boots on splintered wood. A sharp elven curse, half-muttered, half-stifled, carried just far enough to be heard.

From behind the wreckage.

The illusion holds.

Long enough.

Then the woods answer properly.

Two figures step out from between the trees, boots crunching softly into the packed snow at the road’s edge. They do not rush. They do not crouch.

They want to be seen.

One is human, wrapped in patched furs, a short spear resting loosely in one hand. The other is broader—half-orc, scarred, confident, with a heavy mace slung over one shoulder rather than held.

Neither draws a weapon.

Behind them, the forest does not empty.

It settles.

Meanwhile, from Fizz's hidden position: (This part is only seen by Fizz in his Marten form)

Fizz sees it clearly from his perch: shapes adjusting, lines tightening. Crossbows rise into ready positions, not aimed wildly, but trained on the road, on the wagon, on where the elf illusion peeks and hides.

They are disciplined.

Not soldiers.

But practiced.

Meanwhile, back to the two that stepped out to speak to Mutt, Orin and Dorf.

The half-orc calls out, voice carrying easily.

“Road’s closed today.”

His eyes flick to the illusion, then to Mutt, Orin, and Dorf in turn. He smiles.

“Bad weather. Dangerous stretch.”

A pause.

“Lucky for you, we’re here to help.”

From deeper in the trees, something heavy shifts. Snow slides from a high branch with a low, ominous whumph.

Azalie sees this from her hiding position:

From her hidden position, still out of sight, Azalie spots one more figure now that she knows where to look—low, goblin-small,

perched in a tree with a crossbow braced, eyes never leaving the road.

Mellon’s feathers lie flat. Focused.

Fizz counts at least three hidden shapes in the trees, plus the giant. (Possibly more, but these are the bandits he has eyes on)

The two on the road stop just short of the wreckage.

“Simple toll,” the human says. “Coin. Supplies. Maybe a mount.”

His gaze lingers on the illusion again.

“And the elf.”

The half-orc chuckles.

“Don’t make this loud,” he adds. “Gives the big one headaches.”

The Signal

The half-orc’s eyes flick briefly toward the woods.

Not a shout. Not a gesture meant to be obvious.

Just two fingers, tapped once against his thigh.

The forest responds.

Snow slides from a high branch as something large shifts its weight.

Then the trees part.

Sixty feet back from the road, just far enough that no one could reach it quickly, a giant steps forward into partial view.

It does not roar.

It does not raise its weapon. It steps out into view, an obvious attempt to intimidate you.

Its bulk fills the space between the trees, shoulders brushing branches aside as if they were suggestions. it holds a massive club made from the trunk of a broken tree.

The giant looks at the road.

Then at the wagon.

Then it waits.

The half-orc doesn’t turn around.

“See?” he says calmly. “We like to keep things simple.”

DM Exposition:

Fizzbum is still hidden, from his location he is aware of:

• A goblin, perched in a tree with a crossbow aimed toward Mutt, Orin and Dorf.

• Another Human bandit, also in a tree, crossbow aimed at the Illusion of Azalie

• Another Half-Orc bandit, on the ground level, holding a crossbow, trained on Mutt, Orin and Dorf's positions.

• Fizz is in the woods and sees the giant from behind as it stands and steps out revealing itself.

Azalie is still hidden with Mellon, she sees the following:

• A goblin, perched in a tree with a crossbow aimed toward Mutt, Orin and Dorf.

• The giant, stepping out to reveal itself, she sees it from it's flank.

Orin, Mutt and Dorf:

• You are not aware of the crossbow bandits positions at all, you are only aware of the two that have stepped out to speak to you, and the Giant. However you have an idea there are more bandits based on the information Azalie and Mellon gave you.

Below is a map of the ambush scene, I have circled the hostile enemies that Fizz and Azalie have spotted, to help you identify where everyone is positioned. The illusion of Azalie is near the crates, I didn't put that on the map, just know its by the crates.

Current Time: 12:38 PM

Date: Firstday 11, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

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