North to Caer-Dineval

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Leaving easthaven

Retro: Easthaven

The Damaged Wagon

Player Responses

Leaving Easthaven

Retro – Azalie & Jorren

The Fisher’s Lantern is quieter than most places in Easthaven.

Low ceilings. Warm light. The smell of stew thick in the air. A handful of fishermen sit hunched over their meals, speaking in low voices.

Jorren is already there when Azalie arrives.

He notices her immediately.

Of course he does.

His expression brightens in that same easy, genuine way as before, though there’s something else beneath it now. Expectation.

Hope.

He stands as she approaches.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he admits, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Azalie studies him for a moment. The warmth. The steadiness. The kind of man who would make things simple.

That’s the problem.

She steps closer.

“Jorren, I really enjoyed our time. You are quite a catch and any girl would be excited to land your gaze.”

His smile lingers, but it shifts slightly. He hears it in her tone before she finishes.

Still, he lets her continue.

Her eyes drift over him briefly.

“I’m looking for a family, a forever. I will have many encounters and will be for a very long time. I don’t find it wise to disrupt them with blips of memories.”

Jorren exhales slowly.

He doesn’t fully understand.

But he understands enough.

“Right…” he says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “One of those things where I’m not quite in the same story as you.”

There’s no bitterness in it.

Just acceptance.

A small, crooked smile returns anyway.

“Figures I finally meet someone interesting and she’s thinking in… decades.”

Azalie leans forward, placing a light kiss on his cheek.

For a moment, he closes his eyes.

Then she pulls away.

“Oh.”

She glances back with a faint smile.

“I know a rather fetching elf you might find… willing. Her name is DanniKa, from Bryn Shander.”

Jorren blinks.

Then lets out a short laugh.

“Recommending someone else already?” he says, shaking his head. “That’s cold.”

But he’s smiling.

He steps back, giving her space, though his gaze lingers just a second longer than it should.

“Safe travels, Azalie,” he says more softly. “Wherever those long roads of yours lead.”

She turns, leaving him in the warmth of the Lantern as the cold Easthaven night swallows her again.

Present - The White Lady – What Is Said and What Is Chosen

The common room fades behind them as Mutt rises without another word.

“Not here. Come on.”

There is something in his voice that cuts clean through the tension at the table. No one argues. Chairs scrape softly against the floor as the Howlbears follow him upstairs, the weight of Azalie’s question still hanging in the air.

The hallway is quiet.

Mutt pauses outside the room, glancing once in either direction before ushering them inside. The door shuts with a dull thud behind them, and for a brief moment, the world holds its breath.

Then his hands begin to move.

Measured. Precise.

Arcane gestures weave through the air as the faint shimmer of the Tiny Hut settles into place, sealing the space just enough to keep prying ears at bay.

“There. The hut won't block sound from getting out, but that should prevent anyone from getting close enough to listen at the door.”

For a brief moment, the room feels colder.

Not sharply.

Just… enough.

Near the far wall, something shifts.

A pale figure, barely more than a suggestion, drifts half through the wood as though the wall were mist. The shape of a woman. Head bowed. Movements slow, distant, as though she exists somewhere between here and elsewhere.

She lingers only a heartbeat.

A soft, hollow sound escapes her, something between a sigh and a memory of grief—

And then she is gone.

The wall remains.

Still. Solid. Empty.

The magic hums faintly.

Contained.

Private.

Mutt turns away from them, already digging through his bag. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is the quiet shifting of items being moved aside.

Then he finds it.

A small jar.

He sets it gently on the floor between them.

The room stills.

He reaches beneath his shirt and pulls free the holy symbol hanging there, letting it catch the dim light as he lifts it just enough for all of them to see.

When his eyes rise again, they land on Azalie.

And they do not soften.

"Firstly, no, Azalie. I didn't fucking forget about Uptharr. I literally carry the memory of that man with me wherever I go. You don't need to ask."

The words hit hard.

Not shouted.

Not uncontrolled.

But sharp enough to leave a mark.

He tucks the symbol back beneath his shirt and takes a slow breath, steadying himself before continuing.

"But you raise a good point. None of us really know all that much about each other. Except for maybe Fizz, who evidently had a great childhood and experience growing up and won't stop talking about how awesome his parents are or how great his swamp is,"

A faint, crooked smile flickers through the tension. Brief. Fragile.

It fades quickly.

"We were originally thrown together by fate and necessity to survive. We've done that. We've survived and then some. We've done some actual good out here. I'm not going to lie, it feels good to do some good and help people, but that's not why I'm up here."

His gaze moves from one face to the next.

"I've been on the run for over 15 years. In that time, I did whatever I had to in order to survive."

The pause that follows carries weight.

"Whatever I had to."

No one interrupts him.

Not even Fizz.

Mutt exhales slowly, as though deciding how much of himself to expose, and then continues anyway.

"None of you should call me a leader until you know who I am and what I've done. When you've heard my story, you can decide if you still want to be a part of..."

His hand lifts slightly, gesturing toward them, but the word never comes.

"You all already know my name, which is the thing I've worked the hardest to conceal. There are reasons for that, some of which I understand and many which I don't."

The story unfolds.

Not rushed.

Not softened.

"My mother stole away with me at a very young age. I don't know why. We moved from town to town, never staying long. The only other constant in my life was Hagag. When my mother disappeared, Hagag found me and we kept running. Eventually, Hagag said she needed to go and do something and that I needed to take care of myself. When the time was right, she would find me again. That was over 10 years ago."

The room feels smaller now.

Like the walls have leaned in to listen.

"I won't go into specifics. I'll just touch on the highlights," he lets out a dark, humorless chuckle. "I've stolen from good people who were kind to me. I've worked as a thief, a con man, and a whore. I was a kept man and rented out for 'favors' by a thieves' guild boss. I lied to and stole from someone who loved me, who thought we were going to run away together. That ended in her death."

The words settle like ash.

No one looks away.

Mutt gestures vaguely toward the world beyond the walls.

"Based on what we've heard, there are Duergar out there probably poisoning the river and contaminating the lake. Let the local authorities take care of it. We're obviously not wanted here, and these people don't even want our help. and all signs point towards something bigger up in Caer-Dineval. Do we really think the ultimate plan of the fuckers that killed Uptharr was to contaminate some fish? Those shipments of chardalyn are all being sent towards Caer-Dineval. Whatever they're doing up there that requires that much chardalyn is what we should be worried about."

When he looks up again, there is no hesitation left in him.

"All of that fucked up shit I did to make sure I survived long enough to find Hagag, my mother, and hopefully some kind of answers as to why the fuck this happened to me in the first place. I have to go to Caer-Dineval after her. All of the rumors and signs we've seen point in that direction and I have to go after her before she slips away."

His eyes meet each of theirs in turn.

"Now that you know what kind of person I am, you can decide if you want to continue to travel with me."

a pause.

“But I’m going after her.”

Silence follows, heavy and real.

Azalie is the first to move.

She steps forward without hesitation, closing the space between them before he has time to retreat into whatever walls he’s spent years building.

Her hand comes up, firm against his face, pulling him down just enough to meet her eyes.

“Mutt Bromwell, why didn’t you say this sooner?”

There is frustration in her voice, but not anger.

“I didn’t ask because of what you did back then. I asked because I thought you had forgotten someone we both cared about, and that’s not the man I know.”

She releases him slowly, steadying herself as she exhales.

“I’m sorry for doubting you.”

The apology lands clean.

No excuses.

No deflection.

“That won’t happen again.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“We need each other.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Dorf shifts his weight, arms folding across his chest as he looks between them.

“Well,” he mutters, “I’ve done plenty I wouldn’t put in a song either.”

He jerks his chin toward Mutt.

“Doesn’t change what I’ve seen out there. You show up when it matters.”

A shrug.

“I’m in.”

Fizz rocks slightly on his heels, adjusting his goggles as he squints at Mutt.

“Also,” he adds, almost thoughtfully, “if we disqualified people based on poor life choices, statistically speaking none of us would be here.”

“Except maybe me, but I’m clearly an outlier.”

Orin, who has remained quiet through all of it, finally speaks.

“Past behavior provides context,” he says calmly. “It does not negate present intent.”

His eyes settle on Mutt.

“You are still choosing your direction.”

A small pause.

“That is what matters.”

The room settles.

Not with certainty.

But with decision.

No one leaves.

No one argues.

The path forward does not need to be voted on.

It is already chosen.

North.

Departure – Northbound

The room does not stay heavy forever.

Eventually, the weight of what was said settles into something quieter. Not gone. Not forgotten. Just… accepted.

No one speaks of leaving again.

They don’t need to.

One by one, small motions begin to replace words. Orin gathers his things with quiet efficiency, already thinking three steps ahead. Fizz carefully secures his vials, pausing once to inspect the faint twitch of fungal fibers before tucking them away. Dorf checks and rechecks his gear with the steady rhythm of someone preparing for a long road.

Azalie lingers near the window for a time, watching the dim glow of Easthaven through frost-lined glass.

Mutt says nothing more.

He doesn’t need to.

The decision has already been made.

Morning in Easthaven

Dawn comes pale and cold.

The kind of cold that settles deep into bone and lingers.

The town stirs slowly, smoke rising in thin, reluctant trails from chimneys as doors creak open and boots crunch across packed snow. Easthaven looks the same as it did the day before.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Dorf makes one last stop at the forge.

Korda is already at work, hammer ringing out in steady, familiar rhythm. The heat of the forge cuts through the morning chill, and for a moment it almost feels like stepping into a different world.

The jawbone weapon rests on the workbench.

Finished.

The curve has been shaped and balanced, the edges smoothed and hardened. It is no longer just a piece of a giant’s remains. It is something deliberate now. Something that belongs in Dorf’s hands.

Korda doesn’t look up immediately.

He finishes his strike, sets the hammer aside, and finally turns his attention toward Dorf.

“Well,” he grunts, nodding toward the weapon, “there it is.”

Dorf picks it up, feeling the weight of it, the balance. It’s solid. Real. Earned.

Korda wipes his hands on a cloth, eyeing him carefully.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, though,” he adds. “You’ve got the bones of it right. That’s the easy part.”

He taps the side of his head with a thick finger.

“The rest? That takes time.”

A pause.

“Understanding how to work it. How to shape more than just the material.”

He jerks his chin toward the forge behind him.

“You keep at it, you’ll figure it out. And if you don’t—” a faint smirk tugs at his beard, “—you come back and I’ll set you straight.”

It’s the closest thing to mentorship the dwarf is likely to offer.

Korda turns back to his work without another word, already lost in the rhythm of steel and fire.

Dorf leaves the forge with the weapon in hand.

Not finished.

But ready.

Supplies are gathered quickly after that. Cold-weather gear tightened. Rations packed. Harnesses checked.

No one lingers.

There is nothing left in Easthaven that will give them answers fast enough.

The Gate

The gates groan as they open.

Axe beaks stamp and snort, feathers ruffling against the cold wind. The sled dogs pull against their harnesses with restless energy, eager to move.

Jorren stands at his post, bundled in his heavy coat, breath curling in the air before him.

He sees them before they reach the gate.

His gaze finds Azalie first.

Of course it does.

“So,” he says, a faint smile touching his lips, “guess you’re not the staying type.”

There’s no accusation in it.

Just quiet understanding.

“North,” Mutt answers simply.

Jorren nods once, glancing past them toward the open road.

“Road’s been strange lately,” he says. “Can’t put my finger on it. Just… feels off.”

His attention shifts back to them.

“Try not to make it worse.”

A beat passes before he steps aside, giving them room to pass through.

Then, softer—

“Wouldn’t mind seeing you come back this way.”

His eyes meet Azalie’s.

There’s more he could say.

He doesn’t.

“Take care of yourself,” he adds quietly.

Azalie holds his gaze for a moment, then gives a faint, almost apologetic smile before turning away.

The moment passes as quickly as it came.

The wind fills the space where it stood.

And then they’re moving.

The Road Along Lac Dinneshere

Easthaven fades quickly behind them.

The road narrows into a long, pale ribbon cutting through snow and stone, the frozen expanse of Lac Dinneshere stretching endlessly to their right. The ice groans faintly beneath the wind, shifting in slow, unseen ways.

For a time, the journey is almost peaceful.

The steady rhythm of movement.

The crunch of snow beneath runners.

The quiet breath of beasts and men alike.

Hours pass.

The lake remains constant at their side, a vast, dull mirror broken only by scattered ridges of ice and drifting sheets of snow.

Then something interrupts the pattern.

Far out across the lake, just visible through the shifting veil of windblown frost, sits a vessel.

No fishing lines. No movement along its edges. No smoke rising from within.

No figures move on its deck. No sound carries across the ice.

And yet… it is not frozen in place like the rest of the lake.

It sits there, as if it chose that spot.

Something wrong.

The lake continues on as though nothing had been there at all.

Retro Option: If you want to take more action and investigate the boat on the water, we can add some retro actions here, the amount of time that will be added to the game clock will depend on how extensive you interact with this.

The Broken Caravan

By the time the light begins to fade, the road tells a different story.

It begins with tracks.

Old, but not old enough.

Wagon wheels carved deep into the frozen path.

Boot prints layered over one another.

Signs of movement that lacked order.

Then, farther ahead—

The remains.

A wagon sits half-collapsed beside the road, one side shattered inward as if struck with tremendous force. The wood is splintered, blackened in places where fire once caught and died.

Crates lie scattered across the snow.

Some broken open.

Some missing entirely.

A few pieces of cloth and torn canvas flutter weakly in the wind, half buried beneath fresh snowfall.

A single boot lies half-buried in the snow, its owner nowhere to be seen.

The storm has tried to claim the scene.

It has not finished the job.

The attack is recent.

Recent enough that whatever happened here still lingers in the air, even if the attackers and victims are long gone.

The road stretches on past the wreckage, disappearing into the pale distance toward Caer-Dineval.

Action: Do you press on toward Caer-Dineval, you are only hours from the town walls, or do you investigate the wagon further?

Current Time: 12:04 PM

Date: Fifthday 15, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

Retro – A Quiet Moment Among the Howlbears

The room had already gone still after Mutt’s words.

Not empty.

Not uncertain.

Just… settled.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Fizz shifted forward slightly, adjusting his goggles as he looked up at Mutt, his usual energy tempered into something quieter.

“I know that couldn’t have been easy, Mr. Mutt…” he said, voice softer than usual. “And I know I haven’t seen the kinds of things you or Ms. Azzy have…”

He paused, tapping his staff lightly as he searched for the words.

“But I recognize pain when I see it.”

His eyes lifted, steady.

“Some of the strongest trees in my swamp are the ones that have survived lightning strikes… floods… even rot.”

A small nod.

“Stuff like that just makes the roots grow deeper.”

Fizz gave a firm, almost determined look.

“I see you reaching for the light.”

He tapped his chest once.

“And I’m gonna help you get there.”

A brief pause.

“Nature finds a way… and so will you.”

The words hung in the air.

Simple.

Earnest.

And for once—

No one felt the need to add anything more.

Retro – Mutt & Captain Halvek

The watch barracks smells of iron, wet wool, and old wood smoke.

A pair of guards glance up as Mutt enters, snow falling from his boots as he shakes it loose across the threshold. The room is quieter than it should be for a town this tense. Too controlled. Too deliberate.

Halvek stands near a rough wooden table, speaking in low tones with another guard. He looks up as Mutt approaches.

Recognition flickers.

Caution follows it.

Mutt says nothing at first, simply producing the folded paper and handing it over.

Halvek takes it, eyes narrowing slightly as he scans the contents. His expression tightens the further he reads.

Duergar. Chardalyn. The lake.

By the time he finishes, the room feels smaller.

“Heavy claims,” Halvek mutters, folding the paper once more. Not dismissive. Just measured.

Mutt pulls his face covering down slightly.

“Here you are, captain. Based on what we've seen, it looks like you have a Duergar problem. I suggest you take care of it, because from what we've seen, things will only get worse if you don't. I'll let you work out with the Speaker whose 'jurisdiction' this falls under.”

He pauses, already turning slightly toward the door.

“I just wouldn't wait too long. By the way, we're leaving tomorrow. You can tell your junior partner he won't need to keep an eye on us anymore.”

Halvek’s brow furrows at that.

“My… what?”

Mutt glances back.

“The one tailing us. Figured you had someone keeping tabs.”

A beat of silence.

Halvek shakes his head slowly.

“No one from my watch has been following you.”

That lands.

He studies Mutt more closely now, something sharper behind his eyes.

“You’re not the first to say something like that,” he adds quietly. “Couple of folks mentioned figures moving through town at night. Cloaked. Keeping to the alleys. Thought it was smugglers at first.”

His jaw tightens.

“Now I’m not so sure.”

He hands the folded paper back.

“If what you’re saying is true, Easthaven has bigger problems than jurisdiction.”

A pause.

“You heading north?”

Mutt doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

Halvek nods once anyway.

“Then keep your eyes open. Whatever’s moving through my town…”

His gaze drifts briefly toward the shuttered windows.

“…didn’t come here by accident.”

Mutt pulls his covering back up and steps out into the cold.

The door closes behind him.

The wind outside feels sharper than before.

Retro – The Vessel on Lac Dinneshere

The road curves along the frozen edge of Lac Dinneshere, the lake stretching wide and silent beneath a pale sky.

Azalie sees it first.

“Fizz,” she calls, her voice steady. “Take a look ahead. There’s a boat out there and no one’s manning it.”

She points toward the center of the lake.

“That has to be the one the fisherman mentioned. Let’s circle back after we deal with Hagag.”

The party slows.

Not stopping fully—but enough.

The vessel sits far out across the ice.

Dark. Still. Out of place.

No fishing lines trail from it. No figures move along its edges. No smoke rises to suggest warmth or life within.

Fizz squints, shifting slightly in his saddle as he tries to make sense of it.

“Not a fishing rig,” he mutters. “Too heavy… wrong shape.”

Orin studies it longer than the others, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Not our concern,” he says quietly. “Not today.”

The words feel more like a decision than an observation.

The wind sweeps across the lake, kicking up sheets of fine snow that briefly obscure the vessel from view.

For a moment—

It almost looks like it moves.

Or shifts.

And it’s exactly where it was before.

Silent.

Waiting.

Azalie watches it a moment longer than the others.

Then turns her mount back toward the road.

The Howlbears continue on.

The vessel remains behind them.

Out on the ice.

Still watching.

The Damaged Wagon

The wind has a way of swallowing sound out here.

Even as the Howlbears approach the wrecked caravan, the world feels… muted. No birds circle overhead. No scavengers pick at what remains. Just the slow hiss of snow drifting across splintered wood.

Azalie is the first to know.

Nothing moves.

No shifting shapes in the snow. No breath that isn’t their own. No hidden tension waiting to spring.

Whatever happened here—

It is already over.

Fizz is quick to move in, boots crunching softly as he circles the wreckage. Crates have been broken open, their contents either scattered or taken. Tools. Cloth. Basic supplies. Nothing of real value remains.

Fizz shakes his head in dismay as he steps down from Peck, boots crunching into the frozen snow.

“Not again… These poor people are just trying to live their lives…”

He moves carefully around the wreckage, crouching near the broken crates and brushing snow aside as he searches for tracks, weapons, anything that might explain what happened here. At first glance, it looks simple enough. Crates split open. Supplies scattered. Anything of value already taken.

“Bandits…” Fizz mutters, frowning. “Same as—”

The ground tells a different story. No scattered footprints. No signs of panic. Whoever did this moved with purpose.

He stops.

Something about it doesn’t sit right.

Azalie is already moving ahead of him, her attention sharpening as she studies the ground. Mellon circles overhead, riding the wind in tight arcs before dipping lower, scanning alongside her. There is no movement. No hidden figures waiting to strike. Whatever happened here is over.

But the ground tells a different story.

“These tracks…” she says quietly.

They are too tight. Too controlled. Not the scattered chaos of desperate attackers. The marks circle the wagon in deliberate patterns before breaking away, dragging something heavy through the snow. Several somethings.

Her gaze follows the faint trail just off the road, where the snow has begun to reclaim it.

Mutt slows his mount, scanning the area in silence. No birds. No scavengers. No signs of life at all. The stillness presses in the longer he listens, the kind that settles after violence, not before it.

Orin dismounts more deliberately, stepping toward the collapsed side of the wagon. His eyes move across the splintered wood, tracing the damage with quiet precision.

“This wasn’t looted,” he says calmly. “It was struck.”

The force that broke the wagon came from a single direction, hard enough to cave timber inward. Not rushed. Not careless. Intentional.

Azalie moves farther along the wreckage, clearing snow and debris with quick, practiced motions.

Then she stops.

Half-buried beneath torn canvas and broken wood, something shifts.

Barely.

She drops to one knee and pulls the debris aside, revealing a man pinned beneath the wreckage. His body is stiff with cold, lips darkened, blood frozen where it spilled. blood frozen along his side where something tore through his armor. His breath is shallow, uneven, but still there.

Alive.

For now.

Before anyone can react, Mellon lets out a sharp cry overhead.

Azalie looks up immediately.

Out across the lake, the vessel has moved.

It has covered far more ground than it should have in this time.

It is no longer distant. It cuts slowly across the ice, gliding with unnatural precision toward the shoreline. There are no lanterns, no visible crew, no sound beyond the faint groan of shifting ice beneath it.

But it is coming.

The wounded man stirs weakly as Azalie clears the last of the snow from his chest. His hand twitches against the frozen ground, fingers curling as he struggles to speak.

“…took them…”

The words barely form.

His eyes flutter, struggling to focus.

“…not… bandits…”

His breath catches, a shudder running through him.

“…black… stone…”

His grip tightens weakly in the snow before slipping loose again.

“…north…”

The wind picks up, sweeping across the wreckage and pulling loose snow over the tracks, the drag marks, the evidence of what happened here. The storm is already trying to erase it.

Behind them, the lake groans.

Ahead, the road stretches toward Caer-Dineval.

And out on the ice, the vessel continues its slow, silent approach.

The man will not last long without aid.

The vessel will reach the shoreline soon.

And whatever took the caravan is already ahead of you on the road to Caer-Dineval.

Current Time: 12:30 PM

Date: Fifthday 15, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

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