The Road to Easthaven

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Aftermath on Eastway

Welcome to Easthaven

Easthaven - The First Day

Days in Easthaven

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Aftermath on Eastway

The giant’s head rolls once before settling in the snow.

Steam rises from the severed neck in thick, red plumes. The arterial spray slows. Then stops.

The silence afterward is deeper than the fighting ever was.

The two prisoners stare.

The crossbowman Azalie holds swallows hard enough that it’s audible. His eyes flick from the headless body… to Dorf… and stay there.

“Gods…” he breathes.

The lead bandit says nothing. But whatever defiance he had left drains out of him completely.

Dorf stands for a moment in the drifting red mist. Then the wind takes it, scattering it across the road like a banner.

Behind them, the forest does not move.

No one comes back for the giant.

Fizz lingers a moment by the fallen giant, small hand resting on the wagon wheel, watching the steam fade. Sometimes death was necessary. He didn’t have to like it.

Mutt watches the head settle in the snow, then glances at the prisoners.

Then Dorf steps towards the two prisoners.

“Any words to save your miserable hides? Otherwise Precious here can do the same to you.” He squints at their necks, “probably only take one swing though.”

Azalie places a hand on Dorf’s shoulder. Squeezing just enough to hope he calms. She looks straight into the bandits eyes,

“I tried to warn you.”

Looking back at Dorf she speaks “Ok my friend, they are already terrified.”

"Huh, well that works." Mutt smiles at the two bandits and gestures towards Dorf, covered in the giant's arterial spray. "See, what'd I tell you? We have a halfling with a teddy bear."

He watches as Dorf cautiously as the barbarian approaches the two prisoners.

"Dorf, why don't you pack up that giant's head and bring with us? There might be a bounty we can collect in Easthaven for it. If nothing else, maybe it will help people see the roads are a bit safer."

"Your boss isn't going to like that, eh? So, who is your boss? Where might we find him for a bit of a chat and a chance to offer our condolences?"

Orin steps forward first, voice calm and precise.

“You said Easthaven. That’s not a name. Who gives the orders?”

The bandit winces as Mutt tightens the rope.

“It’s not one man shouting from a throne,” he says. “Orders come through the docks. Warehouse slips. Dock foremen who aren’t dock foremen.”

He shifts, glancing once toward Dorf before continuing.

“There’s a place near the eastern piers. Old net storage. Doesn’t look like much. But that’s where the pay comes from.”

He hesitates.

“They call him Marrow.” A pause. “Don’t know if that’s a name or just what the men call him. Never seen him in daylight. But when the road needs hurting, coin flows from that warehouse.”

Mutt asks about the lance.

The bandit looks at it and then away.

“That came through two tendays ago. Delivered in a sealed crate. Told not to ask.”

Azalie turns the lance slowly in her hand, reading the markings again.

“Who delivered it?”

“Dark cloaks. Didn’t speak. Didn’t stay. Paid in advance.”, replies the bandit

Orin presses again.

“Have you been ordered to look for anything specific?”

That one takes longer.

“…Travelers asking too many questions. People coming from Bryn Shander. Anyone carrying unusual artifacts.”

His eyes flick to Orin. Not his pack. Him.

“Especially spellcasters.”

That lands heavier than the others.

“We were told if anyone was asking about the raids… we report it back. Not handle it.”

The younger crossbowman looks like he might vomit.

Then he cracks, blurting out,

“We ain’t the top! We just keep the road soft! That’s all!”

The lead bandit nods grimly.

“Easthaven’s rotting from the inside. We just collect the runoff.”

The words hang in the cold air.

No one speaks for a moment.

The giant’s blood steams behind you.

Then—

Azalie moves.

She circles the prisoners once more, eyes sharp, fingers light as she checks for hidden blades or tucked steel beneath layers of winter cloth. She knows how easily a weapon can disappear against bare skin.

“Mutt, what are we doing?” she asks evenly. “I’m not going to kill these men. They’re unarmed and quite frankly…” She looks one of them up and down. “…weak.”

She steps back, brushing snow from her gloves.

“Orin, we should not linger. I say we leave the giant as a warning to the others.”

She whistles softly for her axebeak.

Mutt watches the prisoners for a long moment, then nods once.

“We’re not leaving them here,” he says calmly. “They walk to Easthaven. We turn them over to the authorities and let the town decide what to do with its headaches.”

He tightens the last knot on the rope securing their wrists and gives it a firm testing tug.

“If the road’s rotting from the inside, we might as well carry the rot back to its source.”

The lead bandit lowers his eyes, but there’s the faintest flicker of something behind them — not fear.

Relief.

Easthaven means walls. Easthaven means paperwork. Easthaven means time.

Orin steps closer, brushing frost from his sleeve. The shimmer of earlier magic has faded, leaving only the faint fatigue of spent wards.

“We will go,” he says quietly. “But not immediately.”

His gaze sweeps the treeline, then the road, then the frozen lake beyond.

“If others are watching these roads, I would rather arrive prepared than hurried.”

He meets Azalie’s eyes briefly.

“A short rest. One hour. Then we move.”

The wind sighs across the snow as if in agreement.

Azalie exhales through her nose and gives a single nod.

“Fine. I’ll not waste it.”

She adjusts her bow, glances once more at the bound men, then turns toward the treeline.

“I’ll hunt. Fresh meat travels better than rations.”

Without another word, she slips into the white and shadow, Mellon lifting silently from her shoulder to follow.

The Short Rest

You take your rest in the shadow of the fallen giant.

The corpse lies where it fell, heat slowly bleeding into the snow. Steam thins. The smell lingers.

Azalie does not sit.

She moves without haste, but without wasted motion. Kneeling to study disturbed snow. Tracing the narrow print of a snow hare. Noting the deeper press of a fox that passed through before dawn.

The land speaks easily to her here. Even in the cold. Even under the Rime.

She follows the hare’s pattern through a stand of brittle brush, waits when the wind shifts, then looses a single clean shot. The arrow flies true. Efficient. Quiet.

She kneels beside the fallen animal, murmuring something low and respectful before field dressing it with practiced hands.

While she works, she studies more than tracks.

Boot prints. Old wagon ruts. A faint pattern of movement that doesn’t belong to hunters or traders.

This stretch of road has been watched for longer than the bandits admitted.

When she returns, fresh game slung over her shoulder, Mellon settles lightly at her side.

Dorf kneels beside Precious, wiping the blade clean in deliberate strokes. The rage has drained from him now, leaving behind the ache of bruises and a quiet heaviness that settles deeper than muscle.

A few paces away, the prisoners sit bound and silent, backs against a drifted mound of snow. They do not speak. They do not test their ropes.

They watch.

Fizz circles the giant once more, small boots crunching softly. He studies the old scars along its ribs, the calloused hands, the hollowness in its frame. This creature had been hungry long before it was dangerous.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

Orin sits apart from the others, eyes closed, fingers resting against the worn leather of his grimoire. The shimmer of earlier magic has faded, leaving a faint ache behind his eyes. The world feels thinner lately. The roads watched. Questions spreading. The Oculus resting heavier than its weight should allow.

Mutt moves between them all, practical as ever. He checks knots. Rebinds one tighter. Divides rations. Keeps one eye on the treeline and one on the prisoners.

The wind never stops moving.

Snow shifts around the giant’s body, slowly beginning to reclaim it.

An hour passes.

Breath steadies. Muscles loosen. Wounds close under quiet magic and rest.

When you rise, the giant’s head is wrapped in canvas and secured. Whether for bounty or warning, it will not be wasted.

The body remains where it fell.

A message carved into the Eastway.

The Road to Easthaven

The rest of the journey passes without ambush.

But the feeling does not fade.

Twilight settles over Lac Dinneshere in a pale wash of green and blue. The aurora hangs faint above the distant mountains, its light shimmering across the frozen expanse of the lake.

Easthaven rises from the snow in low, slanted roofs and dark timber walls, smoke drifting thin and straight from chimneys into the still air. Stone walls divide fields and roads in hard lines, guiding travelers toward the gate like veins toward a heart.

Lanterns burn along the outer path, their glow steady but subdued. Not festive. Functional.

The town does not feel loud.

It feels alert.

From this distance, you can see movement near the lakeshore—fishermen hauling nets through cut ice, bundled figures working without chatter. No music carries on the wind. No laughter spills into the road.

Closer now.

The gate stands open, but not welcoming. Two guards lean against the stonework, cloaks heavy with frost. They straighten as you approach, eyes traveling over the giant’s wrapped head, the bound prisoners, the weapons at your sides.

Beyond them, streets curve inward between tightly packed buildings. Windows glow faintly behind shutter slats. A few figures linger near corners longer than necessary.

Watching.

Near the eastern edge of town, closer to the docks, a squat warehouse sits half-shadowed beneath the aurora’s glow. No sign marks it. No lantern hangs outside.

But one upper window leaks the faintest thread of light.

The prisoners trudge behind your axebeaks, chains clinking softly in the cold.

One of them mutters under his breath.

“Marrow won’t like this.”

The wind shifts off the lake.

Snow crunches under boot and claw as you approach the gate.

The two guards straighten fully now.

They’re not ceremonial. Not polished. Their armor is practical, layered beneath heavy cloaks crusted with frost. One is older, beard shot through with gray, posture steady as the stone behind him. The other is younger, eyes sharp and restless, the kind that measure trouble and opportunity in the same glance.

Their gazes land first on the prisoners.

Then on the canvas-wrapped bundle.

Then on Dorf — still flecked with drying giant’s blood.

The younger guard swallows.

“…That looks like a problem,” he says carefully.

His eyes shift again.

This time they linger on Azalie.

Not leering. Not crude. Just… appreciative. Curious.

A faint half-smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth before he catches himself and straightens.

“Didn’t think we’d be getting heroes tonight,” he adds lightly. “Especially not ones bringing their own trophies.”

The older guard doesn’t look at Azalie at all.

He steps forward, halberd haft thudding once against stone.

“State your business.”

The younger guard tilts his head slightly toward Azalie, voice lowering just enough to be conversational.

“If you’re planning on staying in town,” he says, almost conversational, “there are warmer places than the docks. Just saying.”

The older guard shoots him a look.

The younger clears his throat and squares his shoulders again.

“Right. Business.”

the older guard's eyes drift to the bound men.

“And explain why you’re dragging Easthaven’s headaches back through our gate.”

One of the prisoners shifts uneasily.

“We didn’t—”

The older guard cuts him off without looking.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

His gaze settles on Mutt, then Orin. Measuring. Calculating.

Behind them, the town continues its quiet rhythm. A pair of bundled townsfolk linger down the road, pretending not to watch.

The younger guard leans slightly closer, lowering his voice.

“If this is about the roads… you won’t be the first to bring it up.”

A pause.

“But we don’t hang men without paperwork. And we don’t start fires we can’t put out.”

His eyes flick meaningfully toward the eastern docks.

“You planning to turn them in? Or make a statement?”

The older guard adds, tone flat:

“If you’re looking for coin, the Speaker’s hall is two streets in. If you’re looking for trouble…”

His gaze drifts toward the lake.

“…that finds you on its own.”

The gates stand open.

The town breathes cold around you.

What do you tell them?

Current Time: 5:59 PM

Date: Firstday 11, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

Welcome to Easthaven

The older guard’s gaze drifts toward the lake.

“…that finds you on its own.”

Mutt waits patiently for several moments in awkward silence as the guard continues to stare off mysteriously in the distance towards the lake. Sensing a warm tavern room just within reach, Mutt clears his throat to get the guard's attention and smiles.

"Not to interrupt your mysterious brooding, but it's a bit cold out here, and we'd like to turn these 'Easthaven headaches' over to your authorities. We just had the pleasure of meeting them and their big friend," Mutt gestures towards the bloody giant head. "..on our way here, but it sounds like you all may be acquainted already. If you could point the way to your barracks and then to a warm taproom, we would be much obliged."

Orin steps forward only after Mutt finishes speaking. He meets the older guard’s gaze and holds it, calm and deliberate.

“We intercepted these men on the Eastway,” he says evenly. “They were extorting travelers. A frost giant accompanied them.”

He gestures to the wrapped canvas bundle on Dorf's hip.

“The giant will trouble the road no longer. For the men, we want only that they answer to Easthaven’s laws.”

Dorf chuckles when Orin points at the giants head.

“Think the local tavern would like this mounted above the bar? Or we could post it right here on the top of the gate!”

Orin pauses, pointedly.

“Point us to your barracks. Then to your Speaker. We will make our report properly.”

The older guard listens without interruption. When they finish, he exhales slowly through his beard.

“Watch House.” He nods into town. “Wharf Street. Blue door. Iron lantern out front. Sergeant Halvek handles intake.”

No escort. No runner. No urgency.

Just directions.

The younger guard glances once more at Azalie, then clears his throat and looks forward again.

“If there’s coin in it,” he adds casually, “Halvek’ll know. But we don’t post bounties for road work. Eastway’s not under Easthaven charter.”

The older guard gives him a look, then adds flatly:

“Town pays for threats inside its walls… and it’s been a lean winter.”

Fizz watches the interaction with the guards with more interest than usual. Especially after the information the bandits shared with them about Mr. Marrow.

Fizz casually asks the older guard.

“So.. how’s the fishing this time of year?”

The older guard’s eyes flick to the black ice beyond the docks.

“Knucklehead trout still bite,” he says. Then, after a beat: “and sometimes they bite back.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

The younger guard shifts his weight and mutters, almost like it’s a joke that isn’t funny:

“Watch thy pouch.”

Behind you, the gates remain open.

No alarm sounds.

No one hurries to help.

The town swallows you whole.

Easthaven is Not Loud. It’s Alert.

Snow has been packed hard into the main thoroughfare, stained gray with soot and trampled by boot and cart wheel alike. Buildings lean inward against the wind, roofs slanted and heavy with frost. Lanterns burn low and practical. No banners. No welcome.

You pass shuttered homes first. Curtains shift behind slats.

Then the smell changes.

Ale. Smoke. Brine.

As you angle toward the eastern slope and the docks, Easthaven becomes busier without becoming warmer. Men linger in doorways longer than they should. Groups talk low and stop talking when you pass. A hand brushes too close to a belt pouch and then withdraws the second eyes meet.

A sign nailed to a post outside a half-lit shop reads, in crude paint:

WATCH THY POUCH!

A narrow building with red-glass panes glows along the corner of Snowmelt Lane. Laughter spills out, loud and strained, as if it’s being performed.

A painted sign swings gently in the wind:

THE STEAM HOUSE

Two dockhands lean against the doorway, coin purses heavy at their belts.

Their eyes slide to Azalie.

One of them snorts, not surprised, just appraising.

“Marrow expanding inventory already?”

The other laughs.

“Point her east. Piers pay better.”

It isn’t shouted. It isn’t aggressive.

It’s casual. Assumed. Like guessing the weather.

A third voice from inside adds, muffled by the doorway:

“Elf’ll fetch a premium.”

They look away a moment later, already bored, as if Azalie has been categorized and filed.

The town does not react.

Not because it’s cruel.

Because it’s normal.

Further on, a pair of bundled fishermen haul crates toward the lakeshore. One pauses when he sees the canvas-wrapped giant head slung at Dorf’s side.

“…You bring that in for display?” he mutters.

His companion answers without slowing.

“Better that than another body.”

No awe. No celebration.

Just a cold-eyed sense of what survives winter.

The Watch House

Wharf Street slopes toward the lake, where the wind sharpens and carries the distant groan of shifting ice.

The Watch House is squat and square, stone foundation with timber roof above. An iron lantern hangs outside the blue-painted door, its flame steady despite the cold.

Inside, the air smells of ink, damp wool, and exhaustion.

Three holding cells line one wall. Two are occupied by drunkards sleeping it off. The third stands empty.

A broad-shouldered man with thinning hair and a scar across his nose looks up from a ledger as you enter.

He takes in the prisoners.

The weapons.

The bloodstains.

The head.

He sighs.

“Tell me it’s not another dock dispute.”

Orin speaks first. Mutt follows.

The story is given cleanly. Frost giant. Eastway extortion. Warehouse coin. Marrow.

At that name, Halvek’s quill pauses.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then it scratches on.

Names are taken.

The lead bandit hesitates before giving his.

“…Tomas.”

Halvek doesn’t look up.

“You were Tomas last winter too.”

The man flinches. Not offended.

More like… caught.

The younger crossbowman stares at the floor.

They are processed without ceremony. Belts removed. Hands checked. Cell door shut with a heavy iron clack.

Inside the walls, the prisoners look… less afraid.

Relief creeps back into their shoulders.

Like they’ve been here before. Like this is a delay, not a consequence.

Halvek closes the ledger.

“There’s no bounty posted for giants on the Eastway,” he says evenly. “Town doesn’t commission hunters beyond its patrol line. If Bryn Shander’s paying, that’s their business.”

He gestures vaguely toward the canvas-wrapped head.

“You can store it out back if you’re keeping it. Or dump it at the lake.”

Then, more quietly, like it’s a rehearsed line:

“As for docks… Watch keeps peace in the streets. Wharf affairs are Speaker jurisdiction.”

Not denial.

Not warning.

A boundary.

And boundaries in Easthaven tend to keep certain people safe.

First Places You Hear Named

As you step back into the street, the wind off Lac Dinneshere cuts clean through wool and leather. Somewhere out on the ice, a long crack rolls like distant thunder.

Dockside lanterns burn brighter than the rest of town.

Music drifts from somewhere near the water.

A passerby, seeing your weapons and the giant-head bundle, spits into the snow and mutters:

“Wet Trout’s got heat and good music.”

The Wet Trout

The Wet Trout sits near the docks, the largest and loudest tavern in Easthaven, known for its ribald atmosphere and rumor-mongering. Patrons outside smoke Frosty Toby. They watch you pass. Conversation dims a notch. A great chimney squarely in the building’s center has hearths on either side to warm the tavern’s two common rooms.

Heat hits you like a wall when you step inside. Wet wool, spilled ale, smoke, and fried fish.

Conversation stumbles for half a second when the door opens.

Not silence. Just that brief recalculation as eyes measure weapons and strangers.

Then the noise resumes.

A bard plays near one hearth, not badly either. He’s got the room clapping along, and he performs like someone who knows this floor belongs to him.

It’s not hard to imagine Mutt taking that personally.

A serving girl weaves between tables with practiced speed, and behind the bar a dragonborn woman watches the room like she’s counting problems before they start.

Her scales are pale, almost frosted white, with faint blue ridges along her jaw. A thick leather apron hangs over her frame.

New faces. Weapons. Giant’s blood not yet fully scrubbed from leather.

The room has already taken your measure.

She steps out from behind the bar before anyone else can claim you.

“Well now,” she says, voice low and edged with gravel. “That’s either the worst hunting party I’ve ever seen… or the best.”

Her eyes flick briefly to the wrapped giant head.

Then back to Mutt.

“Eastway’s been ugly lately. Folks bringing back proof tend to drink free their first round.”

A pause. Calculating.

“After that, you pay like everyone else.”

A faint curl of amusement touches one corner of her mouth.

“Name’s Nymetra. I run the Trout.”

Her gaze moves down the line of you, assessing posture, gear, coin purses, how you stand together.

“You’re new. Which means you’re either brave, desperate, or profitable.”

She jerks her chin toward the hearth.

“Rooms are limited. Dockhands pay weekly and they don’t like being displaced. So if you want beds, say so before someone uglier with coin beats you to them.”

Her eyes rest on Mutt a moment longer.

“And if you’re the sort that plays instead of just drinks…”

She glances toward the performing bard without turning her head fully.

“…you’ll need to prove you’re worth the floor.”

Behind you, the door shuts against the wind.

The Wet Trout has decided you’re interesting.

NEXT POST

In the span of a single walk from gate to dockside, Easthaven has shown you enough to understand its shape.

It is not lawless.

It is selective.

It is not welcoming.

It is watching.

From your brief entry into town, you are aware of the following locations:

The Wet Trout

Largest and loudest tavern near the docks. Ribald atmosphere. Rumor-heavy. Warm. Competitive bard currently holding the floor. Rooms available—for now.

The White Lady Inn

Quieter establishment a few streets inland. Named after the lake’s ghost. Said to be more comfortable. Possibly more private.

Eastway Forge

A dwarven-run weapons and armor shop you passed along the main road. The sign bore the name Korda Flintmantle. The ring of hammer on steel carried clearly through the cold.

Dinneshire Outfitters

General supply store run by a half-orc named Bram Harth. Practical goods, rope, oil, winter gear, sled fittings.

Shrine to Auril

A small temple made of shaped ice near the lakeshore. Offerings frozen into its walls. People come and go quietly.

And of course—

The Docks & The Watchhouse

Warehouse silhouettes. Pier Eight somewhere among them. Music drifting from the direction of the water.

The Steam House

Red-glass windows. Dockhands lingering outside with heavy purses. Laughter that sounds more practiced than joyful. Clearly a brothel—and clearly not discreet about it.

You have turned in prisoners.

You have earned no coin.

You have been noticed.

Next Steps

In your next post:

• Tell me where you’re staying:

  • The Wet Trout

  • The White Lady Inn

  • Or somewhere else entirely

• Tell me where you intend to go next (And if you are staying a few days).

• You may submit up to two skill rolls for the day along with what you are attempting to learn or accomplish.

• Additionally, everyone make a Perception check in your next post. Do not explain the check, just enter "Dm Called for"

Your posts will cover retro actions from any interaction you had above, interaction at the Wet Trout, and then what you intend to accomplish tomorrow. Additionally, decide as a party how long you want to stay in Easthaven, and after your next posts, we can determine how much downtime you want to take here.

Current Time: 8:04 PM

Date: Firstday 11, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

Easthaven - The First day

Heat hits like a wall when the door of the Wet Trout swings open.

Wet wool. Fried fish. Ale. Smoke.

The tavern is alive in the way only dockside taverns are: loud without being cheerful, crowded without being welcoming. Conversations pause for a half second when the strangers with weapons step inside.

Then the noise resumes.

When the group enters the tavern, Azalie immediately brightens at the sight of the Dragonborn. She has always been fascinated by them. The music and atmosphere of the tavern barely register compared to the novelty of the moment.

Near one hearth a bard is working the room well enough, strumming a lute while a group of dockhands clap along to a song about a fisherman who married a mermaid and regretted it almost immediately.

It’s not hard to imagine Mutt taking that personally.

Behind the bar, the dragonborn woman watches the room like she’s counting problems before they start.

Her scales are pale, almost frosted white, faint blue ridges tracing along her jaw. A thick leather apron hangs over her frame, sleeves rolled and forearms scarred from years of kitchen knives, tankards, and the occasional bar fight.

New faces. Weapons. Giant blood.

She spots you instantly.

“Well now,” she says as she steps forward, voice rough as gravel. “That’s either the worst hunting party I’ve ever seen… or the best.”

Her eyes flick briefly to the wrapped giant head.

Then back to Mutt.

“Eastway’s been ugly lately. Folks bringing back proof tend to drink free their first round.”

A pause. Calculating.

“After that, you pay like everyone else.”

Mutt sighs contentedly as the Howlbears enter the Wet Trout. This was where he belonged. He was actually grateful at hearing music coming from the common room. He wanted to keep a low profile for a bit until he better understood the lay of the land. He beams at Nymetra and opens his arms wide.

"Nymetra, you are the best thing to happen to me all day. I will absolutely take you up on that drink and pay for the next round for my friends here besides."

Mutt motions towards Dorf and the giant's head dangling next to the halfling and smiles at the barkeep. "Would you prefer we keep that outside? We don't want to make a mess of your fine establishment here."

Her eyes drift to Dorf’s prize.

The giant’s head.

She raises one brow ridge.

“That stays outside.”

No anger. Just policy.

“Cold’ll keep it fresh enough if you’re planning to sell it. Inside though? It’ll start stinking before the second round.”

“Hello!”

The word escapes her with surprising enthusiasm, almost childish. She immediately blushes.

“Uh… I meant, hello,” she corrects herself, clearing her throat and attempting to regain her composure. “Is there a private bathtub available nearby?”

Everyone knows it.

She needs a bath.

Nymetra shrugs.

“Rooms here are mostly spoken for.”

She gestures toward the dockhands already claiming stairs.

“And we don’t run baths.”

Azalie’s disappointment is immediate.

Nymetra jerks her thumb toward the street.

“You want quiet, baths, and fewer sailors snoring in the hallway?”

“Then you want The White Lady, a few blocks away.”

A few patrons nearby chuckle.

“Place is haunted,” someone adds helpfully.

“Just a ghost,” another man says. “Don’t mind her none.”

The door opens again a moment later as Dorf reluctantly deposits the grisly trophy outside.

When he returns, two dwarves near the hearth raise their mugs.

“Ye the one that took that brute’s head?” one calls.

Dorf nods.

The dwarf grins.

“Well then! Sit yerself down, halfling. Anyone who can drop a giant gets a drink in my book.”

One drink becomes two. Two becomes an arm-wrestling match.

A small crowd gathers quickly.

Dorf wins the first match.

And the second.

The third dwarf puts up three gold with a grin and loses in under ten seconds.

The crowd laughs and slaps Dorf on the back.

Good sport dwarves all around.

Somewhere in the jostling crowd, a few hands brush a few pockets.

No one seems to notice.

• Dorf - you win 3 GP, and after this, no one wants to arm wrestle further. You can follow up in your next post with any dialogue or discussion with the dwarves.

Nymetra & Fizz

At the bar, Fizz climbs onto a stool and stares at the dragonborn woman in open admiration.

“Sweet candied mushrooms… You're beautiful!”

The nearby dockhands choke on their ale.

Nymetra blinks.

Then she laughs.

Not offended.

Just amused.

“Well that’s a new one.”

Fizz continues enthusiastically describing the brilliance of her scales while half the bar listens with growing entertainment.

His charm roll clearly lands.

Not romantically.

But successfully.

She leans on the bar.

“You’re either the bravest gnome I’ve ever met… or the most sincere.”

A bowl of hot stew appears in front of him a moment later.

“On the house,” she says. “For the compliment.”

She pats his head once on the way past.

Like one might reward a particularly clever dog.

• Fizz you may post in your next post, any additional interaction you want to have with Nymetra

Mutt & the Bard

Mutt buys a round for the table.

The bard notices.

Near the hearth, the performer finishes his song with a quick flourish of his lute and a theatrical spin that draws easy applause from the dockhands gathered nearby. He’s a halfling with neatly curled brown hair, bright waistcoat buttons that catch the firelight, and the kind of confident posture that suggests he believes every eye in the room belongs to him.

Rinaldo gives the room a sweeping bow before straightening and glancing toward Mutt.

His gaze lingers a moment.

Recognition.

Competition.

“Well now,” he calls across the room. “A fellow musician, perhaps?”

He smiles broadly.

The sort of smile that is friendly enough to hide the fact that it absolutely is not.

“If you’re planning to play, friend, you’ll have to forgive me for warming the crowd first. They can be… difficult.”

A few patrons laugh.

Rinaldo lifts his mug toward Mutt in an easy toast.

“To visiting talent.”

The toast is polite.

The tone is not.

He tilts his head slightly, studying Mutt with open curiosity.

Then he adds, pleasantly enough that only another bard would hear the challenge underneath:

“Don’t feel rushed, though. I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

Another casual strum of the lute.

“And I promise not to take it personally if you decide to wait until after my set.”

The halfling turns back toward the crowd as if the matter is already settled.

The stage, clearly, belongs to him.

• Mutt, you can include any dialogue or actions you want to take in response to Rinaldo in your next post.

The White Lady Inn

The White Lady Inn sits a few streets inland, quieter and dimmer than the dockside taverns.

Inside, a small hearth crackles warmly and the air smells faintly of lavender oil.

An elderly man with silver hair greets you from behind the counter.

“Rooms?” he asks pleasantly.

"Name's Bartaban, Welcome to the White Lady"

When Azalie asks about a bath, Bartaban smiles knowingly.

“For a small surcharge, I’ll have hot water brought up.”

He pauses before handing over the key.

“And if you hear footsteps in the hall tonight…”

He waves a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it.”

The explanation that follows is matter-of-fact.

“The inn’s namesake.”

The White Lady.

A ghost said to wander the halls.

Bartaban doesn’t seem particularly concerned about it.

Bartaban produces a small ring of iron keys and begins handing them out.

“Rooms are simple but warm,” he explains. “Two doubles and a single still open tonight.”

He gestures toward the stair.

“The private bath room is upstairs at the end of the hall.”

Azalie receives the single room with the bath, while the others divide between the remaining rooms as they see fit.

“Breakfast is whenever you wake up,” Bartaban adds pleasantly. “Ghost keeps late hours.”

• Dorf, Mutt, Orin and Fizz - you can all determine who you bunked with, but you have to share rooms here. You can try and get other rooms on subsequent nights if you wish.

  
  

Before retiring, Orin quietly completes the Detect Magic ritual within his room, testing the weave for lingering enchantments. There is no sign of arcane energy at the inn.

Azalie begins heading down the hallway. “I’ll see you all in the morning,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll be wasting away in my tub.”

Her voice carries down the hall as she gives a casual wave. Her walk has changed slightly now, relaxed and deliberate, with just a hint of flirtation in her stride.

The bath does not take long to prepare, and Azalie wastes no time slipping into the hot water. She adds herbs to the bath, letting the scent mask her naturally pleasant smell. When she finishes, she dresses in garments she stitched together a few days ago. They are simple clothes meant to help her blend into a crowd. She even wraps her hair and ears carefully, pressing them down to hide their telltale elven shape.

“Elves fetch a premium. Blah,” she mutters, making a mocking face toward Mellon.

She pauses for a moment before adding, “Now that guard was rather fetching.”

Her mood shifts again almost immediately. “Who am I fooling?”

Azalie considers her weapons. She cannot carry her flame blade. It would attract far too much attention. Instead, she tucks her dagger into its sheath. Tucked against her bare thigh. Then a few potions, though she doubts she will need them tonight.

“Guess I’m going out,” she says lightly.

Azalie intends to blend into the crowds there and watch. If fortune favors her, she might even locate the young guard again. She needs a guide through this town, someone who knows its streets, its people, and its secrets.

She glances toward Mellon and blows him a small kiss before slipping out the door. “Wish me luck.”

Later That Night — The Docks

The docks are quieter now.

Lanterns swing in the wind.

Ice creaks somewhere out on Lac Dinneshere.

Azalie moves through the shadows easily, wrapped and disguised well enough to pass unnoticed.

Warehouses loom in silhouette.

Voices drift from the piers.

A few guards patrol lazily.

Then she hears footsteps behind her.

“Thought that might be you.”

The young gate guard steps into the lantern light.

No armor now. Just a heavy coat and a sword at his hip.

His shift ended some time ago.

Yet here he is.

He smiles slightly.

“You didn’t seem like the sort to stay indoors all night.”

He glances around the docks.

Then back to her.

“Figured if I kept walking this way eventually I might run into you again.”

The smile grows a little more confident.

“Looks like I was right.”

The lake wind pulls at their coats.

Lantern light flickers across the dark water.

And the guard waits to see what she says.

• Azalie your next post should continue the dialogue with the guard.

Morning — Easthaven

The next morning dawns cold and pale over Lac Dinneshere.

Fizz & the Lake

Fizz finds Azalie later that morning and invites her toward the frozen lake.

The shoreline is quiet.

Fishing holes dot the ice.

But something is wrong.

Several dead fish lie scattered near the shore.

Their scales are dull.

Some bear strange fungal growths along their gills.

A fisherman nearby spits into the ice.

“Been happening more lately,” he mutters.

“No one wants to eat ‘em.”

• Fizz and Azalie - you can expand your dialogue with the fisherman in your next post if you have any questions.

Mutt & Orin — Dinneshire Outfitters

Dinneshire Outfitters smells of lamp oil, leather, and damp wool. Ropes hang from the rafters, sled runners lean against one wall, and crates of winter gear sit stacked near the door.

Behind the counter stands Bram Harth, a broad-shouldered half-orc with a thick beard braided with bits of twine and copper wire. He looks up as the bell over the door rattles.

His eyes move across the two of you once.

Adventurers.

He has seen the type before.

“Need supplies?” he asks gruffly.

Orin begins with practical questions first. Rope quality. Oil stores. Sled fittings. The conversation moves easily enough while Bram measures lamp oil into a clay flask for another customer.

Eventually the wizard steers the conversation.

Strange shipments. Unusual materials.

Bram scratches his beard.

“Black stone’s been moving through town lately.”

He gestures vaguely toward the docks.

“Brittle stuff. Looks like charcoal but heavier.”

“Don’t know what anyone wants with it.”

He shrugs.

“Dock boys unload it. Then someone else carts it off.”

“Not my business.”

Orin’s careful probing earns a little more.

“Seen more people asking questions lately too.”

“Spellcasters mostly.”

Then Mutt shifts the conversation.

He switches to Orcish, the words coming easier than the Common spoken around the docks.

Bram’s eyes flick up immediately.

Speaking Orcish.

That changes the tone.

Mutt asks about Hagag.

Bram leans back slightly, thinking.

“Had a half-orc woman in here a few days ago,” he says slowly, also switching to Orcish.

“Don’t see many half-orc women around Easthaven.”

He taps the counter with one thick finger.

“She was asking about travelers. Recent caravans, I think.”

He shrugs again.

“Conversation didn’t last long, But I remember her...Because she wasn’t here for the brothels.”

That earns the faintest smirk.

“Trust me. I know who is.”

He rubs his beard again, trying to recall more.

“Think she said she was heading north toward Caer-Dineval.”

“Left with a small caravan.”

“Could still be there.”

Or she could already be gone.

He spreads his hands.

“Winter roads change plans.”

Then his gaze shifts back to Orin.

“And if you’re asking about that black stone?”

His voice lowers slightly.

“You won’t find answers in this shop.”

He nods toward the docks.

“Everything strange in Easthaven comes through there first.”

• Orin and Mutt - in your next post you can continue your dialogue with Bram.

Dorf — Eastway Forge

The Eastway Forge announces itself long before the door opens.

The ring of hammer on steel carries clean through the cold air, echoing down the street like a steady heartbeat. Sparks flash behind the open forge shutters, and the smell of coal smoke and hot iron hangs heavy in the wind.

Inside, the heat is immediate.

Armor racks line one wall. Axes and hammers hang in careful rows behind the counter. Nothing flashy. Just good, solid dwarven work.

Behind the forge stands Korda Flintmantle, a thick-shouldered dwarf with iron gray hair pulled into a tight braid and a beard blackened at the tips by years of soot.

He glances up once when the door opens.

Then he goes back to hammering.

“Shop’s open,” he mutters without looking up. “If you’re buying, speak. If you’re browsing, don’t touch anything sharp.”

The hammer falls again.

CLANG.

Dorf waits a moment, arms folded, letting the dwarf finish the stroke he’s working through.

Then he casually mentions the frost giant.

The hammer stops.

Slowly.

Korda lowers the steel onto the anvil and finally looks up.

His eyes travel from Dorf’s boots… to the weapons… to the thick shoulders… then back to the halfling’s face.

“A frost giant,” he repeats, looking at the bloodied sack Dorf carried in.

There’s a pause.

Then the dwarf snorts.

“Must’ve slipped.”

Dorf shrugs.

The corner of Korda’s mouth twitches.

“Or you hit it harder than most.”

He sets the hammer aside and wipes his hands on a rag before stepping closer.

“Do you have a Name.?”

Dorf tells him his name

That lands.

Korda’s brows lift.

“Well I’ll be stone-damned.”

He folds his arms.

“You’re one of the Howlbears.”

The word spreads through the forge like a dropped coin.

Two dwarves working the bellows glance over.

Korda nods slowly.

“Heard about you.”

“Dwarf came through two nights ago from Brynstroth. Said a band of half-mad heroes helped clear trouble in the mines.”

He eyes Dorf again.

“You being the little one that swings too hard.”

The dwarf chuckles quietly.

Then he adds, almost casually:

“He also mentioned a dwelf woman who nearly tore a miner’s arm off for speaking ill of you.”

A beat.

“Hruna, was it?”

Now the grin is unmistakable.

“Word travels.”

He jerks a thumb toward the weapon racks.

“Anyone who drops a Hill giant earns a look at my good steel... and Yeah, I said hill giant. Frost giants are far more dangerous... Not that you couldn't best one, but the size of the head gives it away.”

Business follows.

Dorf looks over blades and tools while Korda talks shop the way dwarves do: blunt opinions, practical advice, and a running commentary about which weapons were made by fools.

After a while the conversation drifts, as dwarven conversations often do, toward drink and stories.

Korda leans against the workbench.

“That dwarf who came through?”

He scratches his beard.

“Name’s Beldran Icevein.”

“Miner. Good one.”

“Said he’d stay in town a few days before heading south.”

Korda shrugs.

“Might still be here.”

Then he glances toward the door.

“If you’re looking for him, dwarves in Easthaven usually end up in one of two places.”

He lifts a mug sitting beside the anvil.

“The Wet Trout.”

He taps the mug.

“Or wherever the strongest ale is hiding.”

The dwarf gives Dorf a measuring look.

“Course if you’re staying a few days…”

A small grin breaks through the beard.

“…you might stop back here.”

He cracks his knuckles slowly.

“I hear halflings think they can arm wrestle.”

The forge erupts in low laughter.

Korda picks up the hammer again.

CLANG.

“Careful though.”

“Some Dwarves take losing personal.”

CLANG.

“Even when we’re losing to heroes.”

Mutt — Shrine to Auril

The Shrine to Auril sits quiet near the lake.

Ice walls shimmer with frozen offerings.

Those who pray here do so quietly.

Not joyfully.

The frostmaiden receives devotion born of survival.

The Day Ahead

By midday Easthaven is fully awake.

Ships move at the docks.

Smoke rises from chimneys.

Rumors travel faster than sled dogs.

And the town is beginning to notice the newcomers.

What Happens Next?

Players may respond to any active scene above

(Wet Trout, White Lady, docks, shops, or shrine).

You may continue investigating Easthaven or advance time further.

Rolls and declared actions will determine what you discover next.

Party Tabs Due

• Drinks (Mutt) 2 GP buying a round.

• Azalie's room - 3 GP (private suite with bath)

• Dorf, Fizz, Mutt and Orin - 2 SP each for your rooms

• Stables for the animals - 1 SP for each axe beak and the Sled Dogs.

Current Time: 1:04 PM

Date: Secondday 12, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

Days in Easthaven

Retro - Mutt and the Bard

Mutt smiles and waves dismissively as Rinaldo picks him out of the crowd as a fellow bard. He knows better than to let Rinaldo's words get to him. Hot emotions can raise unwanted attention. He can feel the Howlbear's gaze turn to him as Rinaldo addresses him. For better or worse, they're starting to look at Mutt as some kind of leader. Not something Mutt ever pictured of himself, but their circumstances have changed all of them in ways they didn't expect. He didn't want to let the group down and shirk away from this bard's challenge.

Mutt rises and walks cheerfully to the stage next to Rinaldo, his smile and arms wide. He doesn't remove Whimsyweft from his back. He didn't want to show off any more than he was about to. He places a friendly hand on the bard's shoulder, addresses the patrons of the Trout and starts to sing acapella.

Rinaldo of the Radiant Strings

Oh gather ‘round, good Easthaven, come warm your hearts tonight,

For the lake is locked in winter’s grip, but we’ve got firelight.

And look—behold! A halfling bold, with curls of darkest hue,

Rinaldo plucks his lute so sweet the snowdrifts sway in tune.

So raise your mugs and cheer him on, the master of the strings,

His melodies could charm the wind and teach the frost to sing.

No rival here, I stand in awe—his talent shines so bright,

Rinaldo, may your music turn our longest days to light.

And let us speak of beauty too—oh ladies, guard your hearts,

For Rinaldo’s smile alone could make a blizzard fall apart.

Those curls, that charm, that twinkling grin—they swoon from near and far,

A halfling handsome as the dawn, a true romantic star.

So play on, noble halfling, let your music fill the air,

For Easthaven grows brighter with each note you place with care.

I sing not to outshine you, friend, but celebrate your art—

Rinaldo of the radiant strings, you warm the coldest heart.

Mutt finishes with a smile and bows in respect to Rinaldo before taking his seat and resumes drinking with his friends.

Mutt’s performance earns genuine applause.

The crowd enjoys the song.

But Rinaldo watches carefully.

The halfling bard applauds politely before launching into a far louder, far flashier performance immediately afterward.

Later he offers a thin smile.

“Good voice,” he says lightly.

“Shame you’re wasting it on flattery.”

The rivalry remains… friendly in the way two musicians sharpen knives politely across a tavern stage.

Retro: Azalie & the Young guard

The night air had grown crisp, and Azalie knew she would draw attention. She was tall and slender, and she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly where she was going. She adjusted her attire slightly, hoping to appear a little more inconspicuous.

Then she sensed someone behind her.

“Thought that might be you.”

The young gate guard steps into the lantern light.

No armor now. Just a heavy coat and a sword at his hip.

His shift ended some time ago.

Yet here he is.

He smiles slightly.

“What gave me away?”

she snickers back, swallowing the sudden rise of acid in her throat. It wasn’t disgust. She was actually nervous. Butterflies and all.

“You didn’t seem like the sort to stay indoors all night.”

He wasn’t wrong. She did enjoy a nightly walk. The thought pulled her back to a moment earlier when she had nearly revealed too much of herself. The memory warmed her body, sending a quiet rush through her veins.

“Figured if I kept walking this way eventually I might run into you again. Looks like I was right.”

He was handsome and charming. The kind of man who likely said this to every young woman he met. She wasn’t impressed. Not yet.

“I was actually coming to find you.”

"Oh you were? were you?", says Azalie, stepping closer to the guard.

“You seem to be.” She circles him slowly, studying his build. “Healthier than the rest of the town.”

She leans in slightly and catches his scent, pleasantly surprised.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “And you bathe.”

He laughs quietly at that.

“Only when I expect good company.”

They begin walking together along the pier.

“So tell me,” she says softly, “what does a man like you want from me? I was hoping you might show me around. I have… particular interests. Fetishes, you might say.”

Her eyes drop for a moment and a vulnerable smile appears.

The guard slows slightly at that, clearly caught between surprise and amusement. A crooked grin spreads across his face as he studies her a moment longer.

“Particular interests?” he repeats, raising one eyebrow.

“Well now… that depends what kind of tour you’re hoping for.”

He steps a little closer as they walk, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“Most visitors come looking for ale, fish, or trouble. You don’t strike me as someone interested in the first two.”

His eyes flick toward hers again, playful now.

“But if you’re asking whether Easthaven has… certain entertainments,” he adds, gesturing loosely toward the darker end of the docks, “I suppose I could point you in the right direction.”

He chuckles softly.

“Though I should warn you. Most folks who go looking for trouble here usually find it.”

He pauses just long enough to meet her eyes again.

“Still… you don’t seem like the sort who scares easy.”

Azalie takes his hand and spins him around, her body briefly pressing against his as her arm wraps through his. She guides him casually toward the docks, hoping he doesn't question the direction.

“Who’s actually in charge in this town?” she asked lightly. “I don’t mean the two-bit backstabber. I mean who’s really running the raids on the roads.”

She catches herself before revealing too much.

“The Watch keeps the streets,” he explains after a while. “But the docks… they’re different.”

“Different how?”, she asks

He glances toward the warehouses.

“Money flows through those buildings faster than the town council can count it.”

A pause.

“Speaker claims authority, sure. But people who actually run things? They don’t attend council meetings.”

“And who would that be?”, she asks

He smiles thinly.

“You already heard the name.”

Marrow.

The word hangs in the cold air.

“Labor crews. Warehouse contracts. Ship manifests,” the guard continues. “If it touches the docks, it touches Marrow somewhere.”

Azalie listens, encouraging him with quiet touches and the occasional smile.

Soon the guard relaxes enough to share something else.

“Fishermen have been complaining lately. Strange things on the lake.”

“Like what?”, she looks at him inquisitively

He shrugs.

“Lights. Small boats moving without lanterns. Some swear they saw dark figures walking the ice.”

“Dark dwarves,” he mutters finally.

Azalie notices he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

But he doesn’t sound entirely doubtful either.

As their walk continues, the conversation drifts to lighter things. Stories of travelers, cold patrol nights, and the strange characters that pass through Easthaven. Somewhere along the pier, between shared rumors and quiet laughter, the guard finally offers his name.

Jorren Halren, a watchman who has spent most of his winters walking these same frozen streets.

Eventually the guard slows near the end of the pier.

“You’re dangerous,” he says with a crooked smile.

“Am I?”, she says with a smirk

“You ask questions like someone looking for trouble.”

He studies her for a moment.

“Lucky for you, trouble’s about the only thing Easthaven has in abundance.”

The wind pulls at their coats.

He steps back toward the road.

“I’m sure you know we aren’t average travelers. The giant’s head didn’t get quite the reaction we expected, but the halfling handled it himself.”

Her eyes widen slightly as she looks up at him.

“With only two swings.”

The guard lets out a low whistle.

“No wonder the Watch didn’t argue when you walked through the gates.”

They continue walking slowly along the pier as the story unfolds.

Azalie embellishes the details just enough to make the moment shine without giving away anything real. The guard listens with growing fascination, occasionally shaking his head in disbelief.

“Two swings,” he repeats again, glancing out across the frozen water. “Remind me not to cross your friends.”

Lantern light dances across the dark surface of the lake as their conversation drifts from adventure to rumor and back again.

For just a moment, Azalie thinks she sees movement farther down the dock.

A tall figure standing near a stack of crates, face hidden beneath a dark hood.

When she glances again, the dock is empty.

Azalie keeps the conversation moving, feeding his curiosity while quietly chasing her own answers. Small touches, a brush of her arm, a lingering glance in the right moment keep him engaged.

Her stories are mostly fiction.

An elf from a wealthy family seeking adventure and romance.

A life far removed from the truth.

The truth is revenge.

Carefully, she steers the conversation toward the brothel, listening for signs that the women there might be forced into their work. Then to strange illnesses, unexplained happenings. She asks about the docks. Who controlled them.

At one point she mentions Drow, watching closely for his reaction.

He stiffens only slightly at that.

“Drow?” he says after a moment.

“Never seen one myself.”

But the way he glances toward the dark warehouses suggests the thought has crossed his mind before.

They talk until the lanterns begin burning low and the wind grows sharper.

Eventually the guard slows again near the road leading back toward town.

“I appreciate the tour,” she says warmly. “This is a charming town. I hope to bump into you again.”

A small tingle runs through her at the thought of their next meeting.

“If you’re still here tomorrow night,” he says casually, “I could show you more of the town.”

His grin widens slightly.

“Some places aren’t meant for daylight tours.”

For a moment neither of them moves.

He steps a little closer, hesitation flickering across his face as though debating something. His hand lifts slightly, almost reaching for her shoulder.

The moment lingers.

He leans in just enough that it looks like he might kiss her.

But something in the quiet between them stops it.

Instead he gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Tomorrow night,” he says softly.

He glances back toward the lights of town.

“There’s a little place near Snowmelt Lane. Fisher’s Lantern. Not much to look at, but the stew’s good and the crowd’s quiet.”

His eyes meet hers again, that same crooked smile returning.

“I usually end my shift there.”

A brief pause.

“If you feel like another walk… you’ll know where to find me.”

He releases her hand reluctantly, stepping back toward the street.

The lantern light fades as he disappears into the snowy road, leaving Azalie alone with the wind and the dark lake behind her.

>> Azalie, your next post can include any additional dialogue you may wish to ask or say to Jorren, and also you can include in your next post a retro post if you decide to meet him on the second day at Fisher's Lantern restaurant.

Dorf & the Dwarves

At Eastway Forge, Korda Flintmantle proves exactly as stubborn and opinionated as advertised.

Dorf drops the canvas-wrapped giant head beside the forge with a heavy thump. The dwarves nearby glance over immediately.

He scratches his chin thoughtfully and nudges the sack with his boot.

“Think you could make this into a helm?” he asks hopefully. “Or… maybe something else?”

Korda raises an eyebrow.

“A helm?”

The dwarf crouches and pulls the canvas back, revealing the frozen giant skull beneath.

He stares at it a long moment.

Then slowly stands again.

“Lad,” he says flatly, “that helm would be bigger than your house.”

A few dwarves nearby snort with laughter.

Dorf shrugs.

“Yeah… thought that might be the case.”

He crouches beside the skull and pries the jawbone open slightly, studying the curved shape of it.

“What about this part?” he asks, lifting the massive bone slightly. “You think… maybe… could make it into a boomerang?”

The forge goes quiet for a moment.

Korda studies the bone.

Then studies Dorf.

Then the bone again.

“Hmph.”

He rubs his beard thoughtfully.

“Well I’ll be stone-damned.”

He takes the jawbone from Dorf’s hands and turns it in the firelight.

“Actually… that might work.”

Dorf brightens immediately.

Korda begins explaining the process, tracing the curve of the bone with a thick finger as he describes how the jaw might be shaved, balanced, and hardened in the forge.

Dorf spends hours at the bellows and carving bench, working the forge alongside the dwarves. The work is familiar. Honest. For a time it feels almost peaceful. New Recipe Gained

Over the course of the next two days...

Rumors drift easily among craftsmen.

But information proves harder to pin down.

Whenever Dorf tries to track down Beldran Icevein, the trail slips away. Someone saw him yesterday. Someone else swears he left town already.

The dwarves laugh about it.

“Typical miner,” Korda says. “Never in the same place twice.”

Meanwhile, Dorf’s attempts to watch the docks prove… less productive.

Cargo moves.

Workers shout.

Ships unload crates of dark materials under heavy tarps.

But nothing clearly suspicious reveals itself.

Still, Easthaven proves exactly as thieving as advertised.

Late on the third evening Dorf finally notices something odd.

The fake purse he carried as bait is gone.

Korda nearly falls over laughing when he hears.

“Congratulations lad.”

The dwarf claps him on the shoulder.

“That means you’re officially a local now.”

He nods toward the half-finished jawbone weapon resting on the workbench.

“Don’t worry though.”

His grin widens.

“You’re leaving Easthaven with something better than coin anyway.”

>>Dorf, you can include any retro dialogue with Korda or the dwarves, continue work on the boomerang, or describe any further dockside snooping in your next post.

Fizz and the Sick Lake

Fizz & Azalie – The Sick Lake

Fizz finds Azalie later that morning and invites her toward the frozen shoreline of Lac Dinneshere.

The lake stretches out like a sheet of dull iron beneath the pale sky. Fishing holes dot the ice in irregular clusters, each surrounded by small wooden shacks or crude windbreaks made from scrap planks and canvas.

The air smells faintly of brine and woodsmoke.

But something else lingers beneath it.

Something sour.

Several dead fish lie scattered near the shore where the ice meets the dark water. Their scales are dull, their bodies stiff with cold.

Fizz crouches immediately.

The gnome’s sharp eyes move quickly across the fish as he pulls a small glass vial from his pack.

“Think, Fizz… think…”

He gently turns one of the fish over with the end of his staff.

Strange fungal growths cling along the creature’s gills.

Not moss.

Not lake mold.

Something worse.

A nearby fisherman watches them with wary interest as Fizz begins carefully harvesting a sample.

“Been seeing that a lot lately,” the old man mutters.

Fizz glances up.

“All over the lake?”

The fisherman shakes his head.

“Mostly the east side.”

He gestures with his pipe toward the distant docks.

“Fish closer to the piers get it first.”

Azalie listens quietly beside him, her eyes scanning the horizon while Fizz works.

Fizz holds the fungus up to the light, examining the fibers.

“Definitely fungal,” he mutters. “But wrong… wrong wrong wrong.”

He scrapes a bit into the vial.

“I wouldn't eat these for sure my friend. Matter of fact, I would burn them where they lie.”

The fisherman nods grimly.

“Most of us stopped eating anything pulled near the docks.”

He spits into the snow.

“Town says it’s just rot.”

He snorts.

“Ain’t natural rot.”

Over the first day, Fizz moves along the shoreline studying the infected fish.

Azalie follows quietly, occasionally speaking with fishermen while Fizz works.

The pattern begins to emerge.

The infected fish appear in clusters.

And every cluster traces back toward the dockside waters.

Fizz notices something else.

The fungus doesn’t grow evenly.

Instead it forms threadlike veins, almost like roots searching through the fish’s flesh.

He taps his staff against his head thoughtfully.

“Not lake fungus,” he murmurs.

“Introduced fungus.”

That night he studies the sample back at the inn.

The fungus reacts oddly when exposed to warmth.

The fibers tighten.

Almost like something alive responding to stimulus.

Day Two – The Fishermen’s Stories

On the second day, the fishermen begin speaking more freely.

A younger man tells them something strange.

“Been seeing boats out there some nights.”

“Small ones.”

“No lanterns.”

He points toward a stretch of lake beyond the docks.

“Moving slow across the ice.”

Another fisherman chimes in.

“My cousin swears he saw figures walking out there.”

“Short ones.”

“Carrying crates.”

He lowers his voice.

“Dark dwarves.”

Azalie catches the tension in the way the others react to the words.

No one laughs.

Fizz doesn’t react immediately.

He simply looks back toward the distant docks.

Thinking.

Day Three – The Discovery

On the third day, Fizz finds something new.

Another infected fish lies near the waterline.

But this one still breathes weakly.

Fizz gently rolls it onto its side.

The fungal growth is thicker than the others.

And embedded deep within the gills…

A tiny shard of brittle black crystal glints between the gill plates.

Chardalyn.

Fizz carefully pries it free with a tool and drops it into a separate vial.

The fish dies moments later.

Azalie notices something else at the same time.

Just beyond the fishing holes, a narrow stretch of ice looks… disturbed.

Not broken.

But scuffed.

Like something heavy has been dragged across it repeatedly.

A fisherman follows her gaze.

“That spot?”

He frowns.

“No one fishes there anymore.”

“Water tastes wrong.”

Fizz straightens slowly, the vial of fungus in one hand and the shard of chardalyn in the other.

Pieces begin connecting in his mind.

“Fungus.”

“Black crystal.”

“Fish infected near docks first…”

He looks back toward Easthaven’s warehouses.

Something upstream of the lake…

Is poisoning it.

And whatever it is…

It’s probably still happening.

>> Fizz, you can make any retro skill checks, and retro dialogue if you want to follow up with anything with the fisherman or the fungal discovery.

Mutt – The Trail of Hagag

The rumor begins as little more than a whisper.

Easthaven is a town where strangers pass through often enough that most faces blur together after a few days. Traders come and go. Hunters vanish into the tundra. Caravan guards drink too much and forget half the people they meet.

But half-orc women are harder to forget.

The first lead comes from a stable boy near the eastern sled yard.

“Aye,” the boy says slowly, brushing frost off a saddle strap. “Think I saw someone like that. Tall. Big axe on her back.”

He shrugs.

“Didn’t stay long.”

That alone would not be much.

But the next conversation comes easier.

A caravan drover nursing a mug at the Wet Trout remembers her more clearly.

“Half-orc merchant type,” the man says. “Big wagon. Covered in travel dust.”

He squints at Mutt thoughtfully.

“She wasn’t selling much though. Mostly asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?” Mutt asks.

“Travel routes,” the drover replies. “Who’s moving goods. Who’s hiring guards.”

The man scratches his beard.

“And she kept looking at the road north like she expected trouble.”

Mutt presses further.

“What did she look like?”

The drover shrugs again.

“Older than you. Scar along the forearm I think.”

He pauses.

“And she had this voice…”

The man grimaces.

“Sounded like a cat dying in a sack.”

Mutt freezes.

That description lands far too close to memory.

The drover continues casually, unaware of the weight of his words.

“She left with a small caravan heading toward Caer-Dineval.”

“How long ago?”, asks Mutt

“Two… maybe three days.”

Mutt’s pulse quickens.

That timeline fits far too well.

The drover drains the last of his drink and stands to leave.

“Caravan was hauling supplies north,” he adds. “Nothing special. Couple wagons. Guards.”

He shrugs again.

“Road’s been rough lately though.”

Mutt spends the remaining time looking for additional leads on the mysterious half-orc woman, but as far as he can tell, she left a few days ago with a small caravan. Whether it is Hagag or not is yet to be determined.

>> Mutt, you may post retro dialogue if you want to ask follow up questions, or take any actions during your three days in town.

Orin - The Movement of Stone

Orin’s quiet observation produces slower results.

The wizard spends hours watching the docks and warehouses.

Cargo arrives mostly at night.

Crates wrapped in oilcloth.

Unmarked.

Workers move with the tired rhythm of people who have done the same job too long to ask questions.

But they do notice when someone watches too closely.

On the second evening, Orin positions himself along a stack of frozen lobster traps where he can observe one of the larger warehouse doors without standing out too much.

Once, he has the odd sensation of being watched.

Across the dock a cloaked traveler stands motionless beside a mooring post.

The figure disappears into the warehouse alley the moment Orin looks directly at them.

A pair of dockhands wrestle a crate down a ramp.

One of them slips.

The crate slams onto the frozen planks with a sharp crack.

For a moment, the lid splinters open.

Inside lies brittle black crystal.

Chardalyn.

The men freeze.

One of them mutters a curse under his breath and quickly forces the broken lid back into place.

The second man glances toward Orin.

Their eyes meet.

The dockhand walks over slowly, wiping his hands on a rag.

“You buying something?” the man asks bluntly.

His voice carries the rough edge of someone used to being ignored until something goes wrong.

Orin says nothing for a moment, letting the silence sit between them.

The man follows Orin’s gaze toward the crate.

His expression tightens slightly.

“Warehouse business,” he says quickly. “Nothing for travelers.”

Orin studies him carefully.

“Black stone is an unusual trade good,” the wizard replies calmly.

The dockworker snorts.

“You’d be surprised what people pay for these days.”

He leans a little closer, lowering his voice.

“Word of advice though.”

His eyes flick toward the warehouse door.

“Folks who ask too many questions about those shipments tend to stop asking questions.”

A second worker shouts from the ramp.

“Hey! Stop chatting and move the damn crate!”

The dockhand straightens.

He hesitates a moment before stepping away.

Then he glances back once more.

“Those wagons leave north,” he says quietly.

“Always north.”

He taps the side of his nose.

“That's all I’m saying.”

Then he turns and returns to unloading the crate.

Within moments the warehouse door closes behind them.

The dock falls quiet again.

But the pattern becomes clearer.

Chardalyn shipments move through Easthaven regularly.

And someone is moving them north.

Toward Caer-Dineval.

Whatever waits there is gathering something.

>> Orin you can post any retro dialogue if you want to have more conversation with the dockhands, or make any retro skill checks or take any actions in the scene

The White Lady – Quiet Conversations

Night settles heavily over Easthaven.

Wind rattles the shutters of the White Lady Inn as pale lantern light spills across the common room. The crowd tonight is thinner than usual. A few traders linger over mugs near the hearth while the innkeeper moves quietly between tables.

In a shadowed corner, the Howlbears gather around a small wooden table.

Their voices remain low.

Over the course of the evening, the pieces begin to fall into place.

Azalie shares what she learned from the young watchman along the docks. Marrow’s influence. The strange activity on the lake. The quiet rumors of dark figures moving across the ice at night.

Fizz adds his own discoveries from Lac Dinneshere. The dying fish. The unnatural fungus. The shard of brittle black crystal embedded in the creature’s gills.

Chardalyn.

Something in Easthaven’s docks is poisoning the lake.

Dorf reports his time at the forge. The dwarves know little about the shipments themselves, but the docks remain busy with cargo arriving under heavy tarps. Strange materials moving through the warehouses with little explanation.

Even the local thieves seem to be thriving.

Orin describes the crates he saw unloaded beneath the warehouse lamps. The brittle black stone. The uneasy dockworkers. The warning from the laborer who clearly knew more than he dared say aloud.

Every shipment leaves north.

Always north.

Toward Caer-Dineval.

Finally Mutt shares the rumors he uncovered during his search.

The half-orc merchant.

Azalie listens carefully as Mutt speaks, watching his hands move while he talks. A faint smirk crosses her face at the mention of Hagag.

“Who’s Hagag?” she asks casually, though her mind immediately begins running through possibilities. A friend. A relative. A wife?

She folds her arms and shifts her weight to one hip.

“I hope I’m not out of line here, but you’ve never really filled us in on your past.”

Her gaze moves between the others before returning to Mutt.

“And I think we should stay here. There are real leads here. Look at the fish. There’s something there. We know it.”

She keeps her voice steady, carefully pushing aside the swirl of thoughts in her head.

“Fizz and I are onto something. I’ve started working my way into information. Dorf hasn’t even gotten his weapon yet.”

She pauses, clearly debating whether to say more.

“Did… hmph…”

The words slip out before she can stop them.

“Did you forget about Uptharr?”

She exhales slowly, catching herself and regaining composure.

“I’m sorry. That came out sharper than I meant it to.” She straightens slightly. “I’m just trying to understand what’s happening.”

Her eyes settle on Mutt again.

“You’re our leader. I think everyone here would agree with that. But we’re only now hearing pieces of your past.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“Who you are… and who you were.”

For a time the table falls quiet.

Outside, the wind howls across Lac Dinneshere, carrying the distant creak of frozen ice shifting beneath the dark water.

>>Mutt, you can respond to this scene in addition to your retro posts.

Party - Decide your next actions in your next posts. You can remain in Easthaven for a few more days and try and uncover more information, be specific in what you are looking for in your posts, and everyone can include up to 2 more skill rolls that I'll resolve.

Current Time: 9:04 PM

Date: Fourthday 14, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

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