Solanacea, High Elf Rogue in Emon (Tal’Dorei)

Growing up on the estate in Southgate Farms, Solanacea had a fairly sheltered childhood. Most of her nearby age-mates were sons and daughters of farmers, and thus less likely to be free to play. Not that her parents, Dauces & Preasica, would allow for much mingling with the, to them, lower classes of society anyway. Solanacea was taught to behave, and more importantly, to be silent unless spoken to.

The estate and its lands had a view of Greyskull Keep, the fortress formerly belonging to the heroes of Vox Machina, which her parents never failed to mention to guests. Naturally, the people that her parents DID mingle with, were either of similar (perceived) importance or of a higher standing in Emon as a whole. With at least one ball or social call a month, sometimes lasting for several days, Solanacea spent several days left to her own devices, save for the servants, whom she was cordially friendly with, whenever her parents were not around.

During one of such stints, she would dress in the darkest clothes available, and sneak out of the hours of darkness had settled over Southgate, surely there would be some other noble estate, where someone of her own age-like state of mind would reside, and maybe they could talk. She, admittedly, had not thought the next steps fully through, as the nightly venture had been the main focus of her planning. Observing the routes of the night watchmen and their dogs, noting down the faces of the moon, and even the usual bedtimes and sleeping patterns of the more important members of the estate’s staff.

Moving closer to the city walls of inner Emon, she finally saw a house that looked both sufficiently large, as well as sufficiently dark and silent. Even though she hadn’t had previous stints of running away, her parents had her room door closed and shut with a lock and key. And in the late hours of her years, she had practiced with hair pins, combs, writing quills, and other utensils to jimmy the lock open. As such, the kitchen entry way to this estate was not much hassle to open. She carefully snuck up to the private chambers, finding them unlocked and unoccupied, she began searching through for signs of someone like herself. If her stint was succesful, she had planned on revisiting some other time, in hopes of getting in contact with said youth.

The estate that she had chosen however, was one of a pair of heirless nobles, no children, young or adult, was present here. Instead a secondary bedroom had been turned into a study, with books, ledgers, list of purchases and other records. A locked drawer in a desk intrigued her, yielding it’s contents with some work of the lock. It was a love-letter from another noble, clearly one of the estate’s inhabitants was having an affair. Memorizing the contents of the letter, she decided to head home for the night, as the sun would soon set, and her parents might come home, come morning.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline of her nightly stint that was still in her, but she decided to tell her parents about the letter, she caught herself thinking she was in trouble, but the smirks on her parents faces, told of a different outcome. Instead of a stern talking, her parents now become overly sweet, but very much still controlling. Her father took her on shopping trips for clothing in the city, specifically pointing out which noble lived where. At first she didn’t understand exactly why this sudden change of personality in her parents came to be, but it was better than being a show-piece at home. It was first much, much later that she realized the truth of the matter; her parents was using her in order to blackmail other nobles, and she could do nothing about it.

The thought of the scale of her deed made her stomach cramp up, she was an accomplice, and every time, the arrogant smirks of her parents would haunt her in her trances. She had the means to run, it would be easy in fact, but where would she go? She knew basically no-one in the city, and certainly not outside of it either. Her parents had severed connections to both their families, and she had never once been able to assert why, except for one time when her mother had hummed a tune of tribute, dedicated to someone named “Riskel Daxio”, but Solanacea was not familiar with the name.

Finally, after having revisited one of her previous break-ins, Solanacea saw the effects of the blackmail. The estate was cold, despite the long nights of winter approaching with steadfast gales, there was no joy in this building, but the tension and anxiety was palpable, she even saw a member of staff, sleep-deprived and paranoid. The realization made her almost reveal herself, as a sickening dry-heave forced its way out from her throat; she was the cause of this. She couldn’t take it anymore, how many households had been destroyed because of secrets she had uncovered? How many lives ruined? It was unbearable. She would return home only once more, to collect all the gear that her parents had bought for her, prober tools and armor. And that would be that, never to return. If possible.

A new life was waiting somewhere else in the city, hopefully, far, far way from the manacles of her family.

Darya Ithmuth Oreff, Tiefling Bard

Darya’s illustrious career had steadily been increasing in popularity, gaining her fame for a powerful stage presence and talented song performances. Although her first rise to fame was with an all Elven group (she doesn’t speak Elvish), it was clear that her drive and passion would lead her to something bigger. She joined another troupe, after being persuaded by another famous bard, Ricardo Whiteless, this group, with the gimmick of wearing very colourful clothes, was touring village to village, with throngs of people listening to them, and to Darya’s singing.

While in between playing gigs and writing on new songs, Darya took sometime off for herself, not going fully anonymous, but also not actively performing for the sake of searching for new inspiration among the people that she was playing for, listening to and helping with their issues where possible. While on this ramble, she stumbled upon another group of bards, who were struggling with their own material, and Darya agreed to help them out, believing that her stage presence and charisma could improve their already good lineup. This groups’ gig was to only play once a week, wearing all dark clothes when performing. This had started rumours that they were doing illicit things on all the other days, but this aura of mysticism also caused more interest in their performances, which Darya’s contribution very much was a big part of.

Eventually growing tired of the accusations of theft and occultism that stuck to the troupe’s odd behaviour, Darya left them on good terms, feeling restrained and locked in her professional capabilities. Thus striking out on her own again, she had to start mostly small. While travelling, she came upon the small township of Reevenmor, living in the oppressive shadow of a tyrannical magister. Seeing an opportunity, Darya began writing songs and poems about, thinly veiled, the leader of the resistance. This eventually sparked a storm on the magister’s tower, and the town was freed again.

Pah-We, The Kobold Sorcerer

Upon hatching, it was clear that Pah-We was different than most his egg-siblings, causing small sparks of harmless magic to flicker around him and the objects he came into contact with. Naturally, having some clear aptitude with magic, Pah-We was handed over to the care and tutorship of the tribe’s shaman. This tutelage did not last long, as Pah-We’s magic became more potent, seemingly with age, it also began to cause damage to items, including covering a carved head of The Great Black Mother in ice-crystals. Had this been almost any other artifact, perhaps this wouldn’t have been so bad, but The Great Black Mother was the Ancient Black Dragon, that the Keeka Draj saw as their matron. Despite the Dragon itself having been slain several decades ago by adventurers.

At the age of 7, just barely mature by Kobold standards, he was promptly exiled from the tribe, without any possessions to his name. The first year or so he spent scavenging, surviving on a mixture of plants, berries and fish, in the nearby forests close to his clan’s home. While his understanding of his abilities, in terms of magic, became clearer, he had no way to focus the magic, making the effects vary wildly, thus making them less useful for anything but predator deterrence.

One day, while exploring the far parts of the forest, Pah-We came upon a group of travelers, who were making camp. Curious as he was, he approached the camp (honestly drawn by the smell of a roast). This was his first ever interaction with any sentient race beyond the wildlife in the forest and his clan, at first the merchants and their guards were cautious, bordering on hostile, as groups of Kobolds (from Pah-We’s tribe) had been attacking caravans along the nearby road. Seeing that Pah-We was alone, and thus not really a threat. Instead, by request of on of the merchants, a man named Lawrence Bostrom, they took Pah-We in as curiosity.

One of Lawrence’s first acts was to construct a mechanical orb, made mostly from brass, telling Pah-We to attempt to focus his magic abilities through the orb. This orb was what Pah-We had needed to focus his magic, suddenly gaining a medium of control to channel his magic. This gave him a huge boost to his self-confidence.

The caravan of merchants arrived a some days early for the Feat Festival, having time to set up their stalls and getting a feel for the vibes in town. While Pah-We went out in town to attempt to scheme money, food, or anything of value, meeting with little success, before coming upon an elderly Half-Elven lady named Sylphira. Sylphira had tried, but seemed unable to get children of her own, and though Pah-We was mischievous, he had enough charm (and the size). And Pah-We spent the next couple of days acting as Sylphira’s newly adopted child. Pah-We grew fond of her, even handing back, unseen, some candlesticks that he had otherwise acquired from the house. And then it was time for the festival.

The Journal of Grimoire, chapter II

This is the journal of Grimoire, based on what Grimoire have seen or heard, including his thoughts on the matters at hand and the state of the world around him.

With Jess, Ignis, and Riniya all heading for the burning stable, upon hearing the sounds of distressed whinnying, the manor, engulfed in flames, were left to Melvin, Dande, and myself. Dande looked the body over; it was not the flames that had ended his life, but rather an elongated blade of some sorts. Clearing the body, Dande grapped into his jacket pocket for something, and headed towards the stable as well, I could not see the item from my point of view, but I’d suspect it to be an item that could mitigate the fire in some capacity. As such, if there was anything to be gleamed from the remains of the manor, it was up to me and Melvin. Now I knew that Melvin was just as, if not even more, proficient in opening closed doors, but it seemed fairly certain that the manor was lost, with all windows already burst from the heat, fire licking black, sodden tongues up the outer walls, the interior would be utterly destroyed. Books and furniture would have burnt, and with the heat being as intense as it was, I doubt many metallic containers would be much more than mostly melted remains. Heading in to search for survivors would be equal to suicide, unless the manor had a reinforced basement, the flames at this stage would have consumed almost everything.

Still though, in part because a locked door will always peak my curiosity, and in part because, there was a feint chance that someone might have made it to the front doors. If they could be saved and brought back to reason, they could very likely part with some important information. Things that might not be of great use here and now, but if I’ve learned anything over the past ten-fifteen years of solving cases in Onadbyr, then it’s that no piece of information should be discarded on the spot. And while I might not know, at the time of putting these words to journal, of to whom this information may be important, I feel I might know someone who could tell me more.

The brass door handle was sizzling and smoking, even from a distance, it was quite possibly scalding. Using a simple evocation, I covered the handles in a thin layer of ice crystals, this would temporarily cool the handle to avoid damaging my hands. Admitted, my heritage as a Teifling does give me an edge over most other creatures, but even we of so-called “devil’s blood” can acquire burn-wounds. Thankfully, though heavy, the door was not locked, and it opened easily, only to face a wall of writhing, red-hot flames, which then from the extra air now circulating, did bust out a heatwave into my face. Unpleasant for sure, but nothing a soothing bath later won’t fix.

Instead me and Melvin went around the manor, if there was any signs of a break in, or if the fire had started out here, we were most likely the best suited for such an investigation. I informed Melvin that with how the flames looked, combined with the non-burned corpse, that my suspicion pointed towards arson. Especially as every other building belonging to the estate, was in a similar state of burning to the ground. One building can be lost due to an accidental fire, sure, but multiple barns, stables, the staff house AND the manor all at once? No, there was nothing coincidental about this fire. An idea that was reinforced as we got around the manor; the backdoor that would open up out to the main garden, was blocked from access by a number of barrels. Judging by their size, food storage barrels, wine barrels usually have a different size and form. The fact that none of the barrels had spigots only strengthened this view. Clearly, the barrels had been put into place to block an exit route out of the manor.

I was about to head towards one of the other buildings, as we heard a feint knocking come from the barrels. Checking one of them revealed it to contain fish, salted for preservation, much to Melvin’s obvious delight. I had to remind him that we were looking for clues, I’ll need to teach him prober work ethics, if he is truly to escape the crimes of his past. We found the barrel that the knocks came from, and candidly I asked the barrel if “Everything was alright?”. Naturally, being in a barrel that’s made out of wood, next to manor that’s engulfed in flames, would not sit high on my personal list of “Things that are alright”, but this was the first line of words that sprung into my mind. The barrel in question was laying sideways, and wedged in between two standing barrels, we would not be able to pull the lid off of either end, until we’d moved the other barrels first. Thankfully it did seem like the fire wasn’t breaking through this side, so we would have some time to handle this. Melvin suggested we could just roll it out, but that would have sent it down a set of stone stairs into the garden, and I doubt whoever was inside would enjoy that experience. Unfortunately, the standing barrels proved much too heavy for Melvin or myself to move, I’ll admit, a burst of strength is not where I field my prowess. Instead we took out a crowbar each, and started prying the boards of the barrel apart.

An elderly lady, from her clothing, I’d say she was part of the kitchen staff at the manor, she had hidden herself in one of the barrels, as the Lord Romlyn and family had been assaulted and kidnapped. Clearly distraught, she mentioned a Lady Merrytail had been amongst the kidnappers, who had all adorned black robes with hoods. It seems our dear Lord Monder was correct in the rumours he had heard, as the old lady had heard them talk about a sacrifice at the Old Grinder, an old and abandoned mill about a mile away from the manor. The others had managed to rescue and secure Miss Ivory, so at least not all is lost. Melvin and I updated the others about our find, and with the chance that Lord Romlyn was still alive, we made a dash towards the mill.

When we arrived, we checked to see if there should be alternate routes inside (or out, for that matter), but only one way in was found. We had little time to plan anything, as this was a matter of life and death. My normal cases work more on an “after the crime” basis, rather than preventing crime, but that’s not to say that my cases haven’t sometimes turned into a stand-off with the suspect. Jess and Melvin tried to device a plan to throw Melvin up to a window, as a way to spot the inside out, but it would involve too much risk to Melvin given the height. Instead Jess broke the old, worn door down, rushing inside. We were all about to follow when the entrance was blocked by a large stone, that was rolled in front of the doorway, trapping us out here, and more importantly, Jess in there alone. Although Jess isn’t a frail character, being a Minotaur and all, even the most capable mage or warrior can’t deal with being outnumbered for too long. We had to get the stone out of the way, or at the very least, move it enough that we could enter to help Jess out.

While I wedged a crowbar in, Dande pushed the millstone just enough aside, that the others could either shoot through, or move through. We could hear sounds of combat coming from the inside, seems Jess was giving the opposition a fight for their life. Heard spells cast to the right of me, Dande had conjured something up inside, I was struggling to hold the stone in place as he cast his spell, but I managed to wedge my crowbar in, which seemed to do the trick. Finally getting inside, one cultist had already fallen, two more were still fighting, but Jess was looking pretty rough, despite her size and armour. As the two cultists saw they were outnumbered, they surrendered, only for Jess to knock them out. Dande and I headed up a ladder, while the others headed down. Two more were upstairs, one capable of simple spells, but working in unison, we quickly took them down, looking to join the others in the basement. We’ve heard Jess trying to persuade them into surrendering, and then something that sounded as an explosion.

Getting downstairs, a horrific sight met me; two noblemen had already been killed, their bodies laying in pools of their blood in a glowing magic circle, and a hooded figure was trying her best to avoid daggers and blows. A young boy was flung to the side, a grievous stab wound in the back of his head, informed me that he was in bad need of help. One of my potions would have to suffice, seeing as we had not hired a priest or a cleric to venture with us. I just hope that I’m not too late.

The Journal of Grimoire, chapter I

This is the journal of Grimoire, based on what Grimoire have seen or heard, including his thoughts on the matters at hand and the state of the world around him.

Raffolk Ginsi had gotten himself a serious problem. A 200 gold pieces or his life problem. The man is a gambler, and it appears that his debt have been accumulating over quite some time. The collector Gulfa, a brute of a Bugbear, made sure that the message was very clear. Personally, I think I would have handled the collecting of debt differently, an agreement that would have benefitted me over time, is more my style. Then again, I know a few of the types that venture the supposedly gilded halls of the Triple Nine gambling den, and not many of them would gladly accept a slow deal. They live fast, and apparently, they also die fast.

We walked together with Raffolk, after agreeing to help him. The colourful feather, according to our resident wildlife expert Riniya the Elf, was the feather of a Ko-attel (I do not know the spelling of this creature, nor am I aware of what this creature looks like, apart from it having feathers). I say was, as the fire that Gulfa caused utterly destroyed the beautiful feather and as such ruined Raffolk’s plans complete. These creatures are rarely seen, so their feathers are worth a small fortune to collectors. Indeed Lord Monder, the Crownwarden himself, was supposedly willing to pay upwards of 535 gold pieces for a single feather, more than twice the amount that Raffolk was needing to pay off his debt. Raffolk’s plan was simple; his grandmother had another of these feathers, heirlooms both of them, if only we provide the funding, to pay her, then we were promised the excess from the sale; by a quick estimate, upwards of 135 gold pieces. I’d like to consider myself a generous soul, within reason, so myself and Dande, a landlocked Haregon sailor with some grasp of magic, agreed to part with 100 gold pieces each. On top of Raffolk’s 50, this would suffice to appease his grandmother. I’d much rather that we had walked alongside Raffolk, to the Triple Nine and Gulfa, and paid directly, rather than letting a, potentially, priced heirloom go to waste, this would also have saved 50 gold pieces down the line. The feather of the grandmother looked a little different in colouration, but about the same size and glamour.

Raffolk said that Lord Monder would return with the money for the purchase, and suggested that we’d walk to his estate together. The Halfling appeared in greater spirits now, I reckon having a death threat removed can be rather uplifting, though I am in no rush to attempt such a feeling myself. En route to the Lord’s villa, we discussed the possibilities for Raffolk to avoid gambling in the future, he claimed to be of little skill in terms of practical jobs, but Dande suggested that he’d get in touch with some colleagues down at the harbour. From what little I know of seafaring, ship’s crews tend to be tightly knit, and most captains frown upon sailors gambling, even while docked. Any larger ship could always use an extra pair of hands, and while it can be mildly dangerous out at sea, it’s a job that builds character. Raffolk seemed not entirely displeased with the idea, though I don’t believe it exactly thrilled him either. Instead he seemed to want to steer the conversation towards the upcoming Day of the Crown festivities, namely the tournament.

I personally find bouts and tests of strength for the sake of public amusement to be rather barbaric, even if they are rooted in history. I’ll admit that I do find the cheaper food and drink to be quite a welcome gesture, but with all the rabble in the streets, it is difficult to find a nice and quiet place to settle down with a good book, or to finish up some case notes. People are significantly easier to interrogate though, albeit, too many drinks makes questioning a difficult task. And many a lowlife sees opportunity in the large gatherings, easy pickpockets and even break-ins, do tend to give a few extra cases in the coming weeks after.

The others in the group, to my utmost admiration, did not seem too approving of the tournament either. Dande pointed out that it was a bad habit of Raffolk’s, besides, the last couple of years, the king had won it himself. Among some of the more dubious gamblers, there have been talk that the tournament is actually fixed. It would be on the verge of impossibilities to actually prove, and I have not yet received an offer to take such a case. At least not one, that would truly pay for my time and trouble that is. Raffolk seemed to understand the notion, and instead started talking about the parade of the Day of the Crown, but just as any of us were about to say our piece on the matter, he bolted off down one of the side-streets. Melvin, Ignis, and Riniya all took after. Raffolk seemed mighty speedy for one of his Halfling stature, and other than the Elf, they didn’t look like they’d be able to catch him. As for myself and Dande, I suggested we’d take another route, as to encircle him and acquire an explanation for his sudden running away. This would not be the first time I’ve had to chase down a witness, or even a suspect. I prefer to use my brains over brawn of legs everyday, and I know quite a few of these narrow alleys. Or at least where they will eventually lead.

As expected, Raffolk came out of a side-alley to one of the larger roads, likely hoping to disappear within the crowds of everyday traffic. But then the odd thing happened, with his back to me and Dande, he changed his shape and appearance to that of a regular Human, slowing down as if he figured no-one had noticed. This is what perpetrators often do; they get too cocky and careless. And rather than outrun me, they’d have to outsmart me. Besides, I have others that are plenty capable in the running department. We apprehended him to ask, though tiny alarm bells were already in motion in my mind. I suppose my intuition should have been clearer, when he refused the direct (and cheaper) payment of his debt, but it now became very obvious that we had been conned. Upon closer examination of the grandmother’s feather which Dande had held onto, it became clear to me, that it was not of the same pattern or quality of the first feather, instead this was the feather of a large parrot, which of course wasn’t rare at all in comparison.

We handed the illusionist over to the guards, though he claimed ignorance. Thankfully, and perhaps much to the chagrin of Raffolk (if that truly was his name), the guards and I have a long history, as I have aided them on several occasions in cases regarding magic. Although I could not outright prove the perpetrator’s guilt, I could at the very least ensure that one thief would be locked away; enough witnesses at the Lucky Leap would be able to back our explanation for a possible conviction. As the Lord Monder was one of those witnesses, the guard wanted us all to follow them to the Lord’s villa in the High District. Upon arriving at the villa, we were greeted by a servant, before the Lord himself bid us enter. Only our Minotaur seemed unfazed by this wealthy abode, while Melvin seemed even more nervous than normal. Reasonable enough, given Melvin’s background.

As I had feared, the Lord Monder had not in fact been visiting the Lucky Leap that day, and he had not been looking to acquire such a feather. Clearly, at least to me, this whole ordeal was a large setup. Lord Monder suggested it to be the work of the Golden Masks, a band of thieves known for using illusions and disguises in their crimes, and apologized for the loss of our coin. I personally could have cared less about the amount, and while I’m certainly not vindictive, I do not like to be schemed or conned.

Perhaps seeing us all as a cohesive unit, Lord Monder then asked if we could perform a small task for him, he did recognize my name, though I don’t believe he knew the others. The task sounded simple; acquire the Lord Monder’s horse (named Miss Ivory) from the villa of Lord Romlyn just south-east of the city gates, it shouldn’t take much more than an hour by foot. I knew at once that something was amiss; this task was much too easy for a band of six adventurers to partake, there was a hidden agenda beneath. Not one for secrecy, especially not when it comes to my work, I pressed him for the truth of the matter. He caved, and admitted that there were rumours of dark rituals, foul magic, and other types of witchcraft being used out near the Royal Stud Farm, so if we were to “come across” any of that, we were to root it out, if possible.

I’m always happy to improve my standing with the guard, and the Red Cloaks too, but I’d understand if the rest of the party was less than enthused about partaking this job. Fortunately, there were but a few complaints and questions, and we would be able to depart for the villa, as soon as the Minotaur reacquired her gear. Heading down the road, an eerie sight greeted us in the horizon; plumes of black smoke rising from where the villa would be. As we closed in, the entire place, every single building, was set ablaze. We hastened towards the front entry, where the corpse of some poor fellow was laying in a pool of blood. His death was certainly not caused by the fire. Some of the others heard the panicked sound of a horse, and rushed towards the barn to aid the creature. We were all left with the same questions; who could have done this, and, perhaps more important, why?

Amongst Silk and Rubies

Miguel grew up amongst luxuries, his family owning, through straw-men and other contacts, several businesses around the wealthy dock-city of Chynllau. The family fortune had been secured by Miguel’s great-grandfather, who was a gem-cutter, but later came to own a workshop. Through a number of schemes and crafty business plans, Miguel (I) established a smaller emporium over the trade of gemstones.

The de Pechão house-hold was seat of many meetings, both with other merchants and nobles, but also with ship captains, mercenaries and other less pleasant types. If something could used to the family’s favor, it almost certainly would, and any threat towards the family or their businesses, had a tendency of disappearing and not be seen again. This dubious craftsmanship continued under Miguel (II), who established a personal bodyguard, as well constructing a vault for holding wealth for emergency needs.

Miguel’s father, Miguel (III), started to cut off the more dubious parts of the business, focusing more on his family and estate on the outskirts of Chynllau. Miguel (III) taught his son, Miguel, the wrong-doings of his forefathers, but also ensured his son to be proud of his heritage.

Miguel (IV) learned from personal teachers the basics of running finances and being an upstanding citizen. In his teens, Miguel pursued a love-interest, but was shot down, with the point being that he was “too boring”. The easily-influenced Miguel took that to heart, and decided to become that which he found most exciting at the time; a user of magic. Spending a significant amount of wealth and favors on not only books, but also remedies and artefacts, Miguel was studious and ambitious, his primary teacher, an elderly Elven woman, had praised him for being a quick-learner. Her main ideal was to use magic for the sake of fending for one self, as such the School of Abjuration was her prized subject.

At age 18, Miguel was technically supposed to be made ready to take over, but to his father Miguel’s surprise, Miguel handed that mantle to his twin-sister, Luisa. Miguel asked to travel the world, on one of the family ships out of the port. And so, the next week, after making a few preparations, Miguel set out on the seas to find love, knowledge, wealth and favors.

Val’Kiroth’s letter back home

Written in a very neat hand-writing, in the Draconic tongue.

Dear honoured father and mother
When this letter reaches you, I will have been on this journey of mine for several weeks now. Let me first start of by admitting a smaller lie on my part; I didn’t just go on this journey to find new trade networks for our family’s mine and for Farranin’s betterment. I have in secret been studying magic, though no-one else in town or at the manor, should be aware of this, to my knowledge.

I have made sure to keep it a secret, as I know your stance on magic is one of distrust, and I do not blame you. If you disown me everything from our family, I will stand fully understanding to your choices. But know I that will still work towards the enrichment of Farranin as well of the continued wealth of our family and that of the Giemerac family.

I partook the journey partly to discover what I could do with magic, but also to use my knowledge on behalf of our town. Alas I have not yet made any connections with regards to trade, but I have made a decent amount of money from my adventures through the towns of Neverwinter and Phandalin. I plan to, when I make it back, donate as much as possible to our family and the town of Farranin.

I hope Earrys is doing well, if her marriage is coming up, I’d be happy to pay for a gift befitting the first-born of the Amblarex family.

Once again, I apologize for deceiving you, I never wished to harm anyone, which is why I asked for a task of this character.

I long for the familiar walls of our beloved manor, as well as the company of you, my honoured parents.
I remain, truly, your son.
Val’Kiroth Amblarex

The Lost Mine of Phandelver, Val’Kiroth’s Journal

A first-person experience of a D&D 5E campaign

With the prisoners out of their cells, alive and well, all things considered, I turned to ask my rather brusque companions on what our next course of action should be. As I did, I noticed that our height-imposed musician, had vanished completely. I even asked venerable Gloriosa, as the short one seemed to be quite content with running behind her well-armoured rump, whenever anything unsavory would poke it’s ugly head forth in our direction. Alas, even she had not seen him run away, and she had not seen (or heard) if any creature should have crept up and gobbled him down like a morsel.

As a jest, I suggested the idea that he might have hid in one of the coffins, as there was a distinct lack of barrels here. Maybe he had hid and attempted to prank us, and then closing the lid, only to realise his lacking strength, being caught inside the coffin. Still, no muffled cries of distress cam from the coffins. Somehow it made my mood drop into a sour area, while his antics were annoying and obnoxious, to the point where even I had been tempted to test his “barrel” against my magic, I suppose it was sort of a strange friendship. And while brave would be the last thing to call him, his heart was still in the right place; helping those less fortunate than himself.

Meanwhile I as pondering my honest feelings towards our short friend, the smelly Half-orc and the strange Elf had found an old armoury. Spears, swords and crossbows. And a lot of bolts. Most of the weaponry was crude, but solid looking, it wouldn’t break easily, even in the hands of someone untrained. I took the finest of the spears, weighing it in my hands. The balance was good, I remembered the annual boar hunts my father would host for the miners, some would be clappers, some would guard the flanks with these heavy spears, in the case of the boars charging in. The main group would be equipped with crossbows and longbows. At the time, I found a hunt like that barbaric and pointless, but as my father pointed out, the following feast, where he would sit next to the common mine-worker, listening to their grieves and troubles, served the business that the mine was well, by keeping the miners happy. I had the idea that if I could provide extra bolts for the hunt next year, I could partake in the hunt as well. This would surely make my father proud of me.

We left the manor with the woman and her daughter, it was hard to tell exactly how long the two had been held captive, but they both appeared in good health. For some reason, my gut told me that more Redbrands were en route to the manor, I loaded up my crossbow and said that I would guard the two women to safety, while the others would drag the well-beaten mage out. Their intention was to hand him to the town, for them to sign out a fitting justice, though I had concerns; no building looked fortified like a jail. And unlike Draig, who seemed just as unfaced by bathing as by death, I have standards regarding ethics and punishment, the call for an execution would go against my beliefs.

While looking out over Phandalin, I noticed that more people were out in the streets than when we headed to the manor, none of them with the notable red hoods. It was a pleasant change, as none of the people appeared fearful, almost as if they knew we had taken care of the Redbrands. The mage spoke word that concerned me, even if the Redbrands wasn’t the best lot of people, if they truly were the force protecting Phandalin, things could go downhill very fast for this community. Perhaps venerable Gloriosa had the same line of thought, or she just read my mind, but she suggested we used the weapons in the armoury of the manor, to arm up the citizens; creating a makeshift militia. Even if we didn’t have time to train them in the usage of the weapons, just the sight of visibly armed people could fend off smaller groups of thieves and brigands. As I had snatched up all the bolts, I felt a jolt of guilt hit me, but I couldn’t just leave this place defenseless. So while I waited with the woman and her daughter, the others went in to obtain the remaining weapons, and the knocked out mage. I can’t imagine Draig’s shoulder to be comfortable, to say nothing of the grime, dust, dirt and blood I have no doubt would be smeared in layers upon it.

We were informed that the knight, that we saved from the Goblins, was at the Townmaster’s Hall, and we figured it was the closest to a government or leadership this town had. The mage was still out cold, I suppose the rough-housing the others gave him earlier did have some effect. Sildar wasn’t exactly pleased to see the mage, and when I inquired into the mage’s claim of him being “an old acquaintance” of Sildar, he seemed reluctant for a moment, before he told us of the mage’s past as an errant trouble-maker. He did applaud us for keeping the mage alive (and for gagging him, which had been a suggestion of mine), he was handling a heavy bag, which turned out to be our reward for rescuing him earlier. I figured the plans to arm the citizens were better left with Gloriosa, who had been very charismatic and adamant in that request, which was part of why I agreed to part with most of the bolts. Meanwhile, I headed in to talk with Townmaster, and obese, but short man. I had hear others mentioning him as a banker, so I figured this would be a good chance to make a connection between my father’s mine and the general trade routes near Neverwinter.

Alas the Townmaster turned out to be the kind of person, who should NEVER be in charge of other people’s investments and money, and most certainly not be their head figure in terms of political achievements. He kept misspeaking about the town’s funds as “his own”, to a point where I suspected he was trying to line his own pockets, rather than making the town a better place. I calmly informed him that we had dealt with the Redbrands, and he asked if we had found the money they stole. I told him no, no stash of money or other riches were found, all that were there, was the coins from the gamblers’ table in the cellar of the manor, 20 silver pieces. I counted them up and pushed them across the table. He frowned, informing me that the Redbrands had stolen heaps more, though I had a feeling that he was trying to scheme me, or my party, of more wealth. So I bid him farewell, with a vague promise that we would take care of some Orcs south of Phandalin.

With all of that debacle settled, we headed to the estate of a certain Alderleaf. A farmstead, as it turned out, in a rather poor state, but with a decent amount of land for crops next to it. Seeing as our musician and joy-bundle was missing, I stepped forth, my tongue may not be silvered, but it would be better than Draig spouting angry spittle at a common farmer. Gloriosa might have turned it into a religious lecture, something I could do without at the moment. And mister Aspendew I wasn’t sure about, but as it didn’t occur natural for him to step up and introduce our cause, I am of the firm belief that I did the right thing, in telling the others to let me handle this. For once, no-one complained or argued, quite the refreshing change.

The door was barely opened for a woman to look out, but not letting us enter or look inside. I understood her situation; in her stead I would have done the same, seeing such a well-dressed, fine-scaled, horn-embroided Dragonborn at her door. She informed us that she didn’t know the location of the castle herself, but that a friend, who was a Druid out of Neverwinter, most certainly did. I thanked her, despite the minuscule amount of information. She told us to be wary of her sound, who could be quite the rowdy kid, and as if on cue, a young boy came swinging a crude wooden sword. Naturally, a boy with little hope for the future, would turn to swords and violence first, before thinking of knowledge, books and numbers, despite the fact that the town probably could do well with someone of intellect, rather than savagery and the ability to cut of heads. But the boy admired Draig. Not even the somewhat refined Aspendew, or the well-mannered Gloriosa, despite her slightly fanatic approach to certain things. I just shook my head, and turned away. At the corner of the next house over, I spun to look at Draig handing the little boy his two hand-axes, trying to teach him how to throw them. I murmurred a silent prayer to no god in particular, that Draig would never deliver children into this world, no shins or kneecaps would be safe.

Finally they finished up, I heard the boy calling Draig “sir”, a title fit for a knight or a guard commander… Draig was as far from any of those as any of us would be. I asked if we should procure a wagon to head to a locale called Thundertree, which was where we could expect to find the Druid, but neither Sildar nor the Townmaster, the greedy fop, had a wagon we could borrow. Sildar suggested we ask Barthen if we could use the ox-cart in which had arrived. An excellent idea; it had not been long enough for Barthen to sell cart or oxen on. It turned out Barthen had made some small repairs to the cart, a couple of cuts from a Goblin scimitar here and there, I presume, but I gladly paid the small fee he asked for, unlike the smithy on the other side of the street, Barthen seemed a reasonable man of commerce. I went behind the shop, to prepare the cart, whilst the others had some unfinished items they wished to trade with Barthen about.

Finally they all came around, Aspendew went to pet one of the oxen, I tried to warn him that they didn’t particular enjoy being petted on their rump, but it was too late, the otherwise calm creature launched a kick to his stomach. And it was is Aspendew had seen himself mad at the ox for this; he started questioning what we needed a cart for. I thought that he was playing a jest, surely he could not be suggesting that we were to WALK to Thundertree and back. But soon it dawned upon me, that he was being serious. I looked to the others, but found little support in my reasoning. After some pointless bickering back and forth, we decided to sleep the night, and head out first thing in the morning. We talked about going straight to the castle, if possible, though I have preferred to head to Thundertree first; another settlement with potential trade to be made. But I was outnumbered in that regard too. Oh why, dear father, must I surround myself with religious fanatics, murderous savages and an Elf so much in love with walking, that you’d think he’d be married to a pair of good hiking boots.

Heading north we discovered the castle Cragmaw; a mostly ruined set of walls and towers on top of a hill. As we had slept, I had dreamed of a visit from the same fleshy wall as from my past, I woke suddenly in the middle of the night and looked below my bed; a strange, humid book was placed there during my sleep. Flipping through the pages, I found incantations for some powerful spells, most interesting I must say. Aspendew called a glowing owl to his aid, for a second I hoped it would land a smelly bird-poop onto Draig, but no such luck was had. Instead the owl flew over the castle ramparts, and Aspendew looked blankly up into the sky while it did. When it returned, he informed us, poorly, that the castle was in fact occupied, with smaller and bigger types of Goblins. His owl had also spotted a ruined part of the northern wall, that seemed lightly manned. We kept our heads down, mostly, as a single patrol passed by. We agreed to silently take out the next patrol to pass, giving us a free moment to enter the castle unnoticed, hopefully.

Listening at a door, Aspendew informed us that multiple voices were in there, however we didn’t manage to enter without sound, and soon the clashing of swords and armour echoed through the corridors. Draig took point, I could see him swing at something through a door, as he moved forward I followed, only to be utterly clubbed down by the ugliest Bugbear I ever saw. The next few minutes are hazy to me, I remember getting up, and being cut down again by a dark-skinned Elf. As I came to, from Gloriosa’s friendly voice, the others had barricaded the tower room, with an unconscious Gundren amongst us. And a beast of some size roared from the outside of the castle.

The Faceless Dream

I woke to find myself bathed in sweat, the cool air of the mountains chilled my spine. But in different way than I was used to. It wasn’t the winter months, and it wouldn’t be at least three more weeks till the first snow would start covering roofs and land. It was a different feeling, something felt… wrong.

I tucked a sheep-woolen robe around me, at this point, I feared my scales would fall off like icicles. The dark of my chamber told me the time of day; pitch black, it would be several hours till sun and the light of day would appear. Perhaps I needed something strong, to calm my nerves. I sat on my bed for a couple of minutes, trying to accustom my eyes to the dark of night, I could make out the nightstand next to my bed, but not much further than that. On top of the nightstand stood a thick wax candle, I had used it to read the past evening. A small copper bowl was placed under the candle’s base, to keep the wax from dripping.

I took it with my left hand, while opening the drawer to my nightstand with my right. I was sure that I had placed the tinderbox in there, but it wasn’t there now. My window had it’s curtains drawn, the fabric felt stiff and cold in my hand. No moon or stars lit the night sky, but I didn’t remember it as being cloudy when I went to bed. I had to find a light-source, if I wanted to make any progress in our manor. Fortunately my honoured father’s study was in the room right next to mine, I knew he would have a tinderbox in there, and that the study wasn’t usually locked.

The door to the hallway opened with a silent gasp, and for a second it felt like something big had rushed down the long, carpeted wooden floor. I held my breath, gathering my courage and looked out. But the hallway was just as dark as my room, and there was no sound of… something, going down into the lobby. With my right hand on the wall, I slowly fumbled my way to the study door. Father had been very specific about every piece of furniture in there, as well as the door, with the handle in the shape of a small dragon. The metal was cold to the touch, freezing, almost hurting in the very instant my fingers embraced it. I could see my breath as small clouds coming from my nose and mouth, as I pushed against the door.

The study had no windows, so the only light-source in there would always have to be a candle or a lantern, if the fireplace in the back of the room wasn’t lit. For this reason, it struck me as very strange, when I felt a short gust of icy wind rushing out between my legs, as the door was opened. I shuttered and squinted my eyes to peek inside. There it was, the tinderbox, right on the corner of my father’s study table. I rushed over, and lit my candle, putting the tinderbox away in my robe.

When the light was struck, I looked around, all the bookshelves had a fine cover of… frost. And inside the fireplace was a lump of snow, which would only be possible if the wind had been coming from a very specific angle. Shivering, I left the study, my father did have some alcoholic beverages in here, but those would be the finest vintage and most pricey drinks, so the thought of indulging in those would never occur to me.

The flickering light from the candle spread throughout the hallway. I immediately noticed that the door to my parents’ bedroom was open. I lurched closer, silently, as to avoid disturbing them. I couldn’t hear breathing coming from in there, so I pushed open the door. Their bed was empty, but from the look of their bed-covers, they had both left recently. I looked around in the room, but nothing seemed to suggest why, or where, they would have gone.

Heading downstairs, I found the door to the servants’ quarters had been knocked outward, and was now laying on the big, round carpet in the lobby. My father would not be pleased with this. I peeked inside the quarters briefly; no sounds and no-one appeared to be concerned. It was then that I noticed some deep claw-like marks by the door-frame, likely the cause of the door not being in it’s rightful place. I traced down the rough markings, the thick lumber, from which most of our manor was built, had been cleanly pushed in. Something very large, and undoubtedly very strong creature had made these marks.

The kitchen was a mess, plates had been torn out of cupboards, drawers broken apart and all my mother’s fine silvery had been scattered across the floor. This room, just like any of the other rooms, had a laying of frost on every surface. Where the kitchen looked as if a war-band had just been through on a raid, the pantry was surprisingly untouched. It didn’t take me long to find not only the alcohol belonging to the household, but also the private stash of our kitchen maid, Kirona. I had initially sought to let my father know, but despite Kirona sometimes being rather tipsy, she, as my father so boldly would proclaim; “Was the best damned cook for miles.” And I wasn’t exactly in disagreement with him on that note.

I had swiftly grabbed a tankard from the mess in the kitchen, and placed it on a shelf to pour. I had selected a half-full bottle of brandy. The cork was a bit stubborn, but finally it gave way, the pleasant, sharp scent of the brandy quickly went to my nostrils, already making me feel warm inside. As I took the first swig, a loud crash came from the lobby. I stowed the bottle down next to the tinderbox, and went to look with the candle in my left hand, the tankard in my right.

The double doors to the lobby and out in front of the manor, had swung open with some force, but no-one appeared to be waiting. I wasn’t much for leaving the manor, but when I looked out over the hillside, I felt I needed to investigate; footsteps, all leading away from the manor, through a fine layer of otherwise undisturbed snow. I collected and donned my good walking boots, and began to follow.

The footsteps would lead towards the village and in between the houses, never was there a set of prints heading a different way, always moving in unison. I had seen the village at night before, usually, there’d be light in the windows here and there, in particular the tavern, where those who had ended a late shift in the mine would usually spend the night. But there were no lights on. Every house, hovel and street was dark, cold and empty. I noticed a couple of open doors, but decided it better for me to not look in. More footsteps joined in with those from the manor. And they were all heading towards the entrance of the mine.

My candle had almost melted down, when I got to the foreman’s office. With it’s interior looking just like the kitchen; ravaged, as if someone… or something, had been searching for valuables or other items. In the last remaining light from the candle, I found a filled lantern that wasn’t broken. The lantern didn’t provide warmth as the candle did, so I poured myself some more brandy to balance it out. The foreman also had extra working gear, rough and primitive as it as, it would ward of the freezing cold better than nothing.

There was no snow inside the mine, and with the multiple shafts branching out as new veins were discovered, it was a labyrinth of caves, carved by hand for profit. Many times I would stop to listen, but apart from my own heartbeat, it was as silent as the grave. I had been walking for about an hour, always descending deeper into the earth, when I heard it. At first it was distant, like a deep, humming song, but as I got closer, I realized that it was a choir of voice, in a language I could not comprehend.

I turned a corner and almost dropped the lantern in shock; before stood every man, woman and child from the village, as well as my mother and father, with their backs to me. They were all facing a wall that didn’t look carved. It looked… alive, like a writhing mass of stone tentacles, slowly twitching, twirling in a mesmerizing dance. A deep, strange voice echoed in my head, the voice was powerful and I stumbled to my knees. I could not understand the voice, and it seemed to get louder as I didn’t answer. Finally I manage to scream “What do you want?!?!” and the voice stopped.

Everything went dead-quiet in that moment, and now the congregation of people began to turn towards me. Slowly, one by one, they would turn in their stead and look at me. But to my horror, their faces were… blank, well… gone. No mouth with which to talk, no eyes with which to see. The same was the case with my parents, no faces, just an empty wall of flesh. And yet I felt them staring, it was clear that I had interrupted something I was not meant to see. When the last person had turned their faceless head to look at me, the mass of people all reached a hand toward me and pointed at me. The wall-creature behind them made some kind of sound, and now they began to slowly approach. I instinctively held up my hand to stop them, and as a I did, a skeletal figure emerged from my palm, grinning it’s toothy skull at me, before blasting against the mass of people, knocking several of them down like a gust of wind against a stand of reeds.

Terrified, I screamed. And then I woke up. For real. My heart was racing, my bed soaked in my sweat. And in my clasped fist, was a tiny ice-crystal on a chain. In my head I heard a friendly humming, beckoning me to put the necklace on. And I did.

Character backstory: Val’Kiroth Amblarex

As the second-born of a family of prospectors, owning a mine in which Val’s great-great-great-grandfather and -grandmother met and worked. Living a long life, making an honest pay from the work in the rich mine, when they finally retired, his great-great-great-grandfather was a supervisor in the mine, overseeing the training of new workers. A position that their children took upon them in time.

When Val’s father, Wrakull Amblarex, was young, he was already in charge of organizing the ore-hauls going to merchants, and the purchasing of supplies for the miners. From that position, it didn’t take long for Wrakull to eventually own the mine, essentially being the most important figure in the settlement, that over the years had risen around the mine.

Wrakull was known as a strict, conservative man, though he managed to create the image among the workers, that he himself had worked his way up from the same position as they were in. But this was in part because Wrakull, through an agent at the local tavern, had heard some of the workers speaking of revolting and taking over the mine. Wrakull also set out to increase the safety of the mine-shaft, reinforcing the supports, replacing the damaged ones and having back-up digging teams on standby, in case of a cave-in.

Wrakull had hoped to birth a son first, so when his firstborn instead turned out to be a girl, he immediately set out, with his wife Hasiras, to birth another child. This child would become Val’kiroth.

Val’s upbringing was easy, along with his one-year-older sister, his father’s wealth were able to help overcome most difficulties, that children in a rough and tumble mining town normally would face. Including hiring a well-renowned Elf to teach Val and his sister Earrys a more refined etiquette, as well as the Elvish language.

Were Earrys took an interest in food, both eating and cooking, Val’s interests were more in accounting and wealth, to his father’s joy.

When Val was old enough, and with Earrys about to be married to another wealthy Dragonborn family, his father asked Val to go out and expand his and his sister’s new family’s trading network.