Chapter I: The Lighthouse at the End of the Road
Wherein drinks are free, suspicions are plentiful, and a rogue mistakes stealth for interpretive dance.
The storm struck the Sword Coast with the fury of a drunk god. Rain hammered the stones, turning the cliffs into slick deathtraps and the road into a muddy memory. Thunder rolled like distant drums of war. Yet even in this tempest, a light burned steady—a crooked, sea-lashed lighthouse turned tavern, its warped wooden door swinging with every gust.
It was the kind of place one stumbled upon at the edge of maps and the bottom of bottles.
Inside, it was no warmer. A hearth sputtered defiantly against the damp, casting amber shadows over scarred tables and seaworn faces. The barkeep, a man with salt-whitened hair and a gaze like a rusted harpoon, grumbled at every wet footprint.
“Hell of a night to be sober,” he muttered, pouring spirits that smelled like regret.
The door creaked, and in walked trouble.
Garrick “Rigg” Dalhart entered with soaked boots, wild hair, and a wrench strapped to his back that looked better suited to knocking down walls than fixing them. His eyes swept the room with the practiced greed of a man who once charged interest on bandages.
“Evenin’,” he said, grabbing five mugs from the counter in one confident motion. “Put it on Sir Gwen’s tab.” The barkeep grunted but didn’t argue. Rigg nodded to himself—still got it.
He turned and handed the ales out to the scattered adventurers who had, by some strange alchemy of fate and misfortune, gathered here tonight.
“To new opportunities,” Rigg offered, raising his mug. “And to not dying in a ditch.”
The Company of the Storm
The dwarf took his ale with a grunt. Lagerick Giffenhall wore his chainmail like a second skin and drank like a man who no longer prayed. He sniffed the brew, shrugged, and downed half in one pull.
“Could use more hops. And less rain.” He set the mug down and leaned back with the contentment of a man who had made peace with every poor decision he’d ever made. “So... we all just waiting for fate to trip over us, or what?”
From the shadows, a voice purred.
“Some of us don’t wait.” The tabaxi stepped into the firelight—slim, black-furred, with gold-threaded sleeves and eyes like twin moons at play. “High Jinks,” she said, with the kind of smile you could lose a war to. “Warlock. Cosmic patron. Occasional bookstore arsonist.”
Rigg blinked. “Arsonist?”
“Allegedly,” she grinned, and sipped.
At the next table, a pale-skinned Githyanki leaned forward, yellow eyes glinting beneath a brow of stoic disdain. He hadn’t introduced himself—not properly. But his armor bore planar runes, and his fingers never strayed far from the haft of a weapon that hummed with faint, unsettling energy.
“Stranded?” LagerickLeydrick asked, trying not to sound nosy.
“Geographically inconvenienced,” the Githyanki replied. “Temporarily.”
“Well, cheers to inconvenient geography,” Rigg said, raising his mug again.
High Jinks purred, “I believe that’s called ‘Faerûn.Fay-Run.’”
And then there was the wizard. Valen Pyre stood near the window, his crimson coat hanging damp and dramatic, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing half his face. He hadn’t spoken all night, merely watched—eyes half-lidded, hands occasionally flicking to the warmth of his arcane focus as though testing a thought.
“So, you do talk,” Rigg prodded.
Valen said nothing, but a nearby candle burst into flame.
Quests for the Damned
They weren’t alone in the tavern. The corner booth held a knight in armor too gold to be subtle, flanked by guards more interested in free drinks than duty.
Sir Gwen stood and addressed the room. “I seek hunters—skilled ones. A beast stalks the Sword Mountains. One eye. Many victims. Five hundred gold for the name, more if you bring its head.”
“A beholder,” High Jinks said immediately.
Gwen blinked. “Possibly. You’ll find out if you live.”
“Tempting,” murmured Valen.
The dwarf nodded. “Tempting and suicidal. Classic.”
Next came the miners, louder than the thunder outside. Ale on their breath, gold in their teeth, and fear in their eyes.
“Westbridge,” one slurred. “We’re headin’ there, up the Long Road. But folk vanish. Screams in the night. Guards won’t come. We’ll pay. Ten gold a day, hundred on arrival. You in?”
Rigg tilted his head. “How many of you are there?”
“Enough to get robbed,” High Jinks replied.
The last figure descended the lighthouse stairs—an elf in Lord’s Alliance colors, rain-slicked and sharp-eyed.
“Enough drinking,” he said, voice low but firm. “A caravan was due by sundown. We saw it shaking. No lights. No response. We need someone to investigate. Fifty gold now. Fifty after.”
The party exchanged glances.
“That,” Rigg said, finishing his mug, “sounds like it might involve stabbing. And gold.”
“Two of my better skills,” said High Jinks.
The Githyanki stood. “I’ll go. I tire of this world’s gravity.”
Valen simply adjusted his coat, a subtle nod.
LagerickLaydrick groaned and rose. “Can’t let you lot die without me.”
The elf handed over a pouch of coin. “Then go. And be careful. Something’s wrong.”
The Road Ahead
They left the lighthouse behind, stepping into wind and mud.
Ahead, the caravan loomed like a question asked too quietly. Guards stood in the rain, unblinking, mouths foaming, torches dead in their hands. The cart rocked violently.
“Subtle approach,” Rigg said, ducking low.
He moved like a shadow, then immediately slipped in a puddle and skidded sideways into a bush.
One of the guards snapped his head toward the sound. “Hey! You! Check the cart!”
“I’m jusht... taking a leak,” Rigg slurred, wobbling, ale mug still in hand.
Somehow, it worked. For now.
Behind him, the others crouched low.
“This,” whispered High Jinks, “is going to be fun.”