Episode 1
The red sun was touching the tips of the oaks and cedars of the nameless wood west of the Black Marshes. Summer cicadas droned on loud and steady like the hammers of the men who pounded the palisade logs into the mud around the village of Brandonsford. A stream babbled unhurried past the village, its cool water shimmering in golden dapples. The people of Brandonsford were setting up defenses. They had every right to be scared. A dragon had been harrying them for two weeks and they were running out of options. Their only defense had been a group of hunters from George's lodge, but they were all dead now. George had come back alone, his right arm gone, and scarred in more ways than one. He had gone straight to his lodge and locked the door, refusing any company.
The black wyrm wasn't the only thing threatening the village. Faeries of all kinds have lived in this forest for millennia, stretching back far beyond the history of the men that settled here after The Mountain That Fell, hoping to harness its magic. Yes, the forest was a Wild place, and was home to many Wild creatures: a family of strange satyrs, pixies, river nixies, leprechauns, and even a giant. Recently, not long before the dragon appeared, a hobgoblin king and his score of minions had taken up residence in a ruined forest temple not too far to the north, if the hushed rumors spoken in the inns and the village circle were to be believed.
Eric, a round man of about forty-five, was worrying by candlelight in his home. He was the town reeve. His face was framed by thick brown mutton chops, and purple-ringed eyes fixed upon the parchment on his desk. One thousand gold pieces! He didn't know how the village would be able to pay such a bounty, but the dragon simply had to be dealt with. And the going rate for dragon-slaying had gone up in recent memory, of that he was sure. Eric remembered when the most a reeve had to shell out was gratitude and maybe a feast in the hero's honor. But those days were long past. To make matters worse, it was almost time for Brandonsford to renew their tribute to the elves of Castle Blackmarsh. The elf ambassador was here in the village, unable to travel because of the threat of the dragon. So, Eric, having no other options, signed the document and went out and nailed it to the quest board. “Oh, I do hope some brave knight will come and kill the blasted thing, or I don't know what'll become of us!” Eric thought, tired eyes wide.
The Clumsy Fox Tavern was normally a place of merriment, but was rather dour this evening. The fiddler was taking the night off on account of his arthritis flaring up again, and so the only things to be heard were the nervous voices of villagers, the occasional clink of dishes on cutlery, the knock of hammers on wood outside, and the ever-present chatter of cicadas. The last light of day shone red on the interior of the tavern: a homely space, built of cedar and furnished with sturdy oaken tables and benches. The owner, Bentley, was a halfling with large round spectacles and thinning grey curls. His normally jolly expression was instead gloomy as he looked out over the sad lot drinking in his tavern. His three daughters could tell that their father wasn't himself, but they kept on washing the dishes. His wife glanced nervously at a table in the corner where four mysterious, cloaked outsiders sat in silence. They were from out of town, and had made no effort so far to seem neighborly.
At another table, four noble adventurers sat. Two gnomes, a human, and an elf. Bentley appreciated this type of traveler—the kind that buys lots of ale, tells interesting stories, and rescues the blacksmith's daughter. Bentley was drying a mug with a rag, not aware he was staring at the adventurers, lost in reverie. They seemed to be discussing matters of great importance, and Bentley sighed.
“No, no, my name is not ‘Ber-gull’, it’s got a ‘juh’ sound. Bergle. Soft ‘g’,” said the old gnome dressed in mages’ robes.
“Where does a name like that come from, anyway?” asked Calmin, the other, much younger, gnome. He was wearing chain mail and had a shortsword at his side, and was on his fourth ale. Bergle’s brow furrowed at the question, and opened his mouth to respond.
The elf interjected, “Should we kill the dragon?” The two gnomes looked at him and blinked. Garold was well-traveled elf, and by the looks of his clothing, a well-off elf too.
“And how do you suppose we do that, Garold?”
“Well, that’s the part we would need to figure out, but it sure would get us a lot of coin.”
The human next to them looked at Garold. He was still getting used to his new companions. Hammy was a man in his mid-twenties, and wore a simple white tunic and his head was shaved. The traditional apparel of a cleric of Thoth.
The door burst open and a man was standing in the threshold of the tavern, casting a long shadow over the swath of golden light.
“BENTLEY! I've just about had it with your rotten schemes! I don't know how you're doing it, but I know you're trying to ruin me! You're not gonna get away with it!” The man shouting was Quinn, the owner of The Golden Egg Tavern. He had a long white beard and piercing features, which were currently contorted in jealous anger. He pointed vigorously and shouted for a little while longer, turned, and stormed off across the village circle back to his own tavern.
The room was silent. This was quite the unexpected outburst from Quinn, who everyone knew as very friendly and mild-mannered. Murmurs began rippling across the tavern, and people were wondering if Quinn’s accusations were true, or if this was some kind of act to lift spirits, or if Quinn had finally cracked! In the corner, the cloaked outsiders were leaning in, whispering amongst themselves.
Bergle the gnome waved Bentley over to the table, and he approached, still somewhat stunned.
“What was all that about?” Bergle wondered.
Bentley collected himself, sighed, and pushed his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “Ah, well, mister Quinn has been accusing me of stealing his beer. Says his supply is dwindlin’. No matter how much money he spends on gettin’ good beer into his cellar, it’s all gone by the next morning. A mystery, that. But I tell you, I'm no thief. I run an honest business here, old Eric can attest to that. I ain't a cheater.”
“So Quinn thinks you're stealing his beer out of his cellar, and selling it here as your own?”
“Aye, that's about the size of it,” Bentley sighed. “It’s a real shame what’s happening to this town. The dragon has really soured things.” He poured Calmin another pint. “Have you all heard that merchants are too afraid to bring supplies through the forest? Quinn and I are both really hurtin’ from the lack of shipments. The whole town is! I hate to see him so upset at me for somethin’ I didn’t even do.” Bentley frowned, then squinted at the party of adventurers conspiratorially. “Say, you don't think you could investigate this, could you? Convince old Quinn that I ain't the thief he thinks I am?”
Garold leaned forward and folded his hands. “Sure we could, but what’s in it for us?”
