After the adventurers arrive at Outskirt in the Misty Vale, they make straight for the Three Stag Inn. Warm light and pipe smoke spill from its open door, the sound of laughter and clattering tankards cutting through the chill evening air. Inside, they are greeted by Vagnhild, broad-shouldered proprietor and de facto leader of the village.
She listens to their tale of being waylaid by goblins in the Drakmar Pass, her weathered face tightening at the mention of the ambush. With a grunt of sympathy she waves a hand to the bar and offers them a free drink. When they tell her they have come to make their fortune in the region, she leans in, voice low and serious.
There is, she says, an unholy place on this side of the Iron Forest: the Riddermound. It takes its name from a dark knight whom the gods chained beneath the earth along with his family, his servants, and all his hoarded wealth. The way she says it makes it sound less like a story and more like a warning.
The party finds a table in the busy common room and waits for their drinks, cloaks steaming gently in the firelight. The waitress, Annabella, weaves through the crowd with practiced ease. Up close, her eyes are sharper than her simple serving-girl smile suggests. Seeing that they are capable sorts, she glances around to make sure no one is listening too closely, then quietly confides that she is not Annabella at all, but Leanara, an agent of the Truth Society.
Her masters, she explains, are searching for the fragments of a statuette that will open the crypt of Eladrain. She offers them fifty gold for each part they find. A small fortune for some, not enough for others. In a hushed voice she speaks of the ancient history of Um-Durman, the legendary sword of the Dragon Emperor Eladrain, said to lie buried beneath the old ruined temple that overlooks the village even now.
Not all who hunt the statuette do so for noble reasons. Leanara warns that dragon-worshipping knights are also in pursuit, zealots who dream of restoring draconic rule and chaining every living soul beneath a dragon’s shadow.
When Annabella, Leanara once more wearing her tavern-girl mask, moves away to serve other customers, the party quietly debates their next move. The statuette they took from the dying man in the pass weighs heavily in their pack and on their minds. Fifty gold a piece is tempting, but these are ambitious souls, and the promise of a Dragon Emperor’s secret sounds worth more than any purse of coins. In the end they say nothing of the fragment to the agent of the Truth Society.
Drinks in hand, the adventurers take in the scene and atmosphere of the inn. Thromli climbs onto a bench, pipes at the ready, and launches into a raucous tune that retells their recent battle in the Drakmar Pass. His song paints the goblins as more numerous, the warg as twice its actual size, and the heroes as just a touch braver than they felt at the time. No one seems to mind the embellishments. Laughter rises, mugs slam on tabletops, and soon a scattering of coins clatters at Thromli’s feet.
Ruskin, ever practical, decides the night is not yet done. Before the merchants close, he slips out into the cool street, bundles of goblin weapons and armour clanking awkwardly under his arm. At the smithy he finds ever-smiling Okald at the forge and dour-faced Badinor sorting scrap. Through a mix of charm, hard bargaining, and the promise of future business, Ruskin parts with the goblin gear for a tidy sum and picks up a few useful supplies besides.
Back at the inn, Silas and Luna remain with Thromli, watching the crowd with the wary eye of seasoned travellers. A particularly sour-faced mallard, a duck-man with a scarred bill and cold, restless eyes, sits with a knot of ne’er-do-wells in one corner. Their hushed voices and the way they keep one hand close to their blades make them hard to ignore.
On the other side of the room, a woman resplendent in knightly armour sits alone, helm at her side, posture straight as a spear. She surveys the room with cool vigilance, and it is clear she is watching the mallard and his gang just as closely as the party is. Silas sidles over, attempting conversation. He earns at least a name, Alfilia, and a curt warning about the mallard and his associates. Beyond that, her trust does not come so easily.
When Ruskin returns, purse heavier and mood lighter, the party decides the day has been long enough. They arrange for rooms at the Three Stag Inn, all but Luna choosing the comfort of beds and a sturdy roof. Luna, restless under close walls, decides instead to seek a place beneath the open sky at the ruins of the old temple. Silas, curiosity gnawing at him and rumours of a mystic still on his mind, chooses to accompany him.
The ruined temple looms above Outskirt like a broken tooth, its stones silvered by moonlight. In a simple hut near the ruin they find Dranarth, the strange mystic villagers whisper about. Tattoos coil along his arms and neck like inked serpents, but his welcome is gentle and his fire warm. He tells them he can mend wounds and teach the ways of magic to those who wish to learn, though for now both Luna and Silas decline.
Over the crackle of the hearth, Dranarth shares one more piece of unease. A woman, he says, has been coming to the temple by night, searching for something among the toppled stones. She speaks in an ancient tongue to some other presence that squeaks in reply before winging off into the darkness. At that, Luna and Silas remember the casual talk of bats back in the inn and feel a faint prickle run along their spines.
Eventually, Silas turns back towards the comforting light of the Three Stag Inn, leaving Luna to find a quiet spot to sleep beneath the stars. He is not far from the village when the night splits with shouts.
“Troll in old man Mifaldor’s barn!”
The cry echoes through Outskirt, followed by the panicked clamour of villagers. Silas breaks into a run. As he reaches the farm, he sees the hulking silhouette of a troll framed in the barn’s shattered doorway, its hide a mottled, sickly stone. It lumbers dangerously close to his sweet-natured donkey, Willow, who brays in terror and pulls uselessly at her tether.
Without hesitation, Silas charges forward to protect his loyal beast.
Nearby, Luna hears the uproar and sprints towards the inn, howling for Ruskin and Thromli to arm themselves. The dwarf and halfling tumble from their beds, grabbing weapons and gear and stumbling out into the cold night. By the time they reach Mifaldor’s barn, the troll has planted itself between Silas and Willow, its tiny eyes flicking between man and donkey.
For one dreadful heartbeat, it seems to weigh the choice. Then the creature lunges at the more helpless prey. Its claws flash, its jaws snap, and poor Willow’s cries are cut short in a spray of blood and straw. Silas watches, helpless and horrified, as his faithful companion falls.
Rage answers grief. Ruskin rushes in with sword drawn, the steel gleaming in the moonlight, while Thromli raises his pipes to his lips and blows a stirring, thunderous note that rattles windows and wakes half the village. Luna takes up her bow, arrows hissing through the dark to bury themselves in the troll’s hide. Silas, roaring with fury, wades in alongside them, every blow he strikes a raw outlet for his heartbreak.
The troll fights back with brutal strength. Its massive fists and flailing claws land blows that will leave scars and stories both. Still, the adventurers press on, their courage hardening around the memory of the fallen donkey. Under a rain of steel, arrow, and stubborn determination, the monster falters. With a final concerted assault, they bring the creature crashing to the barn floor.
For a moment there is only the sound of their ragged breathing and the settling of dust. Then the villagers, who have watched from what they hope is a safe distance, erupt into relieved cheers. The adventurers stand bloodied but unbowed, troll ichor on their weapons and the first true proof of their heroism at their feet.
Yet victory has its price. Silas kneels by Willow’s still form, hand resting gently on her neck, his heart cracked by the loss. When the crowd disperses and the troll’s carcass is dragged away, the party returns to the Three Stag Inn in weary silence.
With Silas heart-broken and the others bruised and exhausted, the party retires for what remains of the night, thoughts already turning to the deeper dangers and darker secrets that tomorrow in the Misty Vale will bring.
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