The town of Hope's End sat under leaden, gray skies.  The autumn weather was chill and quite damp.  The year's first snow had not yet fallen, but it was only a matter of weeks before winter would make its presence known in this sleepy off-the-beaten-path place.  Hope's End was a settlement of weather-beaten timber and stone clinging to the very edge of civilization.  A cold wind swept in from the southeast coming in off of the nearby fens and marshes. 

The Great Moor, it was called, and the breeze coming in from this direction carried with it the sickly sweet tang of rotting vegetation.   In the town proper, the buildings leaned in toward each other.  Their slanted, sagging rooftops covered in moss and grime, as if they had long since surrendered wearily to the elements.  The flickering light from a few oil lanterns set jagged shadows dancing across the muddy ground, and made reflections in roadside puddles.

To the west, a large, old growth forest — The Forest of the Ancients — brooded on the edge of the town, its twisted trees clawing at the sky. For the most part, save for a few hunters and the occasional woodsman, the villagers of Hope's End kept their distance from this ancient forest.  Their wary glances lingered on the shadows that moved among the trees.  Beyond the forest the jagged silhouette of the Blackspire Mountains loomed, distant but menacing, like the teeth of some great beast waiting to devour the countryside whole.  Few spoke of what sorts of troubles lay within and beyond that storied mountain range, and those who did ... did so in hushed tones.

The scent of damp earth filled the air as the heroes arrived, mingling with the acrid smoke of peat fires burning within hearths, the only warmth this forsaken place seemed to know.  Beyond the town’s borders, the Great Moor stretched out, a sea of soggy damp earth and black water and twisted reeds, disappearing into the distance where the fog never quite seemed to lift. The croaking of frogs and distant howls of unseen beasts echoed through the gloom, a constant reminder of the wilderness that pressed in on all sides.

A handful of villagers, clad in ragged cloaks and patched tunics, shuffled through the streets, their faces gaunt and eyes hollow. Few dared to meet the gaze of the incoming strangers who had walked along the solitary trade road that ran through the village, and the townsfolk kept their business to themselves without introduction. 

A tavern at the center of town offered the only semblance of life, a dull murmur of voices barely audible through its thick wooden doors. Above the entrance, a crude sign swung lazily in the wind, the paint long faded but still legible. 

The Weeping Willow. 

If ever there was a town that needed heroes ... this was it.

As Navrine arrived at Hope's End, the chill in the air felt familiar, reminding her of the cold nights she once spent in the alleyways of the city. Her bare feet touched the muddy ground with practiced ease, her senses sharpened by years of training and survival. The town seemed to echo her past,  a place abandoned by fortune, filled with people who had long lost hope. The smell of rot from the Great Moor lingered in the air, mixing with the distant howls from the wilderness.

She walked with quiet steps toward the tavern, "The Weeping Willow," She mused “a name fitting for such a desolate place.” The door creaked as she pushed it open, stepping into the warm, smoky air inside. The dull murmur of voices quieted briefly as her presence was noticed, but Navrine wasn’t fazed by their scrutiny. She had always been an outsider.

Standing in the doorway, Navrine appears as a youthful human female, maybe in her early-20s, though her brown eyes, full of determination and compassion, hint at a troubled past. She stands a bit over five feet tall, with a lean, athletic build, honed from years of training and street survival. Her skin is lightly tanned and weathered, with some scars from her rough upbringing on the streets. She wears her long, red hair tied back in a practical braid, with a few loose strands framing her face. Her attire is simple functional monk robes in darker earthy tones, browns and greens, that allow for ease of movement and blend into the surroundings.  Her attire is layered, with a fitted tunic and loose trousers, complemented by a lightweight, hooded cloak. 

She carries a leather satchel filled with alchemical ingredients and herbal remedies. A set of thieves' tools is discreetly hidden within her clothing. Around her neck, she wears a small, worn amulet that once belonged to Lira, serving as a reminder of her tragic past and her commitment to mercy.

Making her way to an empty table near the hearth she settled in waiting for the Barmaid to take her order, she felt Lira’s memory close by as always. Navrine’s fingers instinctively traced one of the scars on her forearm, a mark from the life she left behind. In this forsaken place, she knew her work was far from over. She was drawn here to heal, to bring change,  and to offer the same mercy she had once found when she needed it most.

With the scent of damp earth still clinging to her. Navrine knew Hope's End might live up to it’s name, but she would challenge that. Compassion, she believed, could grow even in the most forsaken places, and this town needed it more than ever. She felt in her leather satchel for some coins and a pouch of herbs. Wondering absently if the Barkeep would grant her some boiling water in a mug so she could brew her herbal tea, or if she would be forced to drink watered down ale.

As the chill wind swept through the narrow streets of Hope's End, Cassian drew his cloak tighter around his broad shoulders. His breath misted in the cold, damp air, mingling with the smoke of peat fires that burned in the distant hearths. The sharp scent of rotting vegetation from the nearby Great Moor reminded him of the endless fields he used to tend back in Duskfield, another place where life and hope had been buried under the weight of superstition and fear.

Hope's End reminded Cassian too much of home—broken, weary, yet clinging desperately to whatever life remained. The village needed help, whether they asked for it or not, and he had sworn to protect the vulnerable, no matter how cursed or rejected they might be. He paused just before the tavern door, casting one last glance over the town. The wind rustled through the reeds in the distance, carrying with it a low, mournful howl. With a sigh, the Paladin pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside.

Cassian Ashward, a human standing at 5'10" and younger than his scarred soul might suggest at 22, stepped into tavern and shook the damp chill from his cloak. His frame, while not towering, was solid and strong from years of work in the fields and on the battlefield. Cassian's chainmail armor, though simple, carried the weight of significance. It had been a gift from Joy, his mentor, given to him when he completed his training. The mail was practical and unadorned, each steel link a testament to the hard work and countless hours spent honing his skills. Over the armor, he wore a plain, dark cloak, which clung to his back, hiding the shield and longsword that never left his side. Beneath the armor, Cassian's clothes were equally humble—a sturdy, dark tunic and trousers made for practicality rather than style.

His face, though youthful, carried the quiet weight of someone who had seen too much. Curly red hair, tied back loosely, stood out against his lightly tanned skin. His jawline was set with a determination that contrasted with the nervous energy in his eyes. That gaze was where most people faltered—the right, a warm brown, and the left, unsettling, with a white iris set against a black sclera.

Cassian approached the bar, his footsteps barely audible against the creaking wooden floor. He kept his gaze lowered, avoiding the eyes of the barkeep as he quietly requested, “A h-honeyed ale, p-please.” His voice carried the same nervousness that always lingered when he spoke to strangers. After receiving his drink, he offered a small nod of thanks before turning away and making his way to a seat near the hearth.

His gaze swept the room briefly, stopping momentarily on a human woman seated not far from him. She seemed lost in her thoughts, her presence quiet yet noticeable.

Cassian considered speaking, perhaps offering a simple greeting, but the familiar tightness in his chest reminded him of his own awkwardness. His stutter would surely make another appearance, and the idea of making a fool of himself was too much. Instead, he took a small sip of his drink, the sweet taste of honey cutting through the bitterness of the ale, and turned his attention to the fire.

Those damn attacks, why couldn't they just have stopped Doc thinks as he walks the last meters to finally another town but he knew, they wouldn't have stopped he probably already missed quiet a few, would his old colleagues and mates still be alive? Or were the attacks to heavy maybe. Ahh best not to think about it. I am here now, I left, I made the decision myself no one else so better make the best of it.

The walk had been long,  but following the trade route he knew he would find a village again. The cold had started to creep under his clothes, so the town, as wretched as it looked, was a welcoming sight. As he enters he immediately started looking for the tavern, noticing it he opens the door to the weeping willow and enters. 

Those in the tavern see a middle-aged 4'7 male dwarf walking in, black hair and a long beard. He is wearing chain mail armor, that has quiet some wear on it, aswell as a battered shield on his back which had the emblem of Tyr on it. If that wasn't indication enough, the dwarf also had the holy symbol of Tyr on a necklace around is neck. This dwarf was clearly a follower of Tyr who had seen his share of battle. Besides his armor he wore simple robes that were suitable for traveling, he had a mace and spear on his back.

As he walks in he walks to the barkeep

"One Ale for me please" as he already feels the heat of the fireplace giving him more energy and a better mood "Also, would you know who would like to play some dice?"

The door slams open with a crash, barely staying on its hinges. Stood in the door frame is a large figure, taking up almost the whole space. His pale skin is lined with dark tattoos and he has a multitude of weapons around him, a large gilded greataxe never far from his hand, and a collection of handaxes and javelins hooked on wherever they can be to be easily in reach, without obstructing movement. 

"Oh dear, I am so sorry everyone, that door was not as stiff as I was expecting, let me just.... yes it all looks good, no lasting damage there." and Chromir carefully closes the door, and walks up to the bar, bumping into a few tables as he goes. "Sorry. Oops. Excuse me" He remembers why he spent so much time out in the wilds, living amongst nature. His people skills were.... lacking, to put it kindly. At least he had the decency to apologise, but despite initial appearances, he is much more of a gentle giant than you might think. Well.... most of the time. The weapons were not decorations. 

He reaches the bar and carefully lowers himself onto a stool, making sure it can take his weight before putting his full trust in it. "Two ales please. They can be in the same mug if you have one large enough." he looks over and sees a dwarf, so turns to Doc and switches to Dwarvish: "If this town has a dwarf it is in good hands. I have spent enough time with dwarves to know that if you make anything, you make it perfect." and he turns his greataxe over looking at it fondly as he says that.

Character art in spoiler (so the post isn't too long)

Doc let's out a laugh

"Ay, my kind is indeed quiet cunning in that regards. I myself never really got the hang of it, although I do know my stoneworks. Besides that I'm not from town, and only just arrived aswell."

As the door slams open Narines muscles instinctively tense like a bow being drawn preparing for a fight, seeing the large well armed person blunder in from the dark and apologizing for slamming the door open she relaxed somewhat. “Where is that barmaid?" She whispered under her breath. Her gaze turned to the young man sitting near her “Beg your pardon sir.” She tried to get the young man's attention. “Will you watch my staff? I fear the Barmaid must have gone on a holiday or something. I will be right back.” Without waiting for a response Navrine got up and made her way  to the bar. “Barkeep,” She pressed a gold coin onto the bartop. “May I please have some hot water in a mug if possible?” She was fearing she would be forced to drink Ale. 

To her surprise he brought a mug filled with hot water from the back and pocketed the gold piece. “Thank you very much!” Navrina said as she moved back to her seat by the hearth. “Thank you Sir.” She says to the young man as she sprinkles some herbs into the hot water letting it seep. “I didn't want to lose my place near the hearth. It's a cold damp night tonight.” She realized she had forgotten the manors the monks at the temple drilled into her when she had just come from the streets a wild child. “My name is Navrine.” She extends her hand to the young man in a courteous fashion.

Cassian glanced up from his drink, startled by the sound of Navrine’s voice. He nodded, clearly taking this responsibility seriously as he turned his attention to guarding the staff while she walked off. His gaze flicked briefly to the boisterous interactions between the dwarf and the goliath at the bar. He couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. There was something about the way they bantered that struck him as both amusing and oddly endearing.

When the woman returned, apparently successful in getting water for her tea, her polite introduction caught him off guard after being avoided and stared at with suspicion by the townsfolk. She must be a traveler or adventurer too. There was something warm and genuine in her tone that made him feel less on edge. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking from her hand to her face, before slowly extending his own to shake hers. “Oh, n-no need to thank me. I-I’m Cassian,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. He cleared his throat, catching himself before his nerves could take over entirely. “Cassian Ashward. It’s good to meet you, Navrine.”

His eyes met hers briefly before instinctively flicking downward, as if to avoid scrutiny. He quickly pulled his hand back after the handshake, fidgeting slightly with the edge of his cloak as he spoke again. “Yes, the f-fire is nice,” he added softly, still slightly distracted by the boisterous pair near the bar. "It’s…quite the group here tonight," he remarked, his stutter gone for the moment, though his voice still held a cautious edge. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something about this night would be different, and the unexpected cast of characters only added to his curiosity.

Navrine smelled the herbs coming up from her cup “Well met Cassian Ashward,” She shook his hand and looked over at the group by the bar “Yes it is an interesting crowd.” She thinks for a moment, “Though, this is a trade road, so I imagine this crowd will change season to season.”

She sat back and warmed her hands on the mug. “It seems this town may be in need of some compassion?” She looks at her new companion enjoying the fire “I guess we are where we are meant to be it seems.”

Cassian’s gaze softened as Navrine spoke, her words striking a familiar chord. He glanced down at the hearth, watching the flickering flames dance across the logs, before nodding slightly.

“C-Compassion, yes,” he murmured, his voice steady but quiet. “Joy, my mentor, always said that courage and compassion bring hope...e-even in places like this.” His eyes flickered upward, meeting hers for a brief moment before looking away again, unsure of himself. “I’m not the best a-at inspiring anything yet," he continued, giving a self-deprecating chuckle before his voice grew firmer with resolve, "B-but I’m here to help, however I can.”

He paused, feeling the familiar twinge of awkwardness creeping in as he spoke again. “Is that…um, is that why you’re here too? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, of course,” he added quickly, the nervous edge slipping back into his voice.

Navarine considers the young man “Joy must have been a wonderful mentor indeed.” She looks into the mug of the herbal tea remembering the Monks who mentored her. It seemed a long time ago though it really had not been that long. “Until I can bear a fraction of your burden, Sufferer, I shall.” She closed her eyes and took a sip of the herbal tea. She looks up at her new companion and softly says “Cassian,” She pauses, unsure if she should ask permission before becoming more familiar with this young man “If I may call you Cassian? I think you inspire people just fine.” She takes another sip, “As for me? I was drawn here by fate I imagine, maybe the will of my God?” She studies him to see if he flinches at the talk of religion. “ I am going to be honest, I am really on my first steps outside the City and Temple where I grew up.” She looks down “Yes my mission now is one of compassion to those who suffer and are oppressed.” She looks up and smiles, “ I just hope I am worthy.” 

As the heroes got to know one another, the tavern keeper came over toward them.  A broad-shouldered woman with graying hair tied back in a tight bun.

"Mira."  She said plainly, by way of introduction. "Welcome to Hope's End."

"Apologies for the ale being as watered down as it is.  Our regular delivery is late ... almost a week overdue now at this point."  

"Late!?  I bet those fools are worse that late."  A slouching man called out from the bar.  

"I say those brewers probably ran into trouble messin' about as they were with that old wizard's tower."  

The man had a pockmarked face and thinning hair and after the outburst began muttering into his drink about 'good days gone by.'

Mira's eyes narrowed at the interjection.  "That'd be Klem.  He's always on about this curse or that ... pay him no mind."

Hearing Mira speak about the watered down Ale made Naverine grateful she only drinks tea. “Well Met Mira”, Navarine says sipping her herbal tea “Any ideas as to why the shipment is late?” She paused then said "Maybe there might be some brave adventurers who could help track down the mystery of the late Ale delivery if they knew where to start looking?” This could be a compassionate act? Folks need a good mug of ale sometimes to lift their spirits? "Can you tell us any more about the old Wizards Tower, that gentelman spoke of?" 

As Mira approached, introducing herself and explaining the situation, Cassian straightened in his seat. His expression shifted, growing more serious at the mention of the delayed delivery and Klem's outburst about the brewers. His gaze flickered toward the slouching man at the bar, left eye catching the dim light, though he said nothing in response. Instead, he turned inward, lost in thought, considering the implications of what was happening here. He knew enough to recognize that something wasn’t right. If trouble was brewing near an old wizard’s tower, it could mean any number of things, none of them good. He tries to recall if he's heard any stories about a wizard or wizard's tower in this area before. (History: 21)

Cassian glanced at Navrine, his quiet determination visible in his eyes but still unsure of the right words to say. As she asked for more information about this 'cursed' tower, he listened and watched Mira and Klem's responses attentively. (Insight: 11)

The talk about a shipment of ale missing of course gets the attention of Doc, what kind of dwarf would he be if it wouldn't. For now, though, he just stays at the bar listening to what the tavern keep has to say about it.

Chromir puts his axe on the bar, "How often do you get deliveries? If it is weekly, then you are almost missing two deliveries which leads me to believe Klem over there. Curse or no curse, I am sure it is nothing I can't hit with my axe."

Mira explains that the brewery in question was built by a young, ambitious gnome named Glowkindle.  The ruins of a long-disused tower lay nearby, and provided many of the stones used in the brewery's construction.  The site had been long rumored by many within Hope's End to have originally belonged to a wizard (presumed to be long dead). 

"Glowkindle usually sends his wagon once a week or so."  Mira answered Chromir.  "But it has almost been a full fortnight since he last did so."

She went on to give directions to the brewery, and it was not far ... perhaps half-a-days journey by foot. 

During this exchange, Cassian paid particular attention to Mira's body language and temperament.  In the paladin's estimation, nothing in the tavern keeper's mood or conduct hinted at malign intentions.

As the Insight roll was made first, I applied the results of that roll to this social interaction, but did not apply the History roll. [Re: One thing at a time]

Cassian remained silent, still considering the implications of what had been said. A gnome brewmaster building with stones from a wizard’s ruined tower? The mere mention of wizards and forgotten towers stirred his instinctive wariness. Too often, such places held remnants of magic best left undisturbed. This sounded like more than a mere delay in deliveries. Cassian glanced at Navrine, then the goliath and the dwarf, both of whom had clearly taken an interest in the matter. He wasn't sure how to phrase his suspicions without sounding paranoid, but the unease in his voice was clear enough.

"H-half a day's journey isn’t far. If this brewer has run into trouble, someone should check on them...to make sure the town doesn't lose m-more than just ale deliveries." 

Hearing the conversation, Naverine knew Cassian was right. “Yes we should definitely check on the missing brewer and see if he requires aid.” She looked at Cassian and nodded approval. She too was concerned about possible dark magics after all you can’t punch magic. Then a smile came to her face as she mused but I imagine you can punch the caster of magic. "How about you two?” She addressed the large fellow and the dwarf “Should we wait until tomorrow and get a night's sleep or just head on out now?” It was cold, dark, and damp outside and silently she was hoping tomorrow would be less cold and damp, but if someone was in trouble, time could be important. She took another sip of her hot tea and studied the others with interest.

"Saving ale, I'm all in for. I think it would be best to go first thing tomorrow as we all have travelled a long way today already I believe. My name is Doc btw." Doc answers