Welcome to Baldur’s Gate, a veritable nest of rats and vipers clinging to the rocky slopes overlooking the Chionthar River. From their high perches in the Upper City, the local nobles — known as patriars — gaze down with veiled contempt upon the common rabble in the grimy Lower City, which hugs the foggy harbor. The whole of Baldur’s Gate reeks of blood, crime, and opportunity. One can easily fathom why pirates and traders are drawn to this place like flies to a carcass.

Following the river farther east would eventually lead you to Elturel, capital of the holy land of Elturgard — or at least that was the case until a few days ago. The flood of refugees from Elturel has gotten worse since news first arrived that the city has fallen. Everyone is saying Baldur’s Gate is next, but no one truly knows who or what has claimed Elturel.

The patriars pay a mercenary army called the Flaming Fist to protect their interests in Baldur’s Gate, and by extension, the city itself. The Flaming Fist has gained even more power since their charismatic leader, Ulder Ravengard, claimed the title of Grand Duke a few years ago. Apparently, Ravengard is missing. In his absence, the Flaming Fist has sealed the city’s gates to staunch the flow of refugees. No one is allowed in or out.

All of this was brought to your attention shortly after you were drafted by the Flaming Fist to help defend the city. Your orders are to speak to Captain Zodge at the Basilisk Gate, which pierces the city’s eastern wall and takes its name from the various statues that rest in its niches and perch atop its battlements. Unseen beyond the sealed Basilisk Gate, a dirt road stretches through the Outer City slums to the bridge known as Wyrm’s Crossing, then to distant realms beyond.

Dozens of Flaming Fist soldiers are trying to control an angry mob of commoners eager to leave the city. Armed with only a vague description of Captain Zodge — a tall man with long black hair and a leather eye patch — it takes you a while to find him. A fight breaks out between soldiers and commoners, and you finally spot the one-eyed captain as he wades into the fray and begins throwing punches. Just another day in the City of Blood.

The young red-haired lady sighs as she stands gracefully, watching the insolent rabble stand up to the Flaming Fists. She is dressed in an exquisite long red dress in the same blood red colour as her long curly hair, wearing golden jewelry with an assortment of sapphires. She wonders what kind of assignment this Captain would give her, hoping it would be something where her talents would be useful, and hopefully not simple crowd control. Not wanting to distract the Captain from forcefully returning order at the Basilisk Gate, the young red-haired lady instead stays back and observes, wondering if there were others called into duty, perhaps even some real adventurers, fraternizing with their lot would truly upset her over-protective father.

Amid the chaos of the angry mob, Arkon Boulderborn towers above the throng, his broad shoulders and granite-like presence cutting through the din like a boulder through a stream. His gray, stone-textured skin and rune-carved pendant mark him as a stranger to the city, but his steady gaze shows no hesitation. His time among the peaks taught him to face storms head-on, and this, though loud and crowded, feels like a storm of its own.

Arkon strides forward, the throng parting slightly before him, whether out of fear or awe. He spots Captain Zodge, the man he was ordered to find, throwing punches with brutal efficiency. Arkon wastes no time. With a booming voice that echoes like falling rock, he calls out, "Captain! Let me help!" Without waiting for a response, he steps into the fray, using his size and strength to shove back rioters and create a buffer for the Flaming Fist soldiers. For Arkon, this isn’t just a task—it’s a test. And he is determined to prove that the stone giant blood in his veins is as unyielding as the mountains themselves.

Sarris sighed as he watched the chaos before him.  This was another reason he preferred the quiet of the wood and road versus cities.  In other circumstances, he would be perched on a roof top ready to send down a stream of arrows but, these were just people - hungry, scared people - not mauraders or monsters.  So, he is on the ground watching a goliath charge forward, sweeping people left and right as their arms windmilled into the bodies behind them.

"What have I gotten myself in to this time?" he asked no one in particular as Sarris prepared his Druidcraft -- hands weaving something in the air before him as he spoke a few choice words in an unknown language -- forming a 5 foot cube of choice skunk scent into the crowd.

Durak is a green skinned tooth protruding Orc. He features may be brutish but behind his amber eyes lies a mind thirsting for more understanding of the spark of magic. The thing that elates his very soul. Years of study have left him thin and frailer than his robust kin. His dark hair is cut short and styled to mimic a no-nonsense aristocrat he had met. He wears brown robes, his tattered black cloak with cowl, and a wizard's pointed hat. 

Seeing the riot before him he thinks "I came here for a book and now I am a rabble wrangler. I 'm not diving into that mess though maybe I can distract some of the citizens"

He reaches into a pouch on his belt and pulls out a palm sized orb. Smoke seems to swirl within the orb. 

Durak cast minor illusion to create the sound 30 ft away of many footsteps in sync like that of possible reinforcements coming to aid the captain. Heavy and with the jangle of armor. 

At the edge of the fight a black haired man stands, looking a bit bewildered. He was one of the last refugees that was accepted through the gates and immediately after this captain asked him to stay back as he had a task for him, but before anything could be explained or asked the fight broke out and hear he stood looking at all these people going at eachother.

The young red-haired lady watches as a few non-uniformed persons seemingly tries to assist with breaking up the mob, a massive granite-like goliath that fortunately stands with the Flaming Fists, an elf throwing something into the crowd that seemed to have a nauseating effect, and finally what seemed to be an orc wizard weaving some orc magic, quite a menagerie she smirked to herself. Judging by their actions they were here for the same reason as she was, so why not join forces. The young patriar lady gracefully but firmly steps closer to the rabble, and with fiery red eldritch force crackling between her hands she loudly calls out to the crowd to calm down or face the consequences.

Intimidation if relevant: 26 Another roll if dramatic magic show and other circumstances would give advantage: 14

The mob begins to fracture as the party and the soldiers begin to push back. Their anger gives way to fear as people are being beaten on the front and the others are scattering to the noxious smell being thrown in. The mob finally disperses as a voice bellows over them, threatening them as the sound of a march follows, reinforcements they thought. The soldiers push away any remaining protestors as they also take the their coin pouches off the unconscious ones before dragging them aside to sleep off their beating.

"Thank you for your assistance." The captain says as he approaches your party, giving a nod, “This damned refugee crisis has stoked fears that Baldur’s Gate might suffer the same fate as Elturel, of which nothing remains but a hole in the ground, apparently. Our grand duke, Ulder Ravengard, was visiting Elturel on a diplomatic mission when the city was destroyed. Coincidence? I think not." 

“The knights of Elturgard call themselves Hellriders. A few of them escaped the destruction and think we’re somehow to blame for Elturel’s downfall. What a bunch of self-righteous rabble-rousers! We’re arresting them on sight, but that’s left us shorthanded to deal with another problem. For that, I need your group's help.” He looks to your party.

The young red-haired lady quickly looks around at the others assembled. A menagerie indeed, this should prove interesting. She smiles confidently and nods to the captain. "Please tell us about this problem that the Flaming Fists need our assistance with and we'll be on our way." She says with a most refined and ladylike tone, quite curious about what in the nine hells kind of problem could be dealt with by this unlikely group. If nothing else they were a versatile one she thinks, briefly looking around at the others, giving them each a discreet scrutinizing look, pondering where their respective strengths and weaknesses lied.

Arkon listens carefully, though the captain’s words are fast and filled with more details than he can easily follow. He frowns, processing what’s most important to him: trouble in Baldur’s Gate, blame being thrown around, and the need for help. He glances at the others in his group.

"Elturel gone, Hellriders angry, city in trouble,” he rumbles, summarizing bluntly for himself before giving a nod of understanding. “You need help, we’re here. Just tell us what to do, Captain.”

"Oh dear, it speaks." The red-haired lady says with a good-natured teasing smile up to the goliath towering beside her. "And an excellent summary there friend, brief and to the point, but you can safely leave those annoying details to me." She adds, since there is where the devil is, and that would certainly be her area of expertise. 

Quote from Virst >>

Dozens of Flaming Fist soldiers are trying to control an angry mob of commoners eager to leave the city. Armed with only a vague description of Captain Zodge — a tall man with long black hair and a leather eye patch — it takes you a while to find him. A fight breaks out between soldiers and commoners, and you finally spot the one-eyed captain as he wades into the fray and begins throwing punches. Just another day in the City of Blood.

Zim's face contorts into a scowl, his jaw tightening as he witnesses the rough treatment of the commoners. His eyes narrow beneath his furrowed brow, a storm of disapproval darkening his expression. The heavy weight of his dwarven honor bristles against the injustice, each shove and shout chafing like grit in an open wound. His knuckles whiten around the haft of his weapon, though he holds his ground, and reports for duty.

Quote from Virst >>

The mob begins to fracture as the party and the soldiers begin to push back. Their anger gives way to fear as people are being beaten on the front and the others are scattering to the noxious smell being thrown in. The mob finally disperses as a voice bellows over them, threatening them as the sound of a march follows, reinforcements they thought. The soldiers push away any remaining protestors as they also take the their coin pouches off the unconscious ones before dragging them aside to sleep off their beating.

"Thank you for your assistance." The captain says as he approaches your party, giving a nod, “This damned refugee crisis has stoked fears that Baldur’s Gate might suffer the same fate as Elturel, of which nothing remains but a hole in the ground, apparently. Our grand duke, Ulder Ravengard, was visiting Elturel on a diplomatic mission when the city was destroyed. Coincidence? I think not." 

“The knights of Elturgard call themselves Hellriders. A few of them escaped the destruction and think we’re somehow to blame for Elturel’s downfall. What a bunch of self-righteous rabble-rousers! We’re arresting them on sight, but that’s left us shorthanded to deal with another problem. For that, I need your group's help.” He looks to your party.

Zim steps forward, his voice firm and unwavering, each word carrying the weight of his resolve. "I will do anything to end this suffering, that of the common folk (and of the refugees)," he declares, his eyes locked onto Captain Zodge's with steadfast determination. "Give me orders. I accept conscription." The air between them crackles with tension. Zodge's Insight may give a clue that Zim is holding back his desire to help those that the Flaming Fists are repressing, with the violence inherited in the system. "My words are not merely an oath, they are forged from the bedrock of dwarven honor, a thing stronger than adamantine."

"'It' is Arkon. Me." The Goliath explains to the small lady with a slight smile, relieved she is volunteering for the annoying part of the job. It leaves him free to focus on what he's good at. The dwarf's sheer earnestness and resolve is enough to impress him as well, though he doesn't fully understand what the man is upset about.

"Name a destination and I can guide us there.  Name a target and we can focus accordingly.  Name a price and you have my bow and sword at your service,"  Sarris gives a sweeping bow to Captain Zodge.

"Oh, and any papers or seals we might find necessary to move quickly through the city checkpoints toward our ultimate goal."

Durak is less eager to run errands for the Flaming Fist as this draft has derailed his plans though the possibility of the city sinking into who knows where with him in it does not sit well with him either. "I am willing to lend a hand though I hope the Flaming Fist will compensate me for my assistance with gold preferably" 

“Baldur’s Gate has long been plagued by followers of the Dead Three — the gods Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul. I thought we had wiped them out, but apparently not. These purveyors of fear and death are taking advantage of the current crisis to commit murder sprees throughout the city. As my appointed deputies in this matter, you’ll have license to kill these wretches on sight. Find their lair, and wipe it out. Eliminate anyone who gets in your way, and don’t worry about collateral damage." 

“If you do what I say, I’ll see that you each receive two hundred gold pieces in addition to my gratitude, which is worth considerably more." He takes out a few copper badges, emblazoned with the flaming fists emblem. "These are temporary badges we give to drafted adventurers, so that other officers know that you're acting in my name."

“A few blocks from the Basilisk Gate is Elfsong Tavern. A spy named Tarina hangs out there, gathering rumors for the Guild. She owes me a favor, so tell her you work for me. Ask her what she knows about the Dead Three. And, for the love of Balduran, be nice. Tarina has dangerous friends.”

Gorin listens to what the captain has to say

Why would they capture Hellriders he wonders And why are they treating their own people so horrible

But he stays quite about his annoyance, he was taken in as a refugee and doesn't want to be thrown out right away. He does admire Zim's words though.

Going after criminals isn't normally his forte, but he can't be picky now and 200 gold pieces will go nicely towards his goal of becoming an artisan back again now he lost his workshop.

"I'd be happy to help" he says.

However, I will worry about collateral damage he thinks after his comment.

Zim takes the copper badge, his calloused thumb brushing over the red ore pressed into the shield-shaped emblem. He tilts it, examining the raised imprint of flames encircling a clenched fist. Memories of his childhood surge to the surface, days spent deep in the mines, the scent of earth and metal, the gleam of raw copper pulled from the stone. This was the stuff of dwarves, the foundation of his very being. How fitting, he reflects, that the ore he once toiled to unearth now serves as a symbol of his new duty. What once bound him to the depths now binds him to this city and its people. 

Zim tucks the badge securely into his cloak, its weight settling against his chest like a new piece of armor. He lifts his gaze, meeting the eyes of those around him. His voice is steady, a rough edge of experience underlying each word. “The name’s Zim Eaglecleft. I can see it on your faces, you know what this assignment means.” He pauses, his eyes hardening with insight and pride. “The Elfsong Tavern, the one Captain Zodge mentioned? I’ve been there before. It’s not far.” He gestures toward the streets ahead, a hint of confidence in his stance. “Stick close. I’ll lead the way.” With that, Zim turns, his boots striking the cobblestones with purpose, the weight of duty and history carrying him forward.

Arkon nods firmly, his simple mind locking onto the key points: hunt the killers, wipe out their lair, and talk to this Tarina at the Elfsong Tavern. The mention of gold barely registers—what matters to him is the clear task ahead. He takes one of the copper badges, turning it over in his large hand before clipping it to his armor.

“Kill the bad ones, find the lair, talk to Tarina,” he repeats to himself, ensuring he understands the plan. Arkon follows Zim toward the tavern, his heavy footsteps echoing in the crowded streets. He doesn’t care for the noise or stench of Baldur’s Gate, but a fight is brewing, and he knows he’ll need to be ready.

Gorin is happy Zim knows where to go

"Gorin Mestel is the name. I don't know the city so happy you know where to go" he says taking one of the badges aswell