The air near the storehouse is thick with the scent of brine and aged wood, a lingering dampness clinging to the worn planks beneath their feet. The structure itself is unremarkable—just another weathered warehouse standing amid the bustle of the harbor, blending into its surroundings with ease.
As Teryn completes his incantation, the shimmering veil of arcane sight washes over his vision, seeking hidden wards, glyphs, or traces of magical defenses. But there is nothing. No lingering auras, no traps, no sign that anyone expected danger beyond the usual risks of their trade. Whatever this place is, it is not a lair of spellcasters—perhaps it really is just a meeting point where hands exchange stolen goods?
Meanwhile, Rowan, crate balanced with the casual ease of a dockhand, steps up to the building’s entrance, his keen eye scanning for anything out of place. A loose plank, a scuffed threshold, a dustless spot where something heavy was once set. A few stray marks in the dirt near the doorway tell a story—someone stood here last night, maybe longer, shifting their weight enough times to leave a faint impression in the packed earth. And there, not too far off, a dusty coin long forgotten, half wedged in between a couple planks.
Then, a flicker of movement from the corner of his vision—a dockhand, or someone posing as one, watching him from a distance. They linger, eyes narrowing slightly as if making a mental note. But just as quickly as suspicion rises, it fades. Rowan’s practiced deception, the ease with which he carries himself, convinces them he’s nothing more than another laborer about his work. The figure turns away, moving along the docks without another glance.
Byldeth shifts uncomfortably, watching the way people weave through the pier and asks his question in a hushed tone. Are you all blending in well enough for now?
(Deception checks from Käinen, Teryn and Byldeth can be rolled. Half the group here should pass in order to succeed. Since Rowan already passed theirs, we would only need one more.)
The Waking Kraken is exactly as Ellanise remembers it: a place where cheap drinks drown quiet sins, and confidence is found at the bottom of glasses. The light inside flickers from dim, uneven lanterns, casting soft shadows along the walls. The scent of spilled ale and sea salt lingers in the air, mixing with the low murmur of dock workers and sailors exchanging their own brands of unspoken dealings.
Settled at her table, drink in hand, she watches the door. Mariel will come—Ellanise is sure of it.
At first, a figure arrives, but is no one familiar. Just another face, another body taking up space at the bar. Casually making their way in and taking a seat. They scan the room once before ordering a drink.
A few minutes pass, then Mariel enters.
The halfling still carries herself with that same streetwise charm, that same roguish confidence Ellanise remembers. But there's caution in her movements, a slight hesitation in her step. Her sharp green eyes sweep the room, land on Ellanise, and widen—first in shock, then something softer, more uncertain. A slow smirk tugs at the corner of her lips as she strides toward the table. “Well, well. If it isn’t a ghost from the past,” Mariel says, slipping into the seat across from her. “Didn’t expect to hear from you again, Red.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “So tell me, what in all the hells could make you come crawling back into the Rats’ den?”
He was about to suggest scouting with the warlock when Rowan spoke. Trusting the halfling to that point had more than paid back and it was often the case in infiltrations that too much height became a problem. Deciding it was worth the try he followed in silence.
“We can just talk casually. Feign relaxing.” He pulled the water skin rather casually. “Drink like it’s wine. It’ll make it look like we’re just fooling around.”
Käinen spoke with the naturality of one with experience. He waited for questions from the moment he translated the note. In retrospect he should have waited for someone else to decipher it. It was luck that none in the group found a problem with his kind of past.
“Plenty of people skip work when they have a chance. Not that we can blame all of them. Dealing with cargo is exhausting. The hours are long, and the pay is way too short. More than a few bosses don’t care if you’re sick.”He knew better than he would like to admit. “At least on the road is like that. Can’t imagine it’s much different by the sea.”
There would be less thieves by the port if it was, the goliath said with the voice of his mind.
Notes: Deception check (rolled on the campaign log) = 14.
Teryn listens to Käinen’s advice with an easy nod, slipping seamlessly into the role of someone merely passing the time. He leans casually against a stack of crates, folding his arms as if idly observing the flow of harbor traffic. This place may not be his natural habitat, but his composed nature serves him well anywhere—whether in a noble’s study or the depths of a smuggler’s den. He takes a slow sip from his own waterskin, masking the faint amusement and curiosity that flickers in his eyes at Käinen’s casual expertise.
“Sensible enough,” he muses, voice quiet but relaxed. “I...can't say I'm familiar with such work, but people are more likely to overlook what blends into the ordinary.” His gaze drifts lazily over the surrounding pier, committing details to memory—the pace of dockworkers, the placement of the half-rotted sign, the suspiciously unguarded entrance. He taps a knuckle lightly against a nearby crate, feigning idle interest as he murmurs, “No magic in or around the storehouse. If they’re hiding anything, it’s done through mundane means.”
Ellanise watches Mariel approach, and when the halfling joins her, Ellanise feels herself relax a little. She grins back. "Hello, M. I'm glad you got my message. And I'm even more glad that you came."
The elf looks down at the mug between her open palms. "As I'm sure you've either heard or guessed, I've been back in town for a few weeks." She looks up, meeting Mariel's green eyes with her blue ones. "It's kind of a long story, but I'm a follower of Ilmater now. I've decided to go clean." She exhales a little chuckle. "Not so clean that I'm going to start pointing fingers or running with the city watch, but I'm not in the business of scamming or stealing anymore. In fact, I'm trying to help a professor find a tome that's been stolen."
She gives her head a little shake. "More about that later. First, how are you? I've missed you."
She takes another swig from her mug, smiling in an encouraging sort of way. While Mariel's arrival is a good sign that the halfling doesn't hate her, Ellanise isn't going to take for granted that everything is OK between them. Who knows what might have been said about her after her arrest and release? Their friendship was based on trust, and Mariel could very well feel that trust was broken. All she can do is attempt to build a new rapport with her that will hopefully be mutually beneficial in some way.
"Oh- right." He hums, taking his own bottle from his pockets, sipping it to try and appear natural.
(Deception check: 17)
He coughs, sucking on his lips. "It seems they are already chatting. Hopefully they can help us. . ."He stated, lifting his bottle to drink again, but stopping mid-way, as if changing his mind. "I wonder what is happening to this city. There are lurking evils there . . . Hopefully we can find them before it's too late." He murmurs, closing the bottle as he put it back on his pockets.
Rowan feels the subtle prickle of watchful eyes, even if that watcher’s already passed on. Someone’s mindin’ this place, all right—be it a hired guard or just nosy dockhands. He debates stepping up for a closer peek but decides caution might be the better harvest right now. After a few heartbeats, he pulls out a scrap of parchment, frowns at it like an address he can’t puzzle out, then glances around with a theatrical shake of his head. Crate still balanced on his shoulder, he wanders off into a nearby alley, sets the box down, and doubles back in a wide arc.
When he rejoins the others, Rowan speaks low, tapping the belt at his hip in that old anxious habit. “Place seems quiet, but I found footprints—fresh enough to guess a guard was parked there last night. While I was pokin’ around, some fella took a gander at me, but my workman act must’ve held. I’m guessin’ they’re laying low ‘til dark. Best we do the same.” He shrugs, casting a wary eye back toward the storehouse. “Don’t seem we missed our chance, but no sense trippin’ alarms too early, either.”
The dockside air carries a damp chill as the sun sinks lower, shadows lengthening against the weathered walls of the warehouse. The hum of distant voices and creaking ships forms a steady backdrop to the group's subtle investigation. Everything seems quiet. A little too quiet.
Then, from the alley between crates and stacked barrels, a scruffy, half-starved dog emerges. Its ribs show through patchy fur, and its dull eyes scan for scraps. It pads closer, sniffing along the ground before brushing against Rowan’s leg, nosing at his belt as if expecting a handout. For a moment, the mutt simply lingers, tail low, ears flicking at the faintest sounds.
Then footsteps echo on the planks nearby.
A messenger arrives at the warehouse door, his posture tight with urgency. Dressed in worn but well-maintained travel leathers, he knocks swiftly in a practiced rhythm: Two knocks, a pause, and a third knock. "Damn it, hurry up, this one’s important!" The door cracks open just enough for a shadowed figure to peer out. Their voices are hushed, you can make out a snippet of the hurried conversation. “The buyer’s getting impatient. If it’s not here by dawn, we lose the deal.”
Then, before anything more can be said, the dog lets out a sharp bark. It startles at something—a shifting crate, one of the party members twitching in the growing tension—but either way, the sound cuts through the quiet like a blade.
The messenger and the shadow at the door immediately snap their heads toward the group. The messenger slips a note through the door's slot just before it slams shut in response, the metal lock scraping into place. A tense moment follows. Then, slowly, the door creaks open again—but this time, it's not for the messenger.
A massive man steps out. Easily over six and a half feet tall and built like a dockside brawler, his thick arms are crossed over his broad chest. His face is weathered, scarred, and wholly unamused. He takes a long, appraising look at the group, then jerks his chin toward the street. “Oi. This pier’s off-limits. Move along.” His voice is rough as grinding stone, his stance is wide and his feet planted solidly on the warped boards of the dock. He doesn’t reach for a weapon—yet—but the intensity of his glare suggests he’s not above using force if he has to.
The messenger lingers awkwardly, unsure whether to stay or flee. His eyes flick between the enforcer and the group, clearly debating whether their presence spells trouble for him as well. He pauses for a moment before deciding to dart off down the alleyway.
The dog, blissfully unaware of the tension it just caused, sits at Rowan’s feet, wagging its tail expectantly as it looks up at him.
The Waking Kraken hums with the low murmur of dockside regulars, the scent of stale ale and brine thick in the air. Shadows stretch along the dimly lit tavern as Mariel slides onto the seat across from Ellanise. The familiar smirk is there, but something guarded lingers in her sharp green eyes.
"Well, well, well. If it isn’t Red herself." Mariel leans back, crossing her arms. "I heard someone came crawlin’ back to town, but I never thought it’d be you." There’s a note of something unreadable in her voice—equal parts surprise, amusement, and something a little harder to place.
As Ellanise speaks, explaining her return and newfound path, Mariel listens, eyes flicking to the side every so often, as if keeping tabs on the exits or watching for prying ears. But at the mention of the tome, her entire posture shifts. Her fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the table, and her expression sharpens—just for a second—before she covers it with a half-hearted scoff. "Tome, huh?" she says casually, but her tone is too light, too forced. "And here I thought you went all pious and left the game behind. Funny that you’re suddenly poking after something like that."
The air grows a touch heavier between them. Mariel shifts uncomfortably under Ellanise’s gaze. When asked how she’s been, she lets out a small huff, drumming her fingers on the table. "Y’know, I was gonna talk about how work’s been rough and how the city’s changed, but—let’s be real here, Elle. You didn’t come back to swap old stories." Mariel exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. "Look, you don’t want any part of this. You really don’t. Walk away now before you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, because this ain’t just some pocket-snatch job. It’s way bigger than you think."
Before she can say more, the creak of the tavern door cuts through the din of conversation. The third arrival of the night, Jorvan “Mouse” Mylen. The moment his eyes land on Ellanise, his expression twists into sheer, unfiltered rage.
“YOU!”
The expletive explodes from him like a gunshot. The patrons instinctively shrink away, pulling their drinks closer as Jorvan shoves his way through tables, knocking over a chair in his wake. The man who casually sat at the bar moments before Mariel's arrival, the lookout for this get-together, lets out a sigh, throwing back the last of his drink before standing up—clearly less than thrilled to be pulled into whatever this is.
Mariel moves fast.
Her hand grabs Ellanise’s wrist—not tightly, but just enough to sell this act. She appears to be conflicted between keeping you here and letting you go. She leans in, her lips barely moving as she whispers under her breath. “Ugh, You need to break free from me—make it real. Then run for the back. Jorvan will KILL you if he gets the chance.” She jerks her chin toward the rear exit, eyes flicking between Jorvan and the oncoming Duskrat backup. Her fingers loosen just enough for Ellanise to make a move.
Teryn watches the exchange with the kind of calm that borders on eerie—unbothered by the enforcer’s imposing stature, unshaken by the momentary shift in the air. His silver eyes flick to the note that was just passed inside, then back to the towering man blocking their path. He does not react with force or challenge but instead offers a composed, almost amicable nod.
“My apologies,” he says smoothly, stepping forward just enough to draw the enforcer’s attention without making a move that could be perceived as a threat. His voice is pleasant, his demeanor polite, but there’s an undeniable weight behind his words as he continues. “I believe that note belongs to us. Why don’t you be a good man and hand it over, then take the rest of the day off? No need for trouble tonight.”
The words roll off his tongue with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to shaping minds as effortlessly as one might mold wet clay. The arcane energy laces itself into his tone, a subtle Suggestion (WIS DC 15) that attempts to wind its way into the man’s thoughts like an idea that was always meant to be there. Teryn keeps his expression pleasant, almost expectant, as he watches the enforcer’s reaction.
For a moment, there’s a shift in the air—something imperceptible but undeniable, like the instant before a storm rolls in.
The big man’s brow furrows, his thick fingers twitching as if momentarily caught in unseen strings. His lips part slightly, as though he might actually obey. The arcane words begin to take root in his mind as his eyes begin to glaze over.
But then, his jaw clenches.
The Tough rolled exactly a 15, succeeding the save.
A sharp shake of his head dispels the enchantment, and his expression darkens. His posture tenses, his fingers curling into massive fists. A deep, guttural growl rumbles in his chest—not quite a roar, but something dangerously close. "You just tried to work magic on me?" His voice drops to a threatening hush, eyes burning with indignation. "I ain't dumb, pretty boy. I felt that."
His stance shifts, no longer just barring their way but bracing as if ready to swing. The slight creak of tensed leather gloves breaking the silence between them. Nearby, the few dockworkers and passersby suddenly find themselves deeply invested in looking anywhere but at the growing conflict.
Suddenly, there is a metal scrape behind the door as it creaks open. The second figure inside shifts, stepping closer to the threshold. His silhouette lengthens as the evening light catches the edge of his coat, revealing a man with sharp, calculating eyes and a crossbow in one hand, and a bolt in his other. His gaze sweeps over the situation, assessing, waiting. "Do we have a problem out here?"
What was once calm, is unmistakably tense now. The enforcer rolls his shoulders, sucking in a slow, deliberate breath through his nose—this is going to get ugly.
A few beats of silence pass.
His knuckles pop, the door behind him shifts as you hear the clicking sound of the figure inside load his crossbow bolt.
And in that instant, the moment hangs by a thread.
Unless someone speaks quickly—or pulls off a miracle—the first blow is about to be thrown.
Rowan stiffens as events unfold, feeling that low simmer of tension slither beneath his skin. Almost on autopilot, his hand slips toward the hilt of his dagger, but he tightens his jaw, forcing himself not to fully draw. Instead, he lowers a palm to the mangy dog huddled by his feet, giving it a small, cautious pat (Animal Handling 19, if needed).
“Nah, fella,” he murmurs softly, voice pitched just loud enough for the enforcer and crossbowman to hear without it sounding like he’s addressing them directly. “We talked about your barkin’, remember? Not nice to set folks on edge like that.” His words might be for the dog, but his gaze flicks toward the hulking bruiser as he speaks. “Sorry about that—he’s a good boy, usually. Gets a little skittish in these busy docks.”
He lifts his free hand—ostensibly to shush the pup—while he glances between the crossbow’s glint and the enforcer’s fists. “Didn’t mean to ruffle feathers,” Rowan continues, adopting a subdued, almost apologetic tone. “Honest. We’ll be on our way, yeah? Next time I’ll keep old Spike here on a tighter leash. Promise he won’t cause any more fuss.”
He chances a disarming half-smile, hoping this change of subject is enough to defuse at least a fraction of that rising hostility. “We were just passin’ through. No need for trouble over a dog barkin’ at shadows.”
(Persuasion 3, if needed, perhaps someone with proficiency can help?)
Ellanise's first instinct is to stay and fight. Mariel knows something, and her willingness to throw Mouse off Ellanise's trail fills her heart with hope. But then Mariel's hard stare breaks through Ellanise's fanciful thoughts. There's more to learn, but this isn't the time. She can't risk hurting Mariel.
"Get off me!" she yells, throwing the arm Mariel pretends to hold outward. She twists out of her chair, her hair flying, and chucks her half-full mug at the charging human man. "Catch, Mousey!"
Attack: 21
Without waiting to see if her aim is true, Ellanise runs for the rear exit. It's like déjà vu, she thinks.
The moment the mug leaves your hand, the tavern erupts into motion.
Jorvan doesn’t even have time to react before the tankard smashes against his face with a wet, splattering thud. Ale splashes across his brow, trickling down his nose, along with the sharp sting of impact. His head jerks to the side, a half-formed curse cut short as he staggers, hands flying to his face.
"You little—!"
A chair screeches against the wood floor as the second Duskrat from the bar pushes off and starts toward you, hesitation now replaced with urgency.
Mariel’s hand lingers just long enough to make the scuffle convincing, then she stumbles back dramatically, arms flailing. "Tch! Damn it—she's loose!" she shouts, but there's a faint, smirk as she throws in a well-placed trip against Mouse's ankle just as he lunges after you.
He stumbles, cursing, a table overturning behind him.
The rear exit looms just ahead—an old, salt-worn door with a rusted latch. The bartender barely glances up, completely unfazed by the commotion. From behind, Jorvan regains his footing, shaking off ale and humiliation in one furious motion. His voice cuts through the clamor, sharp as a dagger. "Don’t let her get away!"
As you burst through the exit, the alley ahead is narrow and damp, crates stacked unevenly against the walls. The briny scent of the harbor is stronger here, mixing with the acrid scent of spilled beer and old wood. A distant bell tolls the hour. Behind you, the door SLAMS open.
You have but a mere moment to react to lose them. It's been a while, but you still recall the familiar streets. Your pursuers, however, know them better by now.
Teryn’s silver eyes narrow, his usual composed expression faltering for the briefest instant. The irritation flares hot and sharp—this simple thug resisted him? It’s almost unthinkable. His mind recoils at the defiance, at the sheer audacity of it. His lips part, but instead of the refined retort forming in his mind, what escapes is a low, exasperated “Bollocks.”
The moment is gone as quickly as it came. He exhales through his nose, forcing a smile back onto his face—polite, but thin. His irritation is tucked away like a blade slid smoothly into its sheath. With a slow, deliberate movement, he raises his hands, palms outward, the very picture of graceful nonchalance. His fingers twitch, resisting the urge to summon magic again—not yet. He shifts his weight ever so slightly, readying himself in case things truly spiral. He glances toward Byldeth and Käinen, silently hoping that one of them can talk down the storm he nearly started.
Ellanise feels both exhilarated and scared. She knows she needs to hide. Luckily, her movement is silenced by her boots — a gift from Kaelion Vos.
She weaves in and out of alleys for the next 30 seconds.
OOC: Five rounds of 30 feet of movement, 30 feet of dash movement, and 30 additional feet of dash movement as bonus action = 90 feet of movement per six seconds.
Stealth: 13 (with advantage — bummer)
She then ducks into the shadows, hoping to avoid a scuffle.
Upon seeing the others storm out with the pursuers on their trails. A quick plan immediatelly crafted on his mind, as he took a deep breath, tugging Käinen to follow his lead. "HEY." Byldeth loudly exclaims, approaching them as he carefully stared at each one of them. "As the captain of the guard, i do not take kindly for this kind of trouble in my district! Tell me what is happening at once, before i take each and every one of you and put behind bars to rot alongside the roaches!" He said with authority, as he tried to de-escalate the situation.
Possible intimidation check: 9 (Whyyyyyy, Kainen pls helpp)
Upon seeing the others storm out with the pursuers on their trails. A quick plan immediatelly crafted on his mind, as he took a deep breath, tugging Käinen to follow his lead. "HEY." Byldeth loudly exclaims, approaching them as he carefully stared at each one of them. "As the captain of the guard, i do not take kindly for this kind of trouble in my district! Tell me what is happening at once, before i take each and every one of you and put behind bars to rot alongside the roaches!" He said with authority, as he tried to de-escalate the situation.
Possible intimidation check: 9 (Whyyyyyy, Kainen pls helpp)
(I’m a little bit lost. Don’t we have two different scenes in different places? I thought Byldeth was at the warehouse but your post seems to indicate otherwise, or am I missing something here?)
(It's okay, I can interpret it as if Byldeth is intimidating the two guard-types at the warehouse.)
The air grows heavier as the brute recovers from whatever unseen force tried to nudge its way into his mind. Behind him, the warehouse door remains ajar, the second figure readying their crossbow. The growing tension is thick enough to choke on.
Byldeth’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade, loud and commanding. He strides forward, shoulders squared, throwing all his weight behind the authority in his tone. For a brief moment, there’s a flicker of hesitation. One of the onlookers shifts uneasily, glancing between the big guy and Byldeth, as if weighing whether or not this is actually a real problem. But the brute? Not impressed.
His lip curls. “Captain of the guard?” He snorts, voice thick with sarcasm. "And I'm the bloody king!"
His hand moves, clenching into a fist.
The night air bites against her skin as Ellanise moves, swift and fluid, her enchanted boots silencing her every step. She winds through the alleys, the briny scent of the harbor thick in the air, feet pounding against damp stone as she pushes herself forward. Behind her, shouting erupts inside the Waking Kraken—the unmistakable sound of furniture scraping and bodies scrambling. You know these streets, but so do they. You cut right, ducking behind a stack of old crates, pushing through a narrow passage barely wide enough for a human to squeeze through. The sound of boots slapping against stone echoes somewhere behind you, but they’re losing you.
Then—a moment of panic. A shadow moves at the alley’s mouth. The boots were a blessing, but stealth is as much about timing as it is silence. A few agonizing seconds pass, then—a frustrated curse.
"Where the **** did she go?" In Jorvan’s voice.
Another voice responds, sharp and irritated. "You lost her? Damn it, Mouse!" Mariel must’ve stalled them longer than she realized. More curses, some muttering. Then the voices begin to fade. They’re searching elsewhere. You got away. But just barely.
The night stretches out before you, empty and waiting.
As the guard approached Käinen focused his attention on the running man, trying to commit his face, height, body type and even clothes to memory. Truth he told, the goliath wanted to give chase, but doing so would leave their backs exposed to the men on the warehouse. Better try solving things with words.
“Apparently we do!” Merrick said taking a step to the side and looking the man at the door. He looked like the guard’s superior, someone the bloody kind had to wait for. “We were taking a break when your man got on our faces. My friend here…” He pointed to Teryn. “… tried to send him away with inoffensive magic and believe me, if it was anything but inoffensive everyone here would know. Then a captain of the guard showed up, but apparently your friend understood this soldier was saying he was The captain of the whole guard.” He then turns to Byleth, acting as if he had never seen the dwarf on his life. “We’re with the Eoh Guild.” A joint-stock merchant company with its soldiers. It was know for almost monopolizing trade routes, officially by flooding markets with merchandise until its rivals are bankrupt but more than a few talk of extortion and worse. “You want to talk with those two, go ahead. I know you have a patrol hiding somewhere, waiting for us to attack first, but you don’t want to deal with our bosses’ friends. We’re getting out here.” He turned to Rowan and Theryn before starting to walk. “Good look dealing with the tin cans.”
The last words he threw to the man at the door, hoping he would consider easier to simply leave them go. No one would want to just pick a fight with Eoh or risk being ambushed by the city guard. Not to mention that killing anyone meant bodies to get rid of.
Notes: Käinen starts guiding the party (except for Byleth and Ellanise) to leave. I love to the DM judgement if the words give advantage to Byleth's intimidation or demands a charisma check by themselves. Hopefully the party just walks away.
The air near the storehouse is thick with the scent of brine and aged wood, a lingering dampness clinging to the worn planks beneath their feet. The structure itself is unremarkable—just another weathered warehouse standing amid the bustle of the harbor, blending into its surroundings with ease.
As Teryn completes his incantation, the shimmering veil of arcane sight washes over his vision, seeking hidden wards, glyphs, or traces of magical defenses. But there is nothing. No lingering auras, no traps, no sign that anyone expected danger beyond the usual risks of their trade. Whatever this place is, it is not a lair of spellcasters—perhaps it really is just a meeting point where hands exchange stolen goods?
Meanwhile, Rowan, crate balanced with the casual ease of a dockhand, steps up to the building’s entrance, his keen eye scanning for anything out of place. A loose plank, a scuffed threshold, a dustless spot where something heavy was once set. A few stray marks in the dirt near the doorway tell a story—someone stood here last night, maybe longer, shifting their weight enough times to leave a faint impression in the packed earth. And there, not too far off, a dusty coin long forgotten, half wedged in between a couple planks.
Then, a flicker of movement from the corner of his vision—a dockhand, or someone posing as one, watching him from a distance. They linger, eyes narrowing slightly as if making a mental note. But just as quickly as suspicion rises, it fades. Rowan’s practiced deception, the ease with which he carries himself, convinces them he’s nothing more than another laborer about his work. The figure turns away, moving along the docks without another glance.
Byldeth shifts uncomfortably, watching the way people weave through the pier and asks his question in a hushed tone. Are you all blending in well enough for now?
(Deception checks from Käinen, Teryn and Byldeth can be rolled. Half the group here should pass in order to succeed. Since Rowan already passed theirs, we would only need one more.)
The Waking Kraken is exactly as Ellanise remembers it: a place where cheap drinks drown quiet sins, and confidence is found at the bottom of glasses. The light inside flickers from dim, uneven lanterns, casting soft shadows along the walls. The scent of spilled ale and sea salt lingers in the air, mixing with the low murmur of dock workers and sailors exchanging their own brands of unspoken dealings.
Settled at her table, drink in hand, she watches the door. Mariel will come—Ellanise is sure of it.
At first, a figure arrives, but is no one familiar. Just another face, another body taking up space at the bar. Casually making their way in and taking a seat. They scan the room once before ordering a drink.
A few minutes pass, then Mariel enters.
The halfling still carries herself with that same streetwise charm, that same roguish confidence Ellanise remembers. But there's caution in her movements, a slight hesitation in her step. Her sharp green eyes sweep the room, land on Ellanise, and widen—first in shock, then something softer, more uncertain. A slow smirk tugs at the corner of her lips as she strides toward the table. “Well, well. If it isn’t a ghost from the past,” Mariel says, slipping into the seat across from her. “Didn’t expect to hear from you again, Red.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “So tell me, what in all the hells could make you come crawling back into the Rats’ den?”
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
He was about to suggest scouting with the warlock when Rowan spoke. Trusting the halfling to that point had more than paid back and it was often the case in infiltrations that too much height became a problem. Deciding it was worth the try he followed in silence.
“We can just talk casually. Feign relaxing.” He pulled the water skin rather casually. “Drink like it’s wine. It’ll make it look like we’re just fooling around.”
Käinen spoke with the naturality of one with experience. He waited for questions from the moment he translated the note. In retrospect he should have waited for someone else to decipher it. It was luck that none in the group found a problem with his kind of past.
“Plenty of people skip work when they have a chance. Not that we can blame all of them. Dealing with cargo is exhausting. The hours are long, and the pay is way too short. More than a few bosses don’t care if you’re sick.” He knew better than he would like to admit. “At least on the road is like that. Can’t imagine it’s much different by the sea.”
There would be less thieves by the port if it was, the goliath said with the voice of his mind.
Notes: Deception check (rolled on the campaign log) = 14.
Teryn listens to Käinen’s advice with an easy nod, slipping seamlessly into the role of someone merely passing the time. He leans casually against a stack of crates, folding his arms as if idly observing the flow of harbor traffic. This place may not be his natural habitat, but his composed nature serves him well anywhere—whether in a noble’s study or the depths of a smuggler’s den. He takes a slow sip from his own waterskin, masking the faint amusement and curiosity that flickers in his eyes at Käinen’s casual expertise.
“Sensible enough,” he muses, voice quiet but relaxed. “I...can't say I'm familiar with such work, but people are more likely to overlook what blends into the ordinary.” His gaze drifts lazily over the surrounding pier, committing details to memory—the pace of dockworkers, the placement of the half-rotted sign, the suspiciously unguarded entrance. He taps a knuckle lightly against a nearby crate, feigning idle interest as he murmurs, “No magic in or around the storehouse. If they’re hiding anything, it’s done through mundane means.”
Deception: 19
Ellanise watches Mariel approach, and when the halfling joins her, Ellanise feels herself relax a little. She grins back. "Hello, M. I'm glad you got my message. And I'm even more glad that you came."
The elf looks down at the mug between her open palms. "As I'm sure you've either heard or guessed, I've been back in town for a few weeks." She looks up, meeting Mariel's green eyes with her blue ones. "It's kind of a long story, but I'm a follower of Ilmater now. I've decided to go clean." She exhales a little chuckle. "Not so clean that I'm going to start pointing fingers or running with the city watch, but I'm not in the business of scamming or stealing anymore. In fact, I'm trying to help a professor find a tome that's been stolen."
She gives her head a little shake. "More about that later. First, how are you? I've missed you."
She takes another swig from her mug, smiling in an encouraging sort of way. While Mariel's arrival is a good sign that the halfling doesn't hate her, Ellanise isn't going to take for granted that everything is OK between them. Who knows what might have been said about her after her arrest and release? Their friendship was based on trust, and Mariel could very well feel that trust was broken. All she can do is attempt to build a new rapport with her that will hopefully be mutually beneficial in some way.
"Oh- right." He hums, taking his own bottle from his pockets, sipping it to try and appear natural.
(Deception check: 17)
He coughs, sucking on his lips. "It seems they are already chatting. Hopefully they can help us. . ." He stated, lifting his bottle to drink again, but stopping mid-way, as if changing his mind. "I wonder what is happening to this city. There are lurking evils there . . . Hopefully we can find them before it's too late." He murmurs, closing the bottle as he put it back on his pockets.
Rowan feels the subtle prickle of watchful eyes, even if that watcher’s already passed on. Someone’s mindin’ this place, all right—be it a hired guard or just nosy dockhands. He debates stepping up for a closer peek but decides caution might be the better harvest right now. After a few heartbeats, he pulls out a scrap of parchment, frowns at it like an address he can’t puzzle out, then glances around with a theatrical shake of his head. Crate still balanced on his shoulder, he wanders off into a nearby alley, sets the box down, and doubles back in a wide arc.
When he rejoins the others, Rowan speaks low, tapping the belt at his hip in that old anxious habit. “Place seems quiet, but I found footprints—fresh enough to guess a guard was parked there last night. While I was pokin’ around, some fella took a gander at me, but my workman act must’ve held. I’m guessin’ they’re laying low ‘til dark. Best we do the same.” He shrugs, casting a wary eye back toward the storehouse. “Don’t seem we missed our chance, but no sense trippin’ alarms too early, either.”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
The dockside air carries a damp chill as the sun sinks lower, shadows lengthening against the weathered walls of the warehouse. The hum of distant voices and creaking ships forms a steady backdrop to the group's subtle investigation. Everything seems quiet. A little too quiet.
Then, from the alley between crates and stacked barrels, a scruffy, half-starved dog emerges. Its ribs show through patchy fur, and its dull eyes scan for scraps. It pads closer, sniffing along the ground before brushing against Rowan’s leg, nosing at his belt as if expecting a handout. For a moment, the mutt simply lingers, tail low, ears flicking at the faintest sounds.
Then footsteps echo on the planks nearby.
A messenger arrives at the warehouse door, his posture tight with urgency. Dressed in worn but well-maintained travel leathers, he knocks swiftly in a practiced rhythm: Two knocks, a pause, and a third knock. "Damn it, hurry up, this one’s important!" The door cracks open just enough for a shadowed figure to peer out. Their voices are hushed, you can make out a snippet of the hurried conversation. “The buyer’s getting impatient. If it’s not here by dawn, we lose the deal.”
Then, before anything more can be said, the dog lets out a sharp bark. It startles at something—a shifting crate, one of the party members twitching in the growing tension—but either way, the sound cuts through the quiet like a blade.
The messenger and the shadow at the door immediately snap their heads toward the group. The messenger slips a note through the door's slot just before it slams shut in response, the metal lock scraping into place. A tense moment follows. Then, slowly, the door creaks open again—but this time, it's not for the messenger.
A massive man steps out. Easily over six and a half feet tall and built like a dockside brawler, his thick arms are crossed over his broad chest. His face is weathered, scarred, and wholly unamused. He takes a long, appraising look at the group, then jerks his chin toward the street. “Oi. This pier’s off-limits. Move along.” His voice is rough as grinding stone, his stance is wide and his feet planted solidly on the warped boards of the dock. He doesn’t reach for a weapon—yet—but the intensity of his glare suggests he’s not above using force if he has to.
The messenger lingers awkwardly, unsure whether to stay or flee. His eyes flick between the enforcer and the group, clearly debating whether their presence spells trouble for him as well. He pauses for a moment before deciding to dart off down the alleyway.
The dog, blissfully unaware of the tension it just caused, sits at Rowan’s feet, wagging its tail expectantly as it looks up at him.
The Waking Kraken hums with the low murmur of dockside regulars, the scent of stale ale and brine thick in the air. Shadows stretch along the dimly lit tavern as Mariel slides onto the seat across from Ellanise. The familiar smirk is there, but something guarded lingers in her sharp green eyes.
"Well, well, well. If it isn’t Red herself." Mariel leans back, crossing her arms. "I heard someone came crawlin’ back to town, but I never thought it’d be you." There’s a note of something unreadable in her voice—equal parts surprise, amusement, and something a little harder to place.
As Ellanise speaks, explaining her return and newfound path, Mariel listens, eyes flicking to the side every so often, as if keeping tabs on the exits or watching for prying ears. But at the mention of the tome, her entire posture shifts. Her fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the table, and her expression sharpens—just for a second—before she covers it with a half-hearted scoff. "Tome, huh?" she says casually, but her tone is too light, too forced. "And here I thought you went all pious and left the game behind. Funny that you’re suddenly poking after something like that."
The air grows a touch heavier between them. Mariel shifts uncomfortably under Ellanise’s gaze. When asked how she’s been, she lets out a small huff, drumming her fingers on the table. "Y’know, I was gonna talk about how work’s been rough and how the city’s changed, but—let’s be real here, Elle. You didn’t come back to swap old stories." Mariel exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. "Look, you don’t want any part of this. You really don’t. Walk away now before you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, because this ain’t just some pocket-snatch job. It’s way bigger than you think."
Before she can say more, the creak of the tavern door cuts through the din of conversation. The third arrival of the night, Jorvan “Mouse” Mylen. The moment his eyes land on Ellanise, his expression twists into sheer, unfiltered rage.
“YOU!”
The expletive explodes from him like a gunshot. The patrons instinctively shrink away, pulling their drinks closer as Jorvan shoves his way through tables, knocking over a chair in his wake. The man who casually sat at the bar moments before Mariel's arrival, the lookout for this get-together, lets out a sigh, throwing back the last of his drink before standing up—clearly less than thrilled to be pulled into whatever this is.
Mariel moves fast.
Her hand grabs Ellanise’s wrist—not tightly, but just enough to sell this act. She appears to be conflicted between keeping you here and letting you go. She leans in, her lips barely moving as she whispers under her breath. “Ugh, You need to break free from me—make it real. Then run for the back. Jorvan will KILL you if he gets the chance.” She jerks her chin toward the rear exit, eyes flicking between Jorvan and the oncoming Duskrat backup. Her fingers loosen just enough for Ellanise to make a move.
The tavern holds its breath.
Jorvan is almost on top of you.
You have only seconds to decide your next move.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Teryn watches the exchange with the kind of calm that borders on eerie—unbothered by the enforcer’s imposing stature, unshaken by the momentary shift in the air. His silver eyes flick to the note that was just passed inside, then back to the towering man blocking their path. He does not react with force or challenge but instead offers a composed, almost amicable nod.
“My apologies,” he says smoothly, stepping forward just enough to draw the enforcer’s attention without making a move that could be perceived as a threat. His voice is pleasant, his demeanor polite, but there’s an undeniable weight behind his words as he continues. “I believe that note belongs to us. Why don’t you be a good man and hand it over, then take the rest of the day off? No need for trouble tonight.”
The words roll off his tongue with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to shaping minds as effortlessly as one might mold wet clay. The arcane energy laces itself into his tone, a subtle Suggestion (WIS DC 15) that attempts to wind its way into the man’s thoughts like an idea that was always meant to be there. Teryn keeps his expression pleasant, almost expectant, as he watches the enforcer’s reaction.
For a moment, there’s a shift in the air—something imperceptible but undeniable, like the instant before a storm rolls in.
The big man’s brow furrows, his thick fingers twitching as if momentarily caught in unseen strings. His lips part slightly, as though he might actually obey. The arcane words begin to take root in his mind as his eyes begin to glaze over.
But then, his jaw clenches.
The Tough rolled exactly a 15, succeeding the save.
A sharp shake of his head dispels the enchantment, and his expression darkens. His posture tenses, his fingers curling into massive fists. A deep, guttural growl rumbles in his chest—not quite a roar, but something dangerously close. "You just tried to work magic on me?" His voice drops to a threatening hush, eyes burning with indignation. "I ain't dumb, pretty boy. I felt that."
His stance shifts, no longer just barring their way but bracing as if ready to swing. The slight creak of tensed leather gloves breaking the silence between them. Nearby, the few dockworkers and passersby suddenly find themselves deeply invested in looking anywhere but at the growing conflict.
Suddenly, there is a metal scrape behind the door as it creaks open. The second figure inside shifts, stepping closer to the threshold. His silhouette lengthens as the evening light catches the edge of his coat, revealing a man with sharp, calculating eyes and a crossbow in one hand, and a bolt in his other. His gaze sweeps over the situation, assessing, waiting. "Do we have a problem out here?"
What was once calm, is unmistakably tense now. The enforcer rolls his shoulders, sucking in a slow, deliberate breath through his nose—this is going to get ugly.
A few beats of silence pass.
His knuckles pop, the door behind him shifts as you hear the clicking sound of the figure inside load his crossbow bolt.
And in that instant, the moment hangs by a thread.
Unless someone speaks quickly—or pulls off a miracle—the first blow is about to be thrown.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Rowan stiffens as events unfold, feeling that low simmer of tension slither beneath his skin. Almost on autopilot, his hand slips toward the hilt of his dagger, but he tightens his jaw, forcing himself not to fully draw. Instead, he lowers a palm to the mangy dog huddled by his feet, giving it a small, cautious pat (Animal Handling 19, if needed).
“Nah, fella,” he murmurs softly, voice pitched just loud enough for the enforcer and crossbowman to hear without it sounding like he’s addressing them directly. “We talked about your barkin’, remember? Not nice to set folks on edge like that.” His words might be for the dog, but his gaze flicks toward the hulking bruiser as he speaks. “Sorry about that—he’s a good boy, usually. Gets a little skittish in these busy docks.”
He lifts his free hand—ostensibly to shush the pup—while he glances between the crossbow’s glint and the enforcer’s fists. “Didn’t mean to ruffle feathers,” Rowan continues, adopting a subdued, almost apologetic tone. “Honest. We’ll be on our way, yeah? Next time I’ll keep old Spike here on a tighter leash. Promise he won’t cause any more fuss.”
He chances a disarming half-smile, hoping this change of subject is enough to defuse at least a fraction of that rising hostility. “We were just passin’ through. No need for trouble over a dog barkin’ at shadows.”
(Persuasion 3, if needed, perhaps someone with proficiency can help?)
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Ellanise's first instinct is to stay and fight. Mariel knows something, and her willingness to throw Mouse off Ellanise's trail fills her heart with hope. But then Mariel's hard stare breaks through Ellanise's fanciful thoughts. There's more to learn, but this isn't the time. She can't risk hurting Mariel.
"Get off me!" she yells, throwing the arm Mariel pretends to hold outward. She twists out of her chair, her hair flying, and chucks her half-full mug at the charging human man. "Catch, Mousey!"
Attack: 21
Without waiting to see if her aim is true, Ellanise runs for the rear exit. It's like déjà vu, she thinks.
The moment the mug leaves your hand, the tavern erupts into motion.
Jorvan doesn’t even have time to react before the tankard smashes against his face with a wet, splattering thud. Ale splashes across his brow, trickling down his nose, along with the sharp sting of impact. His head jerks to the side, a half-formed curse cut short as he staggers, hands flying to his face.
"You little—!"
A chair screeches against the wood floor as the second Duskrat from the bar pushes off and starts toward you, hesitation now replaced with urgency.
Mariel’s hand lingers just long enough to make the scuffle convincing, then she stumbles back dramatically, arms flailing. "Tch! Damn it—she's loose!" she shouts, but there's a faint, smirk as she throws in a well-placed trip against Mouse's ankle just as he lunges after you.
He stumbles, cursing, a table overturning behind him.
The rear exit looms just ahead—an old, salt-worn door with a rusted latch. The bartender barely glances up, completely unfazed by the commotion. From behind, Jorvan regains his footing, shaking off ale and humiliation in one furious motion. His voice cuts through the clamor, sharp as a dagger. "Don’t let her get away!"
As you burst through the exit, the alley ahead is narrow and damp, crates stacked unevenly against the walls. The briny scent of the harbor is stronger here, mixing with the acrid scent of spilled beer and old wood. A distant bell tolls the hour. Behind you, the door SLAMS open.
You have but a mere moment to react to lose them. It's been a while, but you still recall the familiar streets. Your pursuers, however, know them better by now.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Teryn’s silver eyes narrow, his usual composed expression faltering for the briefest instant. The irritation flares hot and sharp—this simple thug resisted him? It’s almost unthinkable. His mind recoils at the defiance, at the sheer audacity of it. His lips part, but instead of the refined retort forming in his mind, what escapes is a low, exasperated “Bollocks.”
The moment is gone as quickly as it came. He exhales through his nose, forcing a smile back onto his face—polite, but thin. His irritation is tucked away like a blade slid smoothly into its sheath. With a slow, deliberate movement, he raises his hands, palms outward, the very picture of graceful nonchalance. His fingers twitch, resisting the urge to summon magic again—not yet. He shifts his weight ever so slightly, readying himself in case things truly spiral. He glances toward Byldeth and Käinen, silently hoping that one of them can talk down the storm he nearly started.
Ellanise feels both exhilarated and scared. She knows she needs to hide. Luckily, her movement is silenced by her boots — a gift from Kaelion Vos.
She weaves in and out of alleys for the next 30 seconds.
OOC: Five rounds of 30 feet of movement, 30 feet of dash movement, and 30 additional feet of dash movement as bonus action = 90 feet of movement per six seconds.
Stealth: 13 (with advantage — bummer)
She then ducks into the shadows, hoping to avoid a scuffle.
Upon seeing the others storm out with the pursuers on their trails. A quick plan immediatelly crafted on his mind, as he took a deep breath, tugging Käinen to follow his lead. "HEY." Byldeth loudly exclaims, approaching them as he carefully stared at each one of them. "As the captain of the guard, i do not take kindly for this kind of trouble in my district! Tell me what is happening at once, before i take each and every one of you and put behind bars to rot alongside the roaches!" He said with authority, as he tried to de-escalate the situation.
Possible intimidation check: 9 (Whyyyyyy, Kainen pls helpp)
(I’m a little bit lost. Don’t we have two different scenes in different places? I thought Byldeth was at the warehouse but your post seems to indicate otherwise, or am I missing something here?)
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
(Oh, well, Teryn did state that he glances towards us, hoping that we could talk them down, so i though we were at the same spot. Aren't we?)
(It's okay, I can interpret it as if Byldeth is intimidating the two guard-types at the warehouse.)
The air grows heavier as the brute recovers from whatever unseen force tried to nudge its way into his mind. Behind him, the warehouse door remains ajar, the second figure readying their crossbow. The growing tension is thick enough to choke on.
Byldeth’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade, loud and commanding. He strides forward, shoulders squared, throwing all his weight behind the authority in his tone. For a brief moment, there’s a flicker of hesitation. One of the onlookers shifts uneasily, glancing between the big guy and Byldeth, as if weighing whether or not this is actually a real problem. But the brute? Not impressed.
His lip curls. “Captain of the guard?” He snorts, voice thick with sarcasm. "And I'm the bloody king!"
His hand moves, clenching into a fist.
The night air bites against her skin as Ellanise moves, swift and fluid, her enchanted boots silencing her every step. She winds through the alleys, the briny scent of the harbor thick in the air, feet pounding against damp stone as she pushes herself forward. Behind her, shouting erupts inside the Waking Kraken—the unmistakable sound of furniture scraping and bodies scrambling. You know these streets, but so do they. You cut right, ducking behind a stack of old crates, pushing through a narrow passage barely wide enough for a human to squeeze through. The sound of boots slapping against stone echoes somewhere behind you, but they’re losing you.
Then—a moment of panic. A shadow moves at the alley’s mouth. The boots were a blessing, but stealth is as much about timing as it is silence. A few agonizing seconds pass, then—a frustrated curse.
"Where the **** did she go?" In Jorvan’s voice.
Another voice responds, sharp and irritated. "You lost her? Damn it, Mouse!" Mariel must’ve stalled them longer than she realized. More curses, some muttering. Then the voices begin to fade. They’re searching elsewhere. You got away. But just barely.
The night stretches out before you, empty and waiting.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
How did Mouse know where she planned to meet Mariel? Did she tell someone? She seemed to be helping Ellanise, but maybe she was just being hopeful.
After a good 10 minutes of waiting — 200 breaths — Ellanise leaves her hiding place. Sticking to the shadows, she heads toward the warehouse.
As the guard approached Käinen focused his attention on the running man, trying to commit his face, height, body type and even clothes to memory. Truth he told, the goliath wanted to give chase, but doing so would leave their backs exposed to the men on the warehouse. Better try solving things with words.
“Apparently we do!” Merrick said taking a step to the side and looking the man at the door. He looked like the guard’s superior, someone the bloody kind had to wait for. “We were taking a break when your man got on our faces. My friend here…” He pointed to Teryn. “… tried to send him away with inoffensive magic and believe me, if it was anything but inoffensive everyone here would know. Then a captain of the guard showed up, but apparently your friend understood this soldier was saying he was The captain of the whole guard.” He then turns to Byleth, acting as if he had never seen the dwarf on his life. “We’re with the Eoh Guild.” A joint-stock merchant company with its soldiers. It was know for almost monopolizing trade routes, officially by flooding markets with merchandise until its rivals are bankrupt but more than a few talk of extortion and worse. “You want to talk with those two, go ahead. I know you have a patrol hiding somewhere, waiting for us to attack first, but you don’t want to deal with our bosses’ friends. We’re getting out here.” He turned to Rowan and Theryn before starting to walk. “Good look dealing with the tin cans.”
The last words he threw to the man at the door, hoping he would consider easier to simply leave them go. No one would want to just pick a fight with Eoh or risk being ambushed by the city guard. Not to mention that killing anyone meant bodies to get rid of.
Notes: Käinen starts guiding the party (except for Byleth and Ellanise) to leave. I love to the DM judgement if the words give advantage to Byleth's intimidation or demands a charisma check by themselves. Hopefully the party just walks away.