Nestled in the rocky foothills of the snow-capped Sword Mountains is the mining town of Phandalin, which consists of forty or fifty simple log buildings. Crumbling stone ruins surround the newer houses and shops, showing how this must have been a much larger town in centuries past.
Phandalin’s residents are quiet, hard-working folk who came from distant cities to eke out a life amid the harsh wilderness. They are farmers, stonecutters, blacksmiths, traders, prospectors, and children. The town has no walls and no garrison, but most of the adults keep weapons within easy reach in case the need for arms should arise.
Visitors are welcome here, particularly if they have coin to spend or news to share. The Stonehill Inn at the center of town offers modest lodging and meals. A couple of doors down from the inn, posted outside the townmaster’s hall, is a job board for adventurers.
Adventurers, you find yourself enjoying a nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, and bread in the Stonehill Inn. You have already met the proprietor (a short, friendly human man named Toblin) and secured lodgings for the next 10-day at 5 sp per night/room. Each of you have your own room secured on the second floor of this establishment. Toblin walks about the modest, two-story roadhouse tending to your group and other patrons as you eat your meal.
You have all recently met and agreed to work together to help this small town from the threats it faces. Being the only adventurers around, you may be the towns only hope as the wilderness around pushes back against societies encroachment. The day has just begun and is yours. What would you like to do?
Please take a moment to describe your character as we begin.
Gareth Blackwood has already eaten his first plate of bacon and eggs and is now on seconds. He is a tall, lean man with short, brown hair and pointed ears. He might be mistaken for a wood elf save for the full beard he sports, neatly trimmed, which marks him as a half-elf. Already wearing his leather armor, under which he sports simple, homespun clothing in earthen tones, he has his longbow and quiver slung across his back. At his waist hang two short swords, for the inopportune moments when danger decides to get in his face. Around his neck there is a locket with a portrait of Sylvie inside. Even in the short time he has spent with these other adventurers, they have noticed him check the locket once or twice.
Gareth occasionally glances at his new companions, other adventurers who have made their way to Phandalin. He doesn't know much about any of them yet, but he hopes to change that soon. He is particularly intrigued by the presence of a dragonborn, which isn't exactly rare in Neverwinter but not common either. Aside from the dragonborn, he is joined by a halfling woman, an elven man, and two humans, one man, one woman.
As Toblen refills his mug with hot tea, Gareth nods his thanks and asks, "So these rumors about a white dragon in the area, are they true?"
Eldrin Thorne sits with the effortless grace of one born to it, his long, lean frame draped in a finely woven cloak of deep forest green, the fabric trimmed in silver embroidery that catches the morning light. His pale skin is unmarred by time or toil, and his angular features—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, and thin lips—form a picture of practiced elegance. His piercing emerald eyes scan the room with the detached curiosity of one who finds little of interest but surveys nonetheless, as a scholar might glance over an old, worn manuscript of limited worth. His long, silver hair is immaculately kept, braided in the intricate fashion of his people, though a few strands fall free to frame his face.
Seated cross-legged upon his chair rather than in it, Eldrin regards the meal before him with a look of quiet resignation. The bacon and eggs, though passable, do little to excite his refined palate, and the bread is, by all accounts, a tragedy —dense and hard. He sighs, before breaking off a piece with slender fingers, chewing with the air of one enduring an inconvenience.
At last, he speaks, his voice, rich with an elven inflection yet edged with an audible reluctance to converse in the common tongue.
"It is a wonder,"he muses aloud, more to himself than anyone else, "how civilization flourished among the younger races with such crude sustenance. One imagines the suffering they must endure daily, bereft of proper seasoning and the knowledge of finer fare."
His gaze drifts toward his companions, lingering just long enough to suggest scrutiny rather than true engagement. Then, with a mild frown, he flicks a hand, a subtle gesture that summons a faint shimmer of arcane energy. The air around him is briefly perfumed with the crisp scent of lavender.
"Better," he declares simply, before taking a measured sip of his tea and his unimpressive meal—though not without a barely concealed wince, making no effort to hide his disdain for the common world around him.
Toblin looks to the half-elf as he refills the tea with an experienced hand and says, "Aye, that be the talk of it...some folk claim to have seen a dragon flying through the high clouds. At that distance, it’s hard to gauge the creature’s size, but some say it’s as big as an elephant and has gleaming white scales.” Toblin looks at each member of the group before adding, "I sure hope that dragon doesn't come here. Most folk in this town are not as well equiped as you lot."
You hear a woman call out from the kitchen, "Toblin, more plates are ready."
Toblin turns his head towards the kitchen and responds, "Thank you dear!" He looks back to you Gareth and adds, "That dragon has our town mayor Mr. Wester spooked somethin fierce. He only comes out of his home now to post jobs the town needs doin and to refill his pantry from time to time."
Toblin replies to Eldrin with a look of disappointment as he recognizes the elf isn't enjoying his breakfast, "Pardons master. I could go put together something more to your liking. Perhaps some left over stew from last night along with a cheese wedge. How's that sound?"
Yarina sits tall at the table, the wood of the chair creaking under her armored weight. Her silver scales catch the inn’s lantern light with a soft sheen, and her greatsword leans within reach against the wall behind her. She eats with calm efficiency, not rudely, but with the focus of someone who considers food fuel for the day ahead. Her breakfast is nearly gone by the time Gareth speaks, and her sharp, ice-blue eyes lift from the plate as she listens.
At Eldrin’s remark, her expression shifts—just slightly. Not anger, but the faintest twitch of a brow, the kind that precedes a lecture on duty or etiquette in a military camp. She sets her fork down with a quiet clink and folds her hands atop the table.
"Where I trained, bread like this was a luxury," she says evenly, her deep voice steady, edged with a faint metallic resonance. "Cold rations, weeks old and frozen solid, were more common than tea or seasoning. You learn not to complain when your life depends on the strength in your limbs and the steel in your hands." Her gaze doesn’t linger on Eldrin long, but it’s clear she means every word.
“If it is a white dragon, hiding will do the mayor little good,” she says plainly after Toblin answers Gareth, her voice calm but firm. “Dragons are predators—and clever ones. They don’t need invitations to bring ruin.” She leans forward slightly, resting one thick-scaled arm on the table, the edge of her engraved pauldron catching the light. "We’ll see what he’s posted. Maybe there’s something in those jobs that hints at where this creature nests—or what it’s hunting.”
Toblin's expression changes from disappointment back to friendly as Yarina speaks. "Aye master. That's what I told em too. His timber walls will do little if that dragon decided he was it's next meal, but he refuses to listen to reason."Toblin smiles as Yarina expresses an interest in the job board.
Eldrin’s silver-blond brows lift just slightly as Yarina speaks, his expression poised somewhere between polite interest and mild doubt. He waits, his fingers steepled before him, allowing her words to settle into the space between them. Only when she has finished does he exhale, not quite a sigh, but certainly approaching one.
"Ah, yes," he murmurs, tilting his head ever so slightly, "the ever-reliable philosophy of ‘it could be worse.’ A sentiment I have found to be profoundly human, or in this case, draconic, though no less uninspired."
He gestures vaguely toward her near-empty plate, his movement slow, deliberate. "The virtues of endurance are well and good, my dear Yarina, but to endure is not the same as to thrive. If you have spent years consuming frozen rations without complaint, I commend your fortitude. However, I must question why, having now been presented with a proper meal, you would celebrate suffering rather than seek refinement."
His gaze flickers toward Toblin, his tone shifting to something almost... instructional. "I do not reject what is before me out of petulance, but rather out of principle. A people who cease striving for beauty, for elegance, for better, will find themselves stagnating in mediocrity. I would not wish that for you, Toblin. Nor for Phandalin."
He reaches for his tea, taking a measured sip before setting the cup down with meticulous care. Then, as though sensing the rising tension, he offers the faintest ghost of a smile.
"But of course," he muses, "as I was about to say before this detour into the merits of our breakfast, I am most intrigued by this dragon problem. If the mayor has taken to hiding rather than acting, it is all the more reason we must proceed swiftly. A predator left unchallenged grows only bolder."
He leans back, one leg crossing elegantly over the other, his tone light but unmistakably confident.
Zephyros Ironheart sluggishly consumes the food on his plate. His mind seems to be elsewhere, and he refuses to relax. Zephyros' right hand firmly grasps his trident, causing the veins throughout his arm to bulge. Suddenly, the bull of a man snaps back to reality when he hears Eldrin's disdainful attitude. Zephyros' brown eyes linger over the elf a brief moment before sternly, albeit quietly speaking.
As if gazing through the wizard's green eyes, the burly man states, "It would do you well to learn manners and respect. I have seen first hand men die for lack of etiquette. For your sake, master wizard, please learn that sometimes manners win more battles than ambition. While I'm sure you may be a powerful mage, that does not make you invincible. Please keep in mind that Mr. Toblin has been more than kind to us, especially since we're random strangers he just met. I should also warn you that adventuring will potentially require you to eat less appealing meals."
After Zephyros gives his lecture, he returns his focus on his food. Eating swifter than before, his mind appears has dropped his previous thoughts.
Meira was a bit of a late comer to breakfast, her black hair fashionably swept to one side. Clearly something she'd taken some time to perfect. She was dressed in her usual dark grey tunic, black-colored jacket, and black pants. All are well-tailored to her slight figure. At the moment there is no sign of weapons or armor. "Good morning to you all!" she says in a cheerful tone as she slipped gracefully into an empty chair.
Taking a seat just as the rest are in the midst of their food and conversation, she waits for Toblin to bring her a plate. "You aren't all getting grumpy about this fine repast that The Stonehill Inn provides, are you?" she says with a subtle grin. "I hear it's the finest establishment this side of the street! Really unparalleled!" She honestly would have preferred much finer fare - not that she'd ever really had the means for such a thing. But better to make a joke than complain. "What we really should be talking about is last night! A decent crowd, wasn't it?"
Meira had had her dulcimer last night, playing and singing song after song. Well, between drink after drink. Of course, likely not everyone had stayed up until the place closed down like she had.
Meira was a bit of a late comer to breakfast, her black hair fashionably swept to one side. Clearly something she'd taken some time to perfect. She was dressed in her usual dark grey tunic, black-colored jacket, and black pants. All are well-tailored to her slight figure. At the moment there is no sign of weapons or armor. "Good morning to you all!" she says in a cheerful tone as she slipped gracefully into an empty chair.
Taking a seat just as the rest are in the midst of their food and conversation, she waits for Toblin to bring her a plate. "You aren't all getting grumpy about this fine repast that The Stonehill Inn provides, are you?" she says with a subtle grin. "I hear it's the finest establishment this side of the street! Really unparalleled!" She honestly would have preferred much finer fare - not that she'd ever really had the means for such a thing. But better to make a joke than complain. "What we really should be talking about is last night! A decent crowd, wasn't it?"
Meira had had her dulcimer last night, playing and singing song after song. Well, between drink after drink. Of course, likely not everyone had stayed up until the place closed down like she had.
Zephyros turns his gaze to Meira, nodding as a sign of acknowledgement at her approach. "Good morning, Ms. Meira. Not an early bird I take it?" The bearded man gives a chuckle.
Zephyros continues, "Honestly, I find the simplicity comforting. If it were any more elaborate, I'd prefer sleeping outside." The soldier adds, "Yes, you and your talent did gather quite the crowd. Perhaps your popularity helped win the assistance of the common folk here.
Zephyros turns his gaze to Meira, nodding as a sign of acknowledgement at her approach. "Good morning, Ms. Meira. Not an early bird I take it?" The bearded man gives a chuckle.
Zephyros continues, "Honestly, I find the simplicity comforting. If it were any more elaborate, I'd prefer sleeping outside." The soldier adds, "Yes, you and your talent did gather quite the crowd. Perhaps your popularity helped win the assistance of the common folk here.
Meira laughs as Zephyros mentions not being an early bird. "I get up early. But some of us have important things to do before making an entrance." A big smile immediately blossoms on her face when he mentions her popularity possibly winning over the common folk. "Do you really think?" She plants her elbows on the table, leaning her head down so her hands can prop up her chin. She stares back at the man. "But did you like the music?"
The halfling girl quietly enjoys her breakfast, her gaze drifting from one guest to another as they chat around her. She's very young — barely into her twenties — with warm brown eyes and light brown hair, hastily gathered into a messy side braid she likely tied while still half-asleep this morning. A small, turned-up nose and freckled, sun-kissed skin complete the look of an otherwise ordinary halfling girl.
But what's not ordinary is how quiet she is. Far too quiet. If it weren't for the half-chewed eggs and bacon occupying her mouth, she'd certainly be joining the conversation. Silence, after all, was never Lyra Brightspark's natural state. The High Priest of the Temple of Tymora, where she lived until just a few days ago, often said the gods had given Lyra far too much tongue — and far too few good uses for it.
Once she finally swallows, she exclaims, "Yummy! We never had bacon and eggs at the temple! Always boiled fish and vegetables! I like this much better. Thank you so much, Master Toblin!"
Lyra hadn't cared for the pompous elf's words earlier, but instead of saying anything, she suddenly starts coughing. Her eyes go red and watery, and she lets out a startled yelp: "Gods above! Is that… LAVENDER?! I’m super allergic!" She coughs harder, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I need air!" As if by magic — or perhaps exactly by magic — all the windows in the tavern slam open at once, letting in a rush of fresh morning breeze. Lyra blinks, inhales deeply, and finally sighs, "Oh… ohhh… that's better!" Turning to Eldrin, she adds sweetly, "Please, Master Elf, no more lavender!”, finishing with an exaggerated little pout for good measure.
Moments later, when the girl appears to feel better, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, the cleric of Tymora turns back to the others with bright, curious eyes. "So! What were we saying? A dragon? Wo-hooo! I’ve never seen an actual dragon! Must be amazing. I bet each of their teeth is the size of… well… me!" She bursts into laughter at the thought. Maybe she should be afraid — but for now, all she can feel is excitement and wonder.
Eldrin exhales softly, his fingers drumming lightly against the wooden table as he surveys the others with an expression that borders on mild exasperation. He does not roll his eyes—such a display would be far too undignified—but the sentiment is there, lurking beneath the surface.
To the warrior, he tilts his head, amusement flickering across his features like a candle briefly catching the wind. "You speak of comfort as though it is a virtue. But I suspect that if one were to hand you a meal befitting a king, you would turn up your nose and insist upon dining beneath the open sky instead. That is a choice, not a necessity. A curious affectation, but I shall refrain from judging. Much." A faint smirk follows before he takes another sip of tea.
The musician’s dramatic display, he considers her for a moment, then inclines his head in something that might, just might, be a concession. "Your music was… adequate."He lets the word hang for just a second too long before adding, smoothly, "Which, in my vocabulary, is rather high praise. The crowd was enthralled, and I will admit there is something to be said for such an ability. You wield song as deftly as I wield magic—an interesting talent, though rather more prone to encouraging revelry than enlightenment."He gestures vaguely toward the remains of what was undoubtedly an indulgent night. "I trust you enjoyed the aftermath of your popularity?" His voice lilts with dry amusement.
And then, the small one.
Eldrin watches the sudden burst of sneezing, coughing, and window-flinging with the same measured detachment one might afford an unpredictable gust of wind—unexpected, momentarily disruptive, yet ultimately incapable of altering the course of his morning. He does not flinch when the shutters fly open, nor when her eyes turn to him with a dramatic plea, though his fingers tighten ever so slightly around his cup.
When she recovers, Eldrin blinks once, very slowly. "Ah. My sincerest apologies, little one." His voice is impeccably smooth, yet there is something unreadable beneath it. "Had I known that even the scent of refinement would cause you such distress, I would have ensured your surroundings remained as… unstimulating as possible."
His gaze flickers toward their host with an air of polite regret. "It seems that even attempting to elevate one's surroundings is met with catastrophe. A lesson, I suppose."
Then, without missing a beat, he continues as though the commotion had never occurred. "As for dragons—yes, quite the spectacle. Though I would advise against considering them merely amazing, unless you enjoy the thought of being charred beyond recognition. They are ancient, intelligent, and—most of all—fickle. And while I am certain you would fit neatly into one’s jaw, I doubt that realization would bring you much comfort when the moment arrived."
He pauses, then adds with a small, ironic tilt of his head, "But by all means, let us all rush to meet our fiery doom with enthusiasm. It will, at the very least, be memorable."
Yarina listens in silence as Eldrin speaks, her posture never shifting, save for the slow way her clawed fingers drum once against the side of her plate. Her gaze remains level—unshaken, but not unthinking. When he finishes, she leans back slightly in her chair.
“There is strength in striving,” she agrees, her voice steady, her tone cool but not unkind. “And no shame in seeking beauty. But not all refinement is born from comfort.” Her eyes linger on him a moment longer, searching, perhaps, for the root beneath his words. “Where I come from, we learn early that purpose matters more than pleasure. We train in hardship so that when true trials come, we do not falter.”
She pauses then, considering, not out of hesitation, but out of genuine reflection. “But…I’ve only recently left my Brotherhood,” she admits. “And I’ve seen already that the world is wider than I was taught. Perhaps you are right, in part. Maybe it’s not enough to endure."
She watches the interplay of personalities at the table with quiet curiosity, the corners of her mouth twitching in something like restrained amusement. She meets Eldrin’s eyes once more. “I still believe a warrior must endure. But perhaps—just perhaps—there’s more than one way to thrive. Whatever the case, for Phandalin, it will take time. A warrior's duty is to fight, to give them that time."
His gaze flickers toward Toblin, his tone shifting to something almost... instructional. "I do not reject what is before me out of petulance, but rather out of principle. A people who cease striving for beauty, for elegance, for better, will find themselves stagnating in mediocrity. I would not wish that for you, Toblin. Nor for Phandalin."
Toblin's smile remains as he listens to Eldrin, "Thank you master elf! I appreciate your kind wishes for us in this modest town. I will work to find some better fair in hopes your next meal is more to your liking."
As if gazing through the wizard's green eyes, the burly man states, "It would do you well to learn manners and respect. I have seen first hand men die for lack of etiquette. For your sake, master wizard, please learn that sometimes manners win more battles than ambition. While I'm sure you may be a powerful mage, that does not make you invincible. Please keep in mind that Mr. Toblin has been more than kind to us, especially since we're random strangers he just met. I should also warn you that adventuring will potentially require you to eat less appealing meals."
Toblin addresses Zephyros' statement, "Please sir, no need to come to my defense. No offense was taken and I apologize if any was given."
"Good morning to you all!" she says in a cheerful tone as she slipped gracefully into an empty chair.
Taking a seat just as the rest are in the midst of their food and conversation, she waits for Toblin to bring her a plate. "You aren't all getting grumpy about this fine repast that The Stonehill Inn provides, are you?" she says with a subtle grin. "I hear it's the finest establishment this side of the street! Really unparalleled!" She honestly would have preferred much finer fare - not that she'd ever really had the means for such a thing. But better to make a joke than complain. "What we really should be talking about is last night! A decent crowd, wasn't it?"
Meira had had her dulcimer last night, playing and singing song after song. Well, between drink after drink. Of course, likely not everyone had stayed up until the place closed down like she had.
Toblin turns to greet Meira, "Good morning master! Yes, your playing last night was quite something, quite the treat for us here in Phandalin. I hope we'll have the pleasure of your talents again soon." As he talks, a young boy wearing an apron brings a plate out full of eggs, bacon and a chunk of bread and sets it down in front of Meira. "Thank you, Pip." Toblin says, addressing the boy. The boy nods with a smile and quickly returns to the kitchen.
Once she finally swallows, she exclaims, "Yummy! We never had bacon and eggs at the temple! Always boiled fish and vegetables! I like this much better. Thank you so much, Master Toblin!"
Lyra hadn't cared for the pompous elf's words earlier, but instead of saying anything, she suddenly starts coughing. Her eyes go red and watery, and she lets out a startled yelp: "Gods above! Is that… LAVENDER?! I’m super allergic!" She coughs harder, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I need air!" As if by magic — or perhaps exactly by magic — all the windows in the tavern slam open at once, letting in a rush of fresh morning breeze. Lyra blinks, inhales deeply, and finally sighs, "Oh… ohhh… that's better!" Turning to Eldrin, she adds sweetly, "Please, Master Elf, no more lavender!”, finishing with an exaggerated little pout for good measure.
Toblin's smile widens as Lyra praises the food and thanks him. His face turns a slight shade of red. "I'm so glad you like it! Well, I'll leave you all to finish your breakfast and conversation. Let me know if you need anything else." As the innkeeper walks away all the windows of the common room fly open. A woman eating at a nearby table gets startled and lets out a scream. Toblin exclaims, "What in the world!" Another fellow near the front door quickly departs. You can hear him yelling through the now opened windows, "The Inn is haunted! The Inn is haunted!"
The morning's air rushes into the Inn, giving a slight chill to the room and blowing out the lavender scented air created by Eldrin. Toblin quickly rushes over to each window, shaking his head and working to close each in turn. Once finished, he begins the work of cleaning up the tables recently vacated by his breakfast patrons.
"Oh," Lyra replies, waving a little hand as if dismissing the danger that creatures such as dragons represent. "I will worry about that when I am in that situation. For now, I'll simply enjoy the excitement of imagining what it would be like to meet one of those majestic creatures. I think amazement and wonder are food for the soul, just as these bacon and eggs are food for the body. I firmly believe that if you don't wonder, if you don't dream, then you must be dead inside!" There isn't an ounce of malice in the cleric's words, it's simply the way she sees the world.
When a woman at a nearby table screams as the windows slam open and another man shouts that the inn is haunted, everyone at the table can hear the halfling mutter, "Oopsie daisies!" She's once again forgotten that common folk aren't so used to divine magic. Displays like these were so common back at the temple that it simply slipped her mind. She'll probably have to make it up to poor Toblin if this proves to be an issue for his business!
Meira laughs as Zephyra mentions not being an early bird. "I get up early. But some of us have important things to do before making an entrance." A big smile immediately blossoms on her face when he mentions her popularity possibly winning over the common folk. "Do you really think?" She plants her elbows on the table, leaning her head down so her hands can prop up her chin. She stares back at the man. "But did you like the music?"
Zephyros straightens his back again, sitting taller in his chair. He announces, "Yes, I believe you've won their favor. Perhaps the towns folk might be kind enough to occasionally provide food and drink from time to time." The bear of a man goes on, "And I'll admit I did enjoy the music. I can't say I've often heard much music before, though.
“There is strength in striving,” she agrees, her voice steady, her tone cool but not unkind. “And no shame in seeking beauty. But not all refinement is born from comfort.” Her eyes linger on him a moment longer, searching, perhaps, for the root beneath his words. “Where I come from, we learn early that purpose matters more than pleasure. We train in hardship so that when true trials come, we do not falter.”
She pauses then, considering, not out of hesitation, but out of genuine reflection. “But…I’ve only recently left my Brotherhood,” she admits. “And I’ve seen already that the world is wider than I was taught. Perhaps you are right, in part. Maybe it’s not enough to endure."
She watches the interplay of personalities at the table with quiet curiosity, the corners of her mouth twitching in something like restrained amusement. She meets Eldrin’s eyes once more. “I still believe a warrior must endure. But perhaps—just perhaps—there’s more than one way to thrive. Whatever the case, for Phandolin, it will take time. A warrior's duty is to fight, to give them that time."
The grizzly man agrees with the dragonborn warrior. "Aye, Ms. Yarina. I'm glad to see a fellow warrior disciplined like I. It's good to train to the extreme. I often ended up training harder than any physical challenge I faced in battle. As a result, I still walk on Faerun." Zephyros ponders for a good moment, stroking his beard before adding, "When one suffers, it produces endurance. And endurance, gives one solid character. That, I believe, is the way to thrive. I've seen farmers who have lost their families owned better character than kings. However, I cannot say I've seen any other way. Perhaps you're right, that their is more than one way. Maybe we'll get the chance to see."
Zephyros concludes his breakfast, disciplining himself to eating only one plate. He rises out of his seat, and watches over his companions. The gruff soldier then states, "Perhaps we should be of service for this town, and go see the job board in front of the town hall. Would anyone like to join me?" The bull of a man then turns and begins heading out the door.
As Zephyros meets the door, he looks back to Toblin. "Thank you Master Toblin for your excellent hospitality." Then the armored man proceeds with his plan.
Meira's eyes shift to Eldrin after hearing that Zephyros seemed to like her music. The smile remains on her face as she seems to take the elf at his word and accepts his comment as praise. "I did enjoy the aftermath of my popularity," she says with a slight chuckle. As he goes on, she listens and nods. "I do share your concern about actually meeting a dragon. It would be fascinating to see one though." Her chin still propped up by her hands, her eyes flit around to each of the others at the table. "I mean, we just met. I'm just not sure we would be able to defeat a dragon."
As soon as Pip drops off her food, she straightens up in her seat. "Thank you Pip!" she says, mirroring Toblin. "Much appreciated!" She does react with a concerned expression as the halfling starts to cough and cry. When all the windows slam open and Lyra seems to be feeling better, she is relieved. "Lyra! That was so lucky that the wind blew open those windows." But then when the woman screams and the man runs out, she is startled by the muttered 'Oopsie daisies!' Miera peers more closely at Lyra, slowly making the connection that she might have been behind what happend with the windows.
Yarina finishes the last bite of her breakfast with the quiet efficiency of someone taught to waste nothing. She lifts her tea, savoring the warmth and steam curling up into her nostrils. A content, quiet sigh escapes her—more ritual than indulgence. As Zephyros speaks, her gaze drifts to him, and a small nod of respect follows his words.
“Well said,” she replies simply. “Endurance does not just carry us through hardship—it forges us into something stronger.”She stands then, rising to her full, commanding height. Her heavy armor shifts with a soft clink of steel over mail as she rolls her shoulders to settle its weight. The greatsword strapped beside her seat is lifted in one hand and secured across her back with practiced ease.
Her attention briefly lingers on Meira, then Lyra, a subtle flicker of curiosity in her expression—especially at the peculiar timing of the windstorm and the halfling’s wide-eyed innocence. She says nothing, but the barest curve touches the corner of her mouth before she turns.
“Thank you for the meal, Master Toblin,” she says with a respectful nod. “And for your service to this town. May your hearth stay warm, and your roof untroubled by wings.”
With that, she strides after Zephyros, her steps heavy and sure, the floorboards groaning beneath her weight as she passes through the door and into the bright light of morning.
Nestled in the rocky foothills of the snow-capped Sword Mountains is the mining town of Phandalin, which consists of forty or fifty simple log buildings. Crumbling stone ruins surround the newer houses and shops, showing how this must have been a much larger town in centuries past.
Phandalin’s residents are quiet, hard-working folk who came from distant cities to eke out a life amid the harsh wilderness. They are farmers, stonecutters, blacksmiths, traders, prospectors, and children. The town has no walls and no garrison, but most of the adults keep weapons within easy reach in case the need for arms should arise.
Visitors are welcome here, particularly if they have coin to spend or news to share. The Stonehill Inn at the center of town offers modest lodging and meals. A couple of doors down from the inn, posted outside the townmaster’s hall, is a job board for adventurers.
Adventurers, you find yourself enjoying a nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, and bread in the Stonehill Inn. You have already met the proprietor (a short, friendly human man named Toblin) and secured lodgings for the next 10-day at 5 sp per night/room. Each of you have your own room secured on the second floor of this establishment. Toblin walks about the modest, two-story roadhouse tending to your group and other patrons as you eat your meal.
You have all recently met and agreed to work together to help this small town from the threats it faces. Being the only adventurers around, you may be the towns only hope as the wilderness around pushes back against societies encroachment. The day has just begun and is yours. What would you like to do?
Please take a moment to describe your character as we begin.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Gareth Blackwood has already eaten his first plate of bacon and eggs and is now on seconds. He is a tall, lean man with short, brown hair and pointed ears. He might be mistaken for a wood elf save for the full beard he sports, neatly trimmed, which marks him as a half-elf. Already wearing his leather armor, under which he sports simple, homespun clothing in earthen tones, he has his longbow and quiver slung across his back. At his waist hang two short swords, for the inopportune moments when danger decides to get in his face. Around his neck there is a locket with a portrait of Sylvie inside. Even in the short time he has spent with these other adventurers, they have noticed him check the locket once or twice.
Gareth occasionally glances at his new companions, other adventurers who have made their way to Phandalin. He doesn't know much about any of them yet, but he hopes to change that soon. He is particularly intrigued by the presence of a dragonborn, which isn't exactly rare in Neverwinter but not common either. Aside from the dragonborn, he is joined by a halfling woman, an elven man, and two humans, one man, one woman.
As Toblen refills his mug with hot tea, Gareth nods his thanks and asks, "So these rumors about a white dragon in the area, are they true?"
Extended Signature
Characters: Bryony Alderleaf - Lvl. 4 Halfling Rogue (The Shattered Obelisk) ♦ Vesta Trevelyan - Lvl. 10 Half-Elf Sorcerer (Eve of Ruin) ♦ Ada Kendrick - Lvl. 4 Aasimar Paladin (Curse of Strahd) ♦ Selene Albion - Lvl. 12 Human Ranger (In-Person Homebrew Campaign) ♦ Phaerdra Tor'viir - Lvl. 3 Drow Wizard (Exandria Sandbox Campaign)
Eldrin Thorne sits with the effortless grace of one born to it, his long, lean frame draped in a finely woven cloak of deep forest green, the fabric trimmed in silver embroidery that catches the morning light. His pale skin is unmarred by time or toil, and his angular features—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, and thin lips—form a picture of practiced elegance. His piercing emerald eyes scan the room with the detached curiosity of one who finds little of interest but surveys nonetheless, as a scholar might glance over an old, worn manuscript of limited worth. His long, silver hair is immaculately kept, braided in the intricate fashion of his people, though a few strands fall free to frame his face.
Seated cross-legged upon his chair rather than in it, Eldrin regards the meal before him with a look of quiet resignation. The bacon and eggs, though passable, do little to excite his refined palate, and the bread is, by all accounts, a tragedy —dense and hard. He sighs, before breaking off a piece with slender fingers, chewing with the air of one enduring an inconvenience.
At last, he speaks, his voice, rich with an elven inflection yet edged with an audible reluctance to converse in the common tongue.
"It is a wonder," he muses aloud, more to himself than anyone else, "how civilization flourished among the younger races with such crude sustenance. One imagines the suffering they must endure daily, bereft of proper seasoning and the knowledge of finer fare."
His gaze drifts toward his companions, lingering just long enough to suggest scrutiny rather than true engagement. Then, with a mild frown, he flicks a hand, a subtle gesture that summons a faint shimmer of arcane energy. The air around him is briefly perfumed with the crisp scent of lavender.
"Better," he declares simply, before taking a measured sip of his tea and his unimpressive meal—though not without a barely concealed wince, making no effort to hide his disdain for the common world around him.
Toblin looks to the half-elf as he refills the tea with an experienced hand and says, "Aye, that be the talk of it...some folk claim to have seen a dragon flying through the high clouds. At that distance, it’s hard to gauge the creature’s size, but some say it’s as big as an elephant and has gleaming white scales.” Toblin looks at each member of the group before adding, "I sure hope that dragon doesn't come here. Most folk in this town are not as well equiped as you lot."
You hear a woman call out from the kitchen, "Toblin, more plates are ready."
Toblin turns his head towards the kitchen and responds, "Thank you dear!" He looks back to you Gareth and adds, "That dragon has our town mayor Mr. Wester spooked somethin fierce. He only comes out of his home now to post jobs the town needs doin and to refill his pantry from time to time."
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Yarina sits tall at the table, the wood of the chair creaking under her armored weight. Her silver scales catch the inn’s lantern light with a soft sheen, and her greatsword leans within reach against the wall behind her. She eats with calm efficiency, not rudely, but with the focus of someone who considers food fuel for the day ahead. Her breakfast is nearly gone by the time Gareth speaks, and her sharp, ice-blue eyes lift from the plate as she listens.
At Eldrin’s remark, her expression shifts—just slightly. Not anger, but the faintest twitch of a brow, the kind that precedes a lecture on duty or etiquette in a military camp. She sets her fork down with a quiet clink and folds her hands atop the table.
"Where I trained, bread like this was a luxury," she says evenly, her deep voice steady, edged with a faint metallic resonance. "Cold rations, weeks old and frozen solid, were more common than tea or seasoning. You learn not to complain when your life depends on the strength in your limbs and the steel in your hands." Her gaze doesn’t linger on Eldrin long, but it’s clear she means every word.
“If it is a white dragon, hiding will do the mayor little good,” she says plainly after Toblin answers Gareth, her voice calm but firm. “Dragons are predators—and clever ones. They don’t need invitations to bring ruin.” She leans forward slightly, resting one thick-scaled arm on the table, the edge of her engraved pauldron catching the light. "We’ll see what he’s posted. Maybe there’s something in those jobs that hints at where this creature nests—or what it’s hunting.”
Toblin's expression changes from disappointment back to friendly as Yarina speaks. "Aye master. That's what I told em too. His timber walls will do little if that dragon decided he was it's next meal, but he refuses to listen to reason." Toblin smiles as Yarina expresses an interest in the job board.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Eldrin’s silver-blond brows lift just slightly as Yarina speaks, his expression poised somewhere between polite interest and mild doubt. He waits, his fingers steepled before him, allowing her words to settle into the space between them. Only when she has finished does he exhale, not quite a sigh, but certainly approaching one.
"Ah, yes," he murmurs, tilting his head ever so slightly, "the ever-reliable philosophy of ‘it could be worse.’ A sentiment I have found to be profoundly human, or in this case, draconic, though no less uninspired."
He gestures vaguely toward her near-empty plate, his movement slow, deliberate. "The virtues of endurance are well and good, my dear Yarina, but to endure is not the same as to thrive. If you have spent years consuming frozen rations without complaint, I commend your fortitude. However, I must question why, having now been presented with a proper meal, you would celebrate suffering rather than seek refinement."
His gaze flickers toward Toblin, his tone shifting to something almost... instructional. "I do not reject what is before me out of petulance, but rather out of principle. A people who cease striving for beauty, for elegance, for better, will find themselves stagnating in mediocrity. I would not wish that for you, Toblin. Nor for Phandalin."
He reaches for his tea, taking a measured sip before setting the cup down with meticulous care. Then, as though sensing the rising tension, he offers the faintest ghost of a smile.
"But of course," he muses, "as I was about to say before this detour into the merits of our breakfast, I am most intrigued by this dragon problem. If the mayor has taken to hiding rather than acting, it is all the more reason we must proceed swiftly. A predator left unchallenged grows only bolder."
He leans back, one leg crossing elegantly over the other, his tone light but unmistakably confident.
Zephyros Ironheart sluggishly consumes the food on his plate. His mind seems to be elsewhere, and he refuses to relax. Zephyros' right hand firmly grasps his trident, causing the veins throughout his arm to bulge. Suddenly, the bull of a man snaps back to reality when he hears Eldrin's disdainful attitude. Zephyros' brown eyes linger over the elf a brief moment before sternly, albeit quietly speaking.
As if gazing through the wizard's green eyes, the burly man states, "It would do you well to learn manners and respect. I have seen first hand men die for lack of etiquette. For your sake, master wizard, please learn that sometimes manners win more battles than ambition. While I'm sure you may be a powerful mage, that does not make you invincible. Please keep in mind that Mr. Toblin has been more than kind to us, especially since we're random strangers he just met. I should also warn you that adventuring will potentially require you to eat less appealing meals."
After Zephyros gives his lecture, he returns his focus on his food. Eating swifter than before, his mind appears has dropped his previous thoughts.
Meira was a bit of a late comer to breakfast, her black hair fashionably swept to one side. Clearly something she'd taken some time to perfect. She was dressed in her usual dark grey tunic, black-colored jacket, and black pants. All are well-tailored to her slight figure. At the moment there is no sign of weapons or armor. "Good morning to you all!" she says in a cheerful tone as she slipped gracefully into an empty chair.
Taking a seat just as the rest are in the midst of their food and conversation, she waits for Toblin to bring her a plate. "You aren't all getting grumpy about this fine repast that The Stonehill Inn provides, are you?" she says with a subtle grin. "I hear it's the finest establishment this side of the street! Really unparalleled!" She honestly would have preferred much finer fare - not that she'd ever really had the means for such a thing. But better to make a joke than complain. "What we really should be talking about is last night! A decent crowd, wasn't it?"
Meira had had her dulcimer last night, playing and singing song after song. Well, between drink after drink. Of course, likely not everyone had stayed up until the place closed down like she had.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi ||
Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue
Zephyros turns his gaze to Meira, nodding as a sign of acknowledgement at her approach. "Good morning, Ms. Meira. Not an early bird I take it?" The bearded man gives a chuckle.
Zephyros continues, "Honestly, I find the simplicity comforting. If it were any more elaborate, I'd prefer sleeping outside." The soldier adds, "Yes, you and your talent did gather quite the crowd. Perhaps your popularity helped win the assistance of the common folk here.
Meira laughs as Zephyros mentions not being an early bird. "I get up early. But some of us have important things to do before making an entrance." A big smile immediately blossoms on her face when he mentions her popularity possibly winning over the common folk. "Do you really think?" She plants her elbows on the table, leaning her head down so her hands can prop up her chin. She stares back at the man. "But did you like the music?"
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi ||
Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue
The halfling girl quietly enjoys her breakfast, her gaze drifting from one guest to another as they chat around her. She's very young — barely into her twenties — with warm brown eyes and light brown hair, hastily gathered into a messy side braid she likely tied while still half-asleep this morning. A small, turned-up nose and freckled, sun-kissed skin complete the look of an otherwise ordinary halfling girl.
But what's not ordinary is how quiet she is. Far too quiet. If it weren't for the half-chewed eggs and bacon occupying her mouth, she'd certainly be joining the conversation. Silence, after all, was never Lyra Brightspark's natural state. The High Priest of the Temple of Tymora, where she lived until just a few days ago, often said the gods had given Lyra far too much tongue — and far too few good uses for it.
Once she finally swallows, she exclaims, "Yummy! We never had bacon and eggs at the temple! Always boiled fish and vegetables! I like this much better. Thank you so much, Master Toblin!"
Lyra hadn't cared for the pompous elf's words earlier, but instead of saying anything, she suddenly starts coughing. Her eyes go red and watery, and she lets out a startled yelp: "Gods above! Is that… LAVENDER?! I’m super allergic!" She coughs harder, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I need air!" As if by magic — or perhaps exactly by magic — all the windows in the tavern slam open at once, letting in a rush of fresh morning breeze. Lyra blinks, inhales deeply, and finally sighs, "Oh… ohhh… that's better!" Turning to Eldrin, she adds sweetly, "Please, Master Elf, no more lavender!”, finishing with an exaggerated little pout for good measure.
Moments later, when the girl appears to feel better, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, the cleric of Tymora turns back to the others with bright, curious eyes. "So! What were we saying? A dragon? Wo-hooo! I’ve never seen an actual dragon! Must be amazing. I bet each of their teeth is the size of… well… me!" She bursts into laughter at the thought. Maybe she should be afraid — but for now, all she can feel is excitement and wonder.
(Deception check for her fake allergy: 18)
Diving deep to the surface ♫ Nessa | Saxa | Auriel | Chase | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Eldrin exhales softly, his fingers drumming lightly against the wooden table as he surveys the others with an expression that borders on mild exasperation. He does not roll his eyes—such a display would be far too undignified—but the sentiment is there, lurking beneath the surface.
To the warrior, he tilts his head, amusement flickering across his features like a candle briefly catching the wind. "You speak of comfort as though it is a virtue. But I suspect that if one were to hand you a meal befitting a king, you would turn up your nose and insist upon dining beneath the open sky instead. That is a choice, not a necessity. A curious affectation, but I shall refrain from judging. Much." A faint smirk follows before he takes another sip of tea.
The musician’s dramatic display, he considers her for a moment, then inclines his head in something that might, just might, be a concession. "Your music was… adequate." He lets the word hang for just a second too long before adding, smoothly, "Which, in my vocabulary, is rather high praise. The crowd was enthralled, and I will admit there is something to be said for such an ability. You wield song as deftly as I wield magic—an interesting talent, though rather more prone to encouraging revelry than enlightenment." He gestures vaguely toward the remains of what was undoubtedly an indulgent night. "I trust you enjoyed the aftermath of your popularity?" His voice lilts with dry amusement.
And then, the small one.
Eldrin watches the sudden burst of sneezing, coughing, and window-flinging with the same measured detachment one might afford an unpredictable gust of wind—unexpected, momentarily disruptive, yet ultimately incapable of altering the course of his morning. He does not flinch when the shutters fly open, nor when her eyes turn to him with a dramatic plea, though his fingers tighten ever so slightly around his cup.
When she recovers, Eldrin blinks once, very slowly. "Ah. My sincerest apologies, little one." His voice is impeccably smooth, yet there is something unreadable beneath it. "Had I known that even the scent of refinement would cause you such distress, I would have ensured your surroundings remained as… unstimulating as possible."
His gaze flickers toward their host with an air of polite regret. "It seems that even attempting to elevate one's surroundings is met with catastrophe. A lesson, I suppose."
Then, without missing a beat, he continues as though the commotion had never occurred. "As for dragons—yes, quite the spectacle. Though I would advise against considering them merely amazing, unless you enjoy the thought of being charred beyond recognition. They are ancient, intelligent, and—most of all—fickle. And while I am certain you would fit neatly into one’s jaw, I doubt that realization would bring you much comfort when the moment arrived."
He pauses, then adds with a small, ironic tilt of his head, "But by all means, let us all rush to meet our fiery doom with enthusiasm. It will, at the very least, be memorable."
Yarina listens in silence as Eldrin speaks, her posture never shifting, save for the slow way her clawed fingers drum once against the side of her plate. Her gaze remains level—unshaken, but not unthinking. When he finishes, she leans back slightly in her chair.
“There is strength in striving,” she agrees, her voice steady, her tone cool but not unkind. “And no shame in seeking beauty. But not all refinement is born from comfort.” Her eyes linger on him a moment longer, searching, perhaps, for the root beneath his words. “Where I come from, we learn early that purpose matters more than pleasure. We train in hardship so that when true trials come, we do not falter.”
She pauses then, considering, not out of hesitation, but out of genuine reflection. “But…I’ve only recently left my Brotherhood,” she admits. “And I’ve seen already that the world is wider than I was taught. Perhaps you are right, in part. Maybe it’s not enough to endure."
She watches the interplay of personalities at the table with quiet curiosity, the corners of her mouth twitching in something like restrained amusement. She meets Eldrin’s eyes once more. “I still believe a warrior must endure. But perhaps—just perhaps—there’s more than one way to thrive. Whatever the case, for Phandalin, it will take time. A warrior's duty is to fight, to give them that time."
Toblin's smile remains as he listens to Eldrin, "Thank you master elf! I appreciate your kind wishes for us in this modest town. I will work to find some better fair in hopes your next meal is more to your liking."
Toblin addresses Zephyros' statement, "Please sir, no need to come to my defense. No offense was taken and I apologize if any was given."
Toblin turns to greet Meira, "Good morning master! Yes, your playing last night was quite something, quite the treat for us here in Phandalin. I hope we'll have the pleasure of your talents again soon." As he talks, a young boy wearing an apron brings a plate out full of eggs, bacon and a chunk of bread and sets it down in front of Meira. "Thank you, Pip." Toblin says, addressing the boy. The boy nods with a smile and quickly returns to the kitchen.
Toblin's smile widens as Lyra praises the food and thanks him. His face turns a slight shade of red. "I'm so glad you like it! Well, I'll leave you all to finish your breakfast and conversation. Let me know if you need anything else." As the innkeeper walks away all the windows of the common room fly open. A woman eating at a nearby table gets startled and lets out a scream. Toblin exclaims, "What in the world!" Another fellow near the front door quickly departs. You can hear him yelling through the now opened windows, "The Inn is haunted! The Inn is haunted!"
The morning's air rushes into the Inn, giving a slight chill to the room and blowing out the lavender scented air created by Eldrin. Toblin quickly rushes over to each window, shaking his head and working to close each in turn. Once finished, he begins the work of cleaning up the tables recently vacated by his breakfast patrons.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
"Oh," Lyra replies, waving a little hand as if dismissing the danger that creatures such as dragons represent. "I will worry about that when I am in that situation. For now, I'll simply enjoy the excitement of imagining what it would be like to meet one of those majestic creatures. I think amazement and wonder are food for the soul, just as these bacon and eggs are food for the body. I firmly believe that if you don't wonder, if you don't dream, then you must be dead inside!" There isn't an ounce of malice in the cleric's words, it's simply the way she sees the world.
When a woman at a nearby table screams as the windows slam open and another man shouts that the inn is haunted, everyone at the table can hear the halfling mutter, "Oopsie daisies!" She's once again forgotten that common folk aren't so used to divine magic. Displays like these were so common back at the temple that it simply slipped her mind. She'll probably have to make it up to poor Toblin if this proves to be an issue for his business!
Diving deep to the surface ♫ Nessa | Saxa | Auriel | Chase | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Zephyros straightens his back again, sitting taller in his chair. He announces, "Yes, I believe you've won their favor. Perhaps the towns folk might be kind enough to occasionally provide food and drink from time to time." The bear of a man goes on, "And I'll admit I did enjoy the music. I can't say I've often heard much music before, though.
The grizzly man agrees with the dragonborn warrior. "Aye, Ms. Yarina. I'm glad to see a fellow warrior disciplined like I. It's good to train to the extreme. I often ended up training harder than any physical challenge I faced in battle. As a result, I still walk on Faerun." Zephyros ponders for a good moment, stroking his beard before adding, "When one suffers, it produces endurance. And endurance, gives one solid character. That, I believe, is the way to thrive. I've seen farmers who have lost their families owned better character than kings. However, I cannot say I've seen any other way. Perhaps you're right, that their is more than one way. Maybe we'll get the chance to see."
Zephyros concludes his breakfast, disciplining himself to eating only one plate. He rises out of his seat, and watches over his companions. The gruff soldier then states, "Perhaps we should be of service for this town, and go see the job board in front of the town hall. Would anyone like to join me?" The bull of a man then turns and begins heading out the door.
As Zephyros meets the door, he looks back to Toblin. "Thank you Master Toblin for your excellent hospitality." Then the armored man proceeds with his plan.
Meira's eyes shift to Eldrin after hearing that Zephyros seemed to like her music. The smile remains on her face as she seems to take the elf at his word and accepts his comment as praise. "I did enjoy the aftermath of my popularity," she says with a slight chuckle. As he goes on, she listens and nods. "I do share your concern about actually meeting a dragon. It would be fascinating to see one though." Her chin still propped up by her hands, her eyes flit around to each of the others at the table. "I mean, we just met. I'm just not sure we would be able to defeat a dragon."
As soon as Pip drops off her food, she straightens up in her seat. "Thank you Pip!" she says, mirroring Toblin. "Much appreciated!" She does react with a concerned expression as the halfling starts to cough and cry. When all the windows slam open and Lyra seems to be feeling better, she is relieved. "Lyra! That was so lucky that the wind blew open those windows." But then when the woman screams and the man runs out, she is startled by the muttered 'Oopsie daisies!' Miera peers more closely at Lyra, slowly making the connection that she might have been behind what happend with the windows.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi ||
Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue
Yarina finishes the last bite of her breakfast with the quiet efficiency of someone taught to waste nothing. She lifts her tea, savoring the warmth and steam curling up into her nostrils. A content, quiet sigh escapes her—more ritual than indulgence. As Zephyros speaks, her gaze drifts to him, and a small nod of respect follows his words.
“Well said,” she replies simply. “Endurance does not just carry us through hardship—it forges us into something stronger.” She stands then, rising to her full, commanding height. Her heavy armor shifts with a soft clink of steel over mail as she rolls her shoulders to settle its weight. The greatsword strapped beside her seat is lifted in one hand and secured across her back with practiced ease.
Her attention briefly lingers on Meira, then Lyra, a subtle flicker of curiosity in her expression—especially at the peculiar timing of the windstorm and the halfling’s wide-eyed innocence. She says nothing, but the barest curve touches the corner of her mouth before she turns.
“Thank you for the meal, Master Toblin,” she says with a respectful nod. “And for your service to this town. May your hearth stay warm, and your roof untroubled by wings.”
With that, she strides after Zephyros, her steps heavy and sure, the floorboards groaning beneath her weight as she passes through the door and into the bright light of morning.