As Adabra finishes explaining the final stages of infusion, Eldrin closes his journal with deliberate care, the hovering quill lowering itself neatly to the page with a soft tap. The spectral hand, still gently circling the pestle, pauses mid-motion as he dismisses it with a flick of two fingers, its form unraveling like morning mist.
He leans back slightly in his chair, nodding once with a rare, genuine expression of approval. “Adabra… you are an excellent teacher. Patient, thorough, and clear of purpose. Quite unlike the last instructor I suffered beneath at the Order.”
A faint smirk, dry as old parchment, touches his lips. “A wizard named Snayp. Constantly preoccupied with the mischief of some younger apprentice, Pottur, I believe. Very distracting.”
He stands, straightening his robes and gathering his notebook under one arm. As he approaches the door, he pauses, his expression returning to its usual thoughtful calm.
“Before I go, would it be possible to purchase a healing draught or two? Something for the road. The job board rarely advertises tea and polite conversation, after all.”
The humor is faint but deliberate, a dry ember beneath the usual reserve, as he regards her with both respect and quiet appreciation.
As you finish up your time with Adabra, you have helped her create two healing potions. She gives you one for free and offers to sell you the second one for 50 gp. Her demeanor towards you is warm and inviting. You get the sense she appreciated having someone to talk to and work with and reciprocates the level of respect you have shown her.
Everyone,
You settle in for the evening and get some rest at the Inn. You wake up the next morning ready to set out on your adventure to Mountain's Toe Mine. Don Jon Raskin is waiting for you as you make your way down to the common room of the Inn. "We ready to head out?" Don asks as your group assembles.
Gareth watches the slightly awkward exchange between Meira and Lyra, accompanied by furious blushing, and he has to bite his lip to stop from grinning. In the bath area, the ranger uses the privacy screen, more for the women's comfort than out of any inherent modesty on his part. The bath feels like the heavens themselves as he sinks into the warm water. It isn't long before all three of them are joking and even splashing water at each other. The dangers and tribulations of the last day begin to wash away with the grime, especially when Meira treats them to another song.
For a moment, the ranger is concerned when he hears the sounds coming from Zephyros' room, but they quickly subside. "We'll check on him in the morning," he agrees.
After finishing his morning stretches, Gareth heads down to meet the rest of the party at first light. He'd been able to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow last night. The ranger can't help but sneak a quick glance toward Zephyros, checking to make sure he seems all right after what they heard before going to bed.
"Ready as I'll ever be," the ranger says to Don Jon.
After checking in on Zephyros, Meira asks the others if they have any interest in hanging out for a bit. She certainly didn't want to head to sleep yet. "I'm not to familiar with darts, but could try it. Or I know how to play Three-dragon Ante, though I don't have a set."
She leaves her dulcimer in her room, then heads to the tavern for a drink and something to do. She doesn't plan to stay up too late this time, so she can be up early in the morning.
In the morning she is up. Coming to join the others, she again has her short hair meticulously styled. "Alright, ready to go!"
A new day dawns on Phandalin, and the always-energetic Lyrajoins everyone for breakfast, feeling even more lively than usual. What a strange day yesterday was. One that started with danger and death, and ended with fun and relaxation. Well, perhaps a bit of concern too—for their big, burly friend. But also with something new, and very unexpected.
As she walks down from her room and approaches the table, the cleric thinks back to the bathtime, during which she had so much fun fooling around. Listening to Meira's song. Or that moment when she told Meira she didn't need help—only to, once she was dried off and dressed, trip over a towel and make a complete fool of herself. Then there was Gareth, who she caught grinning several times, though she never quite figured out why
That night, the halfling didn't manage to learn how to play Three-Dragon Ante, but she did try her luck with darts—probably much to Toblin’s displeasure when one dart landed just a little too close to one of his paintings. Luckily, nobody—painted or real—was hurt in the process.
As she went to sleep, and now again as she approaches the table, Lyra feels like something has changed—something inside her. She doesn't really know when it happened, or why it happened so quickly, but her gaze lingers a moment longer on Meira, and she smiles before looking away to greet everyone with a cheerful "Good morning!", and replies to their new companion, "Ready to escort you, Master Juan ! When we've had breakfast, that is."
But before they leave—and even if she's still a little worried about that certain spark that jumped from her moonstone to his trident—Lyra sits beside Zephyrosand quietly asks, "Are you okay? We heard a commotion in your room last night, but when we went to check, you were asleep again." She looks concerned. A little anxious, too—worried the fighter might still be mad at her because of that certain spark that jumped to a certain trident. But more than anything, she's just worried for this fighter she genuinely cares about.
[[OOC: You can still post interactions prior to your departure if you'd like. I'm not trying to rush the story, and I apologize if it feels that way. Let me know if you'd like me to slow down.]]
After a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and sausage, you set out with Don-Jon Raskin, heading to Mountain's Toe Gold Mine. The journey to the mine is pleasant, with the morning sun warming your face while the eastern wind dries your eyes simultaneously. Don-Jon spends the trip regaling the group with several of his exploits. "Several years ago, I came across a bandit camp that abducted a local princess from a nearby castle. Musta been about thirty of 'em. I strolled right in and took 'em out like it was nothin, saved that young princess... anyways." After a little over three hours and ten miles, a low ridge rises to your right, beyond which you see the Sword Mountains scrape the gray sky. But closer in, something is strewn across the rocky ground ninety feet ahead.
When Lyra had entered for breakfast, Meira tried to subtly look up at her from where she sat. She returned the halfling's smile and her face brightened for a moment. She lightly chuckled when she calls the man they are escorting 'Juan'.
Her eyes followed Lyra when she went to sit by Zephyros and her expression had become more subdued. She enjoyed a small portion of the breakfast, rising after she quickly finished. She then moved outside.
When the group finally starts to head out of town, she comes alongside Lyra. "Is Zephyros okay?" she asks quietly.
As Don-Jon pointed out the orcs, Meira stopped where she was at and starts scanning their surroundings. (Perception: 13)
Zephyros strides out of his room with deliberate force, but not anger.
Slowly but formally the warrior sits down at the breakfast table and looks obviously better than the night prior, but a quiet weariness still rests deep within his eyes.
Briefly glancing at Lyra as she sits down, he gently shakes her shoulder.
"Oh, it's nothing lassie."Zephyros scans her facial expressions, trying to perceive how much the young halfling knows about what he had yelled.
Ironheart adds, "It's certainly unimportant..." His mind drifts off to his bad dream again, but quickly snaps back to the plate in front of him as the barmaid sets the food down in front of him.
Nodding in thanks to the waitress, he hopes to end the conversation with the suspecting cleric by shoving a large forkful of egg in his mouth.
Insight: 15
Walking beside Don-Jon Raskin, he happily engages in conversation.
"Aye, I got a few stories myself." The war-veteran responds after listening to Mr. Raskin's princess-saving saga.
"Back when I served my country, rain and lightning crashed down on our troops." He mentions.
"Then we were brutally ambushed, and some lighting struck a tree, which inconveniently fell on to our legion's general."
Zephyros adds, "We were constantly under enemy volley, but when they ceased, we knew they were coming to clear the remainders out."
"From under the tree, my commander screamed at us to get out of there. My allies all fled like the cowards they were. But I stayed."Ironheart pauses for a moment.
"I consider it treason to abandon those who fight beside me. I began trying to lift the heavy old cedar tree off of our leader, and with his cohesive strength, I managed to get him out of that predicament. After a solid half minute of sprinting for our lives, I quickly realized my commander's leg was broken." Zephyros shutters, looking around at his surrounding briefly.
"Badly limping, he ceased moving when we saw yet another volley incoming. He didn't think he'd make it. I grabbed him, and used myself as a shield against the lethal projectiles rapidly approaching."
"Several arrow tips struck me, one even grazing my heart..."Zephyros stares off into the distance. "That's how I got my name. Ironheart."
Perception: 9
Sighting the six deceased orcs, he immediately begins to watch for what killed them, while also searching for obvious signs to how they died.
Before leaving, Eldrin purchases the additional potion, leaving his coin neatly stacked and squared on the edge of her worktable. “For your trouble. I hope to return when next I’m able. Until then, may your teas remain hot and your ingredients finely ground.”
By the time Eldrin steps back into the main thoroughfare of Phandalin, the sky is bleeding toward twilight. He returns to the Stonehill Inn in time to catch sight of Lyra halfway through what must be her first-ever attempt at darts, her form lively, enthusiastic, and, technically....terrible. He gives the scene a faint raise of an eyebrow but says nothing, offering only a brief nod in passing before taking to his room upstairs.
The evening passes in disciplined silence, Eldrin cross-legged on his cot, meditating with that focused stillness only elves can maintain. The scents of herbs and tinctures still cling faintly to his sleeves as he mentally traces the formulas Adabra had taught him, committing each to memory with the same methodical precision he applied to arcane sigils.
Come morning, he is down before the others, breakfasting early, his posture upright, every movement efficient. Whatever subtle exchange is occurring between Meira and Lyra goes entirely unnoticed by him, social nuance having always a bit out of reach from his grip.
Don-Jon’s reappearance, however, draws the faintest narrowing of Eldrin’s eyes. Something about the man’s careless bravado doesn’t sit well with the scholar’s measured instincts. Still, he keeps his skepticism behind his usual reserved calm, offering the barest nod in acknowledgment of the man’s presence.
And so he finds himself, journal once more at his hip, staff in hand, present with the others as they begin their trek.
As the party approaches the six dead orcs strewn across the rocky path, Zephyros steps forward, taking point with the practiced ease of a veteran. His broad frame moves with a deliberate, almost grim purpose, eyes scanning the terrain for ambushes or signs of recent battle. Eldrin lingers just behind the main line, silent, observant. His gaze flicks to the surrounding ridge, assessing escape routes, ambush angles, and spell vectors, should things take a turn for the worse.
Gareth lets out a low whistle at Zephyros' story. He's much more impressed by this tale of courage and loyalty than Don Jon's tall tales about rescued princesses, amusing as they may be.
"You should have received a medal for that," Gareth tells the fighter. "Not many men would have had the courage to do what you did."
Even as they walk, the ranger's eyes keep flitting from side to side, aware of his surroundings at all times despite his relaxed demeanor on the surface. He's enjoying the fresh air and the chance to stretch his legs again. Despite the comforts of the inn, he'd always preferred being outdoors. One day, when he had acquired enough gold, he intended to build a farmstead off the beaten path for he and Sylvie to raise a family together, leave the crowds and crime of Neverwinter far behind. Maybe he would even build it somewhere out here, close to Phandalin. The town was quite charming in its own way.
"I'm afraid I don't have any war stories, but there was this one time an owlbear chased me up a tree," he says, chuckling at the memory. "I'd been tracking her for two days at that point, thought I had the upper hand. When I came across a stream, the tracks disappeared, and I couldn't pick them up again. It's like the owlbear just decided to keep walking down the stream. Little did I know that magnificent creature had actually managed to double-back behind me and launch an ambush of her own. I've never run so fast in my life! I spent the next few days sleeping in a tree until she finally got bored of me. Clever girl."
Gareth's smile fades as they come across the six dead orcs lying in the path before them. The ranger scans the area surrounding the dead orcs, looking for any sign that this was an ambush.
As you stop to survey the surroundings, you see the mountains rising up to the south. The ground is rocky and becomes snowcapped about halfway up the mountainous terrain. To the north, the ground is rolling hills of grassland. You don't notice anything out of the ordinary. Some small animals go about their various activities. Oddly, none of them seem to be going south or east. They all scurry to the north and west.
Zephyros,
Looking at Lyra during breakfast. You have no idea how much of your outburst she overheard, but you can sense her genuine concern for your well-being.
Don-Jon listens to your story with a raised eyebrow before dismissing it. "That ain't nothin... one time I was impaled by no less than twelve manticore spikes. Killed the beast with my bare hands, I did. Walked 30 miles to a nearby town before bandaging my wounds." Each time Don-Jon tells a story, it's even more outlandish than the last. As you look around, you don't notice anything unusual during your walk.
Upon seeing the Orcs dead on the field before you, your combat experience kicks in, and you immediately prepare mentally for battle. You look for obvious locations where an ambush could be made and find none. You don't see any signs that the group is in danger.
Moving closer to the Orcs, you try to determine how they were killed. Please give me a medicine check.
Eldrin,
Looking around, you immediately recognize how open this terrain is. It would be difficult for anything to hide or ambush this area. It also provides the perfect hunting ground for flying predators, as there is nothing to use for cover.
Gareth,
Your constant vigilance over the group's safety goes unnoticed by the group as you walk towards your destination. Still, you're confident nothing could come within a mile of the group without you being aware of it. Halfway to the mine, you spot an Owlbear moving to the North, heading for the forest beyond. It raises its giant head in your direction, before giving a brief head bob and continuing its journey. Seeing it reminds you of your tale, and you share it with the group.
Everyone,
Moving closer to the dead Orcs, you see them all clad in ruined hide armor. Greataxes and javelins lie strewn about the area. Please provide a medicine check, anyone who investigates how the Orcs were killed.
Meira relays what she had noticed. "All the animals I've seen around here seem to be fleeing to the north and west. Meaning something to the southeast?" She hasn't seen anything, so she wasn't sure.
Eldrin stands a moment longer at the edge of the grisly scene, eyes narrowed slightly at the orc corpses sprawled ahead. The familiar taste of irony curls at the edge of his tongue, and he cannot quite resist the urge to offer it voice.
“Impressive,” he murmurs dryly, glancing sidelong at Don-Jon with the faintest arch of one brow. “Twelve manticore spikes, was it? And now, six orcs before breakfast. Truly, you’ve been rather productive this morning. I imagine you’ll have slain a lich or two by supper.”
He lets the words hang for a moment, with just enough cynicism to suggest doubt without open confrontation. Not waiting for a reply, Eldrin moves forward with careful, measured steps, his cloak stirring lightly in the wind coming down off the mountains.
As he approaches the bodies, he crouches gracefully beside one of the fallen orcs, eyeing the ruined hide armor and the scattered weaponry. His gaze sharpens, not toward the obvious, but toward the telling details: the angle of wounds, the direction of blood splatter, signs of looting, or curiously in this case ,the lack thereof. Weapons still lie here, untouched. Curious. Whoever, or whatever, did this wasn’t interested in spoils, or perhaps left in haste… or is still nearby.
Rolling up one sleeve, and casts a spell. A magical hand begins to methodically brush debris aside from one of the wounds as he leans in to inspect it with a practiced, analytical eye.
As Eldrin kneels beside the orc’s ruined form, a quiet warmth blooms at the edge of his awareness, a subtle sensation, like the whisper within his mind his mind.
It’s not intrusive, but present, like a soft voice murmuring encouragement in a tongue he doesn’t quite recognize. Faint warmth gathers at his temples and in the tips of his fingers, steadying his focus that comes with careful, meticulous work.
For him, scholar accustomed to relying solely on disciplined thought and practiced skill, it’s… peculiar. Magic, yes—but not arcane. Divine. A thread of purpose not drawn from books or formulae, but from faith and will.
The world sharpens at the edges;The tangle of cause and effect begins to unwind under his careful gaze.
Eldrin doesn’t look back, but he knows the source instinctively.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, low and composed, “A rare thing, to have both divine favor and competent company.”
Zephyroscan indeed feel Lyra's genuine concern—but also that she's a little worried about her part in all this. He sees it in the way her expression shifts: from sadness—because she knows he's lying, which must mean he doesn't feel he can confide in her—to guilt, as her eyes settle briefly on the trident lying next to him. He gets the sense she'd talk about this openly with him, but she's not sure either of them is ready.
To Meira, she whispers back, "I think he isn't. But he doesn't want to talk. Not to me, anyway." Lyra looks back at her with worried eyes, but after just a heartbeat of eye contact, her concern fades a little and turns to joy. Only for a moment. Then the halfling's attention drifts to Don Jon's tale.
She aches to interrupt him with a thousand questions, ranging from "What was the princess's name? What did she look like? A princess from which kingdom? And how much whiskey did you say you had before all that?" But when Zephyrosinterjects, all those questions melt away. And suddenly, it doesn't feel like Zephyros doesn't want to confide in her—it feels like maybe he just… can't. Not with anyone.
Ironheartis definitely a good name. Even a cool name! But she'd much rather he kept the iron in his muscles, armor, and weapon—and kept a soft heart besides. That doesn't seem impossible, not in her young and unexperienced mind.
When Garethtells his story, she happily chirps, "I like Gareth's story far better than Master Raskin's." If the cowboy so much as glances her way, the cleric sticks her tongue out at him.
Once they come across the dead orcs, Lyra instinctively wraps her arms around herself. She does take a look—briefly—but quickly decides Eldrinwill likely understand better what happened here. (ooc: If it's not too late, she reaches out to brush his arm and quietly mutters a prayer, offering him Guidance)
Looking at the dead Orcs, you immediately recognize they all died about three days ago. Each of them lack any kind of weapon wounds and appear to have died from extreme cold temperatures.
Lyra,
Don-Jon turns back to look at you as you as mention liking Gareth's story more. He sees you stick your tongue out at him and he laughs. "Ha ha... that's a fine thing to enjoy a story being told. It reminds me of a time I fought three Owlbears..." He continues to tell the tail. About how he tracked them to their den and... the story stops short as the group approaches the dead Orcs. You pray for guidance for Eldrin and divine energy flows into the wizard to assist in his investigation.
Zephyros,
Looking at the dead Orcs, you are confused as to how they died. No weapon wounds, no sign of sickness. Their skin looks like it had been burned, but not by any fire you've ever seen. Your investigation is inconclusive.
Everyone,
After you finish your investigation of the dead Orcs, you continue on to Mountain's Toe Gold Mine. Another hour and a half pass as you come upon it. Hidden among bushes, a tunnel burrows into the foot of a soaring, snow-capped mountain. Above the mouth of the tunnel is a wooden plank with the words “Mountain’s Toe” carved into it in Common. Don-Jon turns to the group, "I thank you for your company along the way! Time to get to work." The cowboy tips his hat to the group and proceeds to enter the mine.
As Adabra finishes explaining the final stages of infusion, Eldrin closes his journal with deliberate care, the hovering quill lowering itself neatly to the page with a soft tap. The spectral hand, still gently circling the pestle, pauses mid-motion as he dismisses it with a flick of two fingers, its form unraveling like morning mist.
He leans back slightly in his chair, nodding once with a rare, genuine expression of approval. “Adabra… you are an excellent teacher. Patient, thorough, and clear of purpose. Quite unlike the last instructor I suffered beneath at the Order.”
A faint smirk, dry as old parchment, touches his lips. “A wizard named Snayp. Constantly preoccupied with the mischief of some younger apprentice, Pottur, I believe. Very distracting.”
He stands, straightening his robes and gathering his notebook under one arm. As he approaches the door, he pauses, his expression returning to its usual thoughtful calm.
“Before I go, would it be possible to purchase a healing draught or two? Something for the road. The job board rarely advertises tea and polite conversation, after all.”
The humor is faint but deliberate, a dry ember beneath the usual reserve, as he regards her with both respect and quiet appreciation.
Eldrin,
As you finish up your time with Adabra, you have helped her create two healing potions. She gives you one for free and offers to sell you the second one for 50 gp. Her demeanor towards you is warm and inviting. You get the sense she appreciated having someone to talk to and work with and reciprocates the level of respect you have shown her.
Everyone,
You settle in for the evening and get some rest at the Inn. You wake up the next morning ready to set out on your adventure to Mountain's Toe Mine. Don Jon Raskin is waiting for you as you make your way down to the common room of the Inn. "We ready to head out?" Don asks as your group assembles.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
13
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Gareth watches the slightly awkward exchange between Meira and Lyra, accompanied by furious blushing, and he has to bite his lip to stop from grinning. In the bath area, the ranger uses the privacy screen, more for the women's comfort than out of any inherent modesty on his part. The bath feels like the heavens themselves as he sinks into the warm water. It isn't long before all three of them are joking and even splashing water at each other. The dangers and tribulations of the last day begin to wash away with the grime, especially when Meira treats them to another song.
For a moment, the ranger is concerned when he hears the sounds coming from Zephyros' room, but they quickly subside. "We'll check on him in the morning," he agrees.
After finishing his morning stretches, Gareth heads down to meet the rest of the party at first light. He'd been able to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow last night. The ranger can't help but sneak a quick glance toward Zephyros, checking to make sure he seems all right after what they heard before going to bed.
"Ready as I'll ever be," the ranger says to Don Jon.
Extended Signature
Characters: Bryony Alderleaf (Phandelver and Below) ♦ Vesta Trevelyan (Vecna: Eve of Ruin) ♦ Ada Kendrick (Curse of Strahd) ♦ Gareth Blackwood (Dragon of Icespire Peak) ♦ Karys Velthune (Out of the Abyss) ♦ Surina Xarith (Simple, Heroic Adventure)
DM: Baldur's Gate: Descent Into Avernus
After checking in on Zephyros, Meira asks the others if they have any interest in hanging out for a bit. She certainly didn't want to head to sleep yet. "I'm not to familiar with darts, but could try it. Or I know how to play Three-dragon Ante, though I don't have a set."
She leaves her dulcimer in her room, then heads to the tavern for a drink and something to do. She doesn't plan to stay up too late this time, so she can be up early in the morning.
In the morning she is up. Coming to join the others, she again has her short hair meticulously styled. "Alright, ready to go!"
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 || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
A new day dawns on Phandalin, and the always-energetic Lyra joins everyone for breakfast, feeling even more lively than usual. What a strange day yesterday was. One that started with danger and death, and ended with fun and relaxation. Well, perhaps a bit of concern too—for their big, burly friend. But also with something new, and very unexpected.
As she walks down from her room and approaches the table, the cleric thinks back to the bathtime, during which she had so much fun fooling around. Listening to Meira's song. Or that moment when she told Meira she didn't need help—only to, once she was dried off and dressed, trip over a towel and make a complete fool of herself. Then there was Gareth, who she caught grinning several times, though she never quite figured out why
That night, the halfling didn't manage to learn how to play Three-Dragon Ante, but she did try her luck with darts—probably much to Toblin’s displeasure when one dart landed just a little too close to one of his paintings. Luckily, nobody—painted or real—was hurt in the process.
As she went to sleep, and now again as she approaches the table, Lyra feels like something has changed—something inside her. She doesn't really know when it happened, or why it happened so quickly, but her gaze lingers a moment longer on Meira, and she smiles before looking away to greet everyone with a cheerful "Good morning!", and replies to their new companion, "Ready to escort you, Master Juan ! When we've had breakfast, that is."
But before they leave—and even if she's still a little worried about that certain spark that jumped from her moonstone to his trident—Lyra sits beside Zephyros and quietly asks, "Are you okay? We heard a commotion in your room last night, but when we went to check, you were asleep again." She looks concerned. A little anxious, too—worried the fighter might still be mad at her because of that certain spark that jumped to a certain trident. But more than anything, she's just worried for this fighter she genuinely cares about.
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Adventurer's
[[OOC: You can still post interactions prior to your departure if you'd like. I'm not trying to rush the story, and I apologize if it feels that way. Let me know if you'd like me to slow down.]]
After a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and sausage, you set out with Don-Jon Raskin, heading to Mountain's Toe Gold Mine. The journey to the mine is pleasant, with the morning sun warming your face while the eastern wind dries your eyes simultaneously. Don-Jon spends the trip regaling the group with several of his exploits. "Several years ago, I came across a bandit camp that abducted a local princess from a nearby castle. Musta been about thirty of 'em. I strolled right in and took 'em out like it was nothin, saved that young princess... anyways." After a little over three hours and ten miles, a low ridge rises to your right, beyond which you see the Sword Mountains scrape the gray sky. But closer in, something is strewn across the rocky ground ninety feet ahead.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
When Lyra had entered for breakfast, Meira tried to subtly look up at her from where she sat. She returned the halfling's smile and her face brightened for a moment. She lightly chuckled when she calls the man they are escorting 'Juan'.
Her eyes followed Lyra when she went to sit by Zephyros and her expression had become more subdued. She enjoyed a small portion of the breakfast, rising after she quickly finished. She then moved outside.
When the group finally starts to head out of town, she comes alongside Lyra. "Is Zephyros okay?" she asks quietly.
As Don-Jon pointed out the orcs, Meira stopped where she was at and starts scanning their surroundings. (Perception: 13)
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 || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Zephyros strides out of his room with deliberate force, but not anger.
Slowly but formally the warrior sits down at the breakfast table and looks obviously better than the night prior, but a quiet weariness still rests deep within his eyes.
Briefly glancing at Lyra as she sits down, he gently shakes her shoulder.
"Oh, it's nothing lassie." Zephyros scans her facial expressions, trying to perceive how much the young halfling knows about what he had yelled.
Ironheart adds, "It's certainly unimportant..." His mind drifts off to his bad dream again, but quickly snaps back to the plate in front of him as the barmaid sets the food down in front of him.
Nodding in thanks to the waitress, he hopes to end the conversation with the suspecting cleric by shoving a large forkful of egg in his mouth.
Insight: 15
Walking beside Don-Jon Raskin, he happily engages in conversation.
"Aye, I got a few stories myself." The war-veteran responds after listening to Mr. Raskin's princess-saving saga.
"Back when I served my country, rain and lightning crashed down on our troops." He mentions.
"Then we were brutally ambushed, and some lighting struck a tree, which inconveniently fell on to our legion's general."
Zephyros adds, "We were constantly under enemy volley, but when they ceased, we knew they were coming to clear the remainders out."
"From under the tree, my commander screamed at us to get out of there. My allies all fled like the cowards they were. But I stayed." Ironheart pauses for a moment.
"I consider it treason to abandon those who fight beside me. I began trying to lift the heavy old cedar tree off of our leader, and with his cohesive strength, I managed to get him out of that predicament. After a solid half minute of sprinting for our lives, I quickly realized my commander's leg was broken." Zephyros shutters, looking around at his surrounding briefly.
"Badly limping, he ceased moving when we saw yet another volley incoming. He didn't think he'd make it. I grabbed him, and used myself as a shield against the lethal projectiles rapidly approaching."
"Several arrow tips struck me, one even grazing my heart..." Zephyros stares off into the distance. "That's how I got my name. Ironheart."
Perception: 9
Sighting the six deceased orcs, he immediately begins to watch for what killed them, while also searching for obvious signs to how they died.
Perception: 12
Before leaving, Eldrin purchases the additional potion, leaving his coin neatly stacked and squared on the edge of her worktable. “For your trouble. I hope to return when next I’m able. Until then, may your teas remain hot and your ingredients finely ground.”
By the time Eldrin steps back into the main thoroughfare of Phandalin, the sky is bleeding toward twilight. He returns to the Stonehill Inn in time to catch sight of Lyra halfway through what must be her first-ever attempt at darts, her form lively, enthusiastic, and, technically....terrible. He gives the scene a faint raise of an eyebrow but says nothing, offering only a brief nod in passing before taking to his room upstairs.
The evening passes in disciplined silence, Eldrin cross-legged on his cot, meditating with that focused stillness only elves can maintain. The scents of herbs and tinctures still cling faintly to his sleeves as he mentally traces the formulas Adabra had taught him, committing each to memory with the same methodical precision he applied to arcane sigils.
Come morning, he is down before the others, breakfasting early, his posture upright, every movement efficient. Whatever subtle exchange is occurring between Meira and Lyra goes entirely unnoticed by him, social nuance having always a bit out of reach from his grip.
Don-Jon’s reappearance, however, draws the faintest narrowing of Eldrin’s eyes. Something about the man’s careless bravado doesn’t sit well with the scholar’s measured instincts. Still, he keeps his skepticism behind his usual reserved calm, offering the barest nod in acknowledgment of the man’s presence.
And so he finds himself, journal once more at his hip, staff in hand, present with the others as they begin their trek.
As the party approaches the six dead orcs strewn across the rocky path, Zephyros steps forward, taking point with the practiced ease of a veteran. His broad frame moves with a deliberate, almost grim purpose, eyes scanning the terrain for ambushes or signs of recent battle. Eldrin lingers just behind the main line, silent, observant. His gaze flicks to the surrounding ridge, assessing escape routes, ambush angles, and spell vectors, should things take a turn for the worse.
Gareth lets out a low whistle at Zephyros' story. He's much more impressed by this tale of courage and loyalty than Don Jon's tall tales about rescued princesses, amusing as they may be.
"You should have received a medal for that," Gareth tells the fighter. "Not many men would have had the courage to do what you did."
Even as they walk, the ranger's eyes keep flitting from side to side, aware of his surroundings at all times despite his relaxed demeanor on the surface. He's enjoying the fresh air and the chance to stretch his legs again. Despite the comforts of the inn, he'd always preferred being outdoors. One day, when he had acquired enough gold, he intended to build a farmstead off the beaten path for he and Sylvie to raise a family together, leave the crowds and crime of Neverwinter far behind. Maybe he would even build it somewhere out here, close to Phandalin. The town was quite charming in its own way.
"I'm afraid I don't have any war stories, but there was this one time an owlbear chased me up a tree," he says, chuckling at the memory. "I'd been tracking her for two days at that point, thought I had the upper hand. When I came across a stream, the tracks disappeared, and I couldn't pick them up again. It's like the owlbear just decided to keep walking down the stream. Little did I know that magnificent creature had actually managed to double-back behind me and launch an ambush of her own. I've never run so fast in my life! I spent the next few days sleeping in a tree until she finally got bored of me. Clever girl."
Gareth's smile fades as they come across the six dead orcs lying in the path before them. The ranger scans the area surrounding the dead orcs, looking for any sign that this was an ambush.
Perception - 21
Extended Signature
Characters: Bryony Alderleaf (Phandelver and Below) ♦ Vesta Trevelyan (Vecna: Eve of Ruin) ♦ Ada Kendrick (Curse of Strahd) ♦ Gareth Blackwood (Dragon of Icespire Peak) ♦ Karys Velthune (Out of the Abyss) ♦ Surina Xarith (Simple, Heroic Adventure)
DM: Baldur's Gate: Descent Into Avernus
Meira,
As you stop to survey the surroundings, you see the mountains rising up to the south. The ground is rocky and becomes snowcapped about halfway up the mountainous terrain. To the north, the ground is rolling hills of grassland. You don't notice anything out of the ordinary. Some small animals go about their various activities. Oddly, none of them seem to be going south or east. They all scurry to the north and west.
Zephyros,
Looking at Lyra during breakfast. You have no idea how much of your outburst she overheard, but you can sense her genuine concern for your well-being.
Don-Jon listens to your story with a raised eyebrow before dismissing it. "That ain't nothin... one time I was impaled by no less than twelve manticore spikes. Killed the beast with my bare hands, I did. Walked 30 miles to a nearby town before bandaging my wounds." Each time Don-Jon tells a story, it's even more outlandish than the last. As you look around, you don't notice anything unusual during your walk.
Upon seeing the Orcs dead on the field before you, your combat experience kicks in, and you immediately prepare mentally for battle. You look for obvious locations where an ambush could be made and find none. You don't see any signs that the group is in danger.
Moving closer to the Orcs, you try to determine how they were killed. Please give me a medicine check.
Eldrin,
Looking around, you immediately recognize how open this terrain is. It would be difficult for anything to hide or ambush this area. It also provides the perfect hunting ground for flying predators, as there is nothing to use for cover.
Gareth,
Your constant vigilance over the group's safety goes unnoticed by the group as you walk towards your destination. Still, you're confident nothing could come within a mile of the group without you being aware of it. Halfway to the mine, you spot an Owlbear moving to the North, heading for the forest beyond. It raises its giant head in your direction, before giving a brief head bob and continuing its journey. Seeing it reminds you of your tale, and you share it with the group.
Everyone,
Moving closer to the dead Orcs, you see them all clad in ruined hide armor. Greataxes and javelins lie strewn about the area. Please provide a medicine check, anyone who investigates how the Orcs were killed.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Meira relays what she had noticed. "All the animals I've seen around here seem to be fleeing to the north and west. Meaning something to the southeast?" She hasn't seen anything, so she wasn't sure.
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 || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Eldrin stands a moment longer at the edge of the grisly scene, eyes narrowed slightly at the orc corpses sprawled ahead. The familiar taste of irony curls at the edge of his tongue, and he cannot quite resist the urge to offer it voice.
“Impressive,” he murmurs dryly, glancing sidelong at Don-Jon with the faintest arch of one brow. “Twelve manticore spikes, was it? And now, six orcs before breakfast. Truly, you’ve been rather productive this morning. I imagine you’ll have slain a lich or two by supper.”
He lets the words hang for a moment, with just enough cynicism to suggest doubt without open confrontation. Not waiting for a reply, Eldrin moves forward with careful, measured steps, his cloak stirring lightly in the wind coming down off the mountains.
As he approaches the bodies, he crouches gracefully beside one of the fallen orcs, eyeing the ruined hide armor and the scattered weaponry. His gaze sharpens, not toward the obvious, but toward the telling details: the angle of wounds, the direction of blood splatter, signs of looting, or curiously in this case ,the lack thereof. Weapons still lie here, untouched. Curious. Whoever, or whatever, did this wasn’t interested in spoils, or perhaps left in haste… or is still nearby.
Rolling up one sleeve, and casts a spell. A magical hand begins to methodically brush debris aside from one of the wounds as he leans in to inspect it with a practiced, analytical eye.
As Eldrin kneels beside the orc’s ruined form, a quiet warmth blooms at the edge of his awareness, a subtle sensation, like the whisper within his mind his mind.
It’s not intrusive, but present, like a soft voice murmuring encouragement in a tongue he doesn’t quite recognize. Faint warmth gathers at his temples and in the tips of his fingers, steadying his focus that comes with careful, meticulous work.
For him, scholar accustomed to relying solely on disciplined thought and practiced skill, it’s… peculiar. Magic, yes—but not arcane. Divine. A thread of purpose not drawn from books or formulae, but from faith and will.
The world sharpens at the edges;The tangle of cause and effect begins to unwind under his careful gaze.
Eldrin doesn’t look back, but he knows the source instinctively.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, low and composed, “A rare thing, to have both divine favor and competent company.”
“Medicine check: (17+1) + [Guidance: 4]=22
Zephyros can indeed feel Lyra's genuine concern—but also that she's a little worried about her part in all this. He sees it in the way her expression shifts: from sadness—because she knows he's lying, which must mean he doesn't feel he can confide in her—to guilt, as her eyes settle briefly on the trident lying next to him. He gets the sense she'd talk about this openly with him, but she's not sure either of them is ready.
To Meira, she whispers back, "I think he isn't. But he doesn't want to talk. Not to me, anyway." Lyra looks back at her with worried eyes, but after just a heartbeat of eye contact, her concern fades a little and turns to joy. Only for a moment. Then the halfling's attention drifts to Don Jon's tale.
She aches to interrupt him with a thousand questions, ranging from "What was the princess's name? What did she look like? A princess from which kingdom? And how much whiskey did you say you had before all that?" But when Zephyros interjects, all those questions melt away. And suddenly, it doesn't feel like Zephyros doesn't want to confide in her—it feels like maybe he just… can't. Not with anyone.
Ironheart is definitely a good name. Even a cool name! But she'd much rather he kept the iron in his muscles, armor, and weapon—and kept a soft heart besides. That doesn't seem impossible, not in her young and unexperienced mind.
When Gareth tells his story, she happily chirps, "I like Gareth's story far better than Master Raskin's." If the cowboy so much as glances her way, the cleric sticks her tongue out at him.
Once they come across the dead orcs, Lyra instinctively wraps her arms around herself. She does take a look—briefly—but quickly decides Eldrin will likely understand better what happened here. (ooc: If it's not too late, she reaches out to brush his arm and quietly mutters a prayer, offering him Guidance)
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
[OOC: Thank you!, I altered post to incorporate Guidance being cast]
(ooc: A four!!! High five!! ✋🏻)
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
[OOC: Back at 'cha ✋🏻]
Medicine check: 8
Eldrin,
Looking at the dead Orcs, you immediately recognize they all died about three days ago. Each of them lack any kind of weapon wounds and appear to have died from extreme cold temperatures.
Lyra,
Don-Jon turns back to look at you as you as mention liking Gareth's story more. He sees you stick your tongue out at him and he laughs. "Ha ha... that's a fine thing to enjoy a story being told. It reminds me of a time I fought three Owlbears..." He continues to tell the tail. About how he tracked them to their den and... the story stops short as the group approaches the dead Orcs. You pray for guidance for Eldrin and divine energy flows into the wizard to assist in his investigation.
Zephyros,
Looking at the dead Orcs, you are confused as to how they died. No weapon wounds, no sign of sickness. Their skin looks like it had been burned, but not by any fire you've ever seen. Your investigation is inconclusive.
Everyone,
After you finish your investigation of the dead Orcs, you continue on to Mountain's Toe Gold Mine. Another hour and a half pass as you come upon it. Hidden among bushes, a tunnel burrows into the foot of a soaring, snow-capped mountain. Above the mouth of the tunnel is a wooden plank with the words “Mountain’s Toe” carved into it in Common. Don-Jon turns to the group, "I thank you for your company along the way! Time to get to work." The cowboy tips his hat to the group and proceeds to enter the mine.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.