Seeing Zephyros raise his polearm, Meira looks away, turning towards the windmill. She approaches, though keeps back when Yarina tries to force the door.
Lyraflinches, her outstretched hand lowering as Zephyrosdelivers the killing blow. Her expression falls from her cheerfulness into something more neutral. She exhales, shaking her head lightly."I don't think it would've turned on us,"she murmurs, not quite arguing, but not entirely agreeing either. Then, with a small sigh, she adds, "Well, at least it's not suffering anymore."The younger ones will still suffer, but there's nothing they can do about that now. Nature, as Eldrinstated, will run its course.
With a flick of her wrist, the fading remnants of her healing magic disperse into the air, and as the group moves towards Adabra's, she stays before the corpse of the manticore for a little while. Searching around, she finds a shamrock—the symbol of Tymora—and places it upon the creature's dead body. Then she clasps her hands together, tilting her head as she murmurs, "Tymora, if I ever have to make a call like this again, maybe toss me a hint? A lucky gust of wind, a conveniently timed bird squawk—anything, really. Just so I don’t have to guess whether I’m being wise or just sentimental..."
With a small sigh, she pats the manticore's side as if in farewell and then follows the rest. Seeing Yarinatrying to yank the door open, the halfling pats her on the arm—about as high as she can comfortably reach. A faint golden shimmer dances from the cleric's fingertips to the dragonborn's arm, aimed to help her.
Adabra responds to your warning, "Yes yes... okay, deary. Give it a go."
You put your shoulder to the door and slam against it. It doesn't budge. However, you feel the warmth of divine energy surge into your arm from Lyra's touch. You slam against the door again, and It bursts open for you.
Everyone,
The door flies open, the top hinge breaking off in the process. The door still hangs there, but no longer secures this windmill in its current condition. Inside, you see a large millstone slowly rotating in the center of the floor, crushing up herbs that give the air an earthy aroma. Eldrin, you notice some hints of lavender in the air. Several bundles of herbs and other plants hang from the ceiling to dry. Jars of herbs and other various ingredients rest on shelves around the room. In the corner of the room, an alchemist's workstation sits in disarray.
Ababra warmly greets you all, "Please, please come in, come in." The woman before you looks to be older but not elderly. She wears simple farming cloths that are stained with several different colors in various locations. She has a lean build and tanned skin. She looks at her door and shakes her head, but her attention returns to the group quickly. "Good thing you came when you did. That Manticore kept telling me I would be lunch and not to worry. That it would make my death swift and painless. The nerve of that thing! Oh... that reminds me!" She pulls a quill out of the broken door and licks it. She spits on the floor after and says, "Darn it...not poisonous." Disappointment lingers for only a moment before she diverts her attention once more.
Adabra walks over to a shelf and pulls down a crate filled with potions. "Here take these potions I made recently as thanks for saving my hide." She gestures to Zephyros and adds, "I saw that monster jump on you! Are you okay deary?"
[Adadra gives each party member one healing potion.]
Without turning, Eldrin speaks smoothly, “Lyra, mind the air. The lavender is rather potent.”His tone remains neutral, but when he finally glances her way, his measured gaze is anything but, edged with quiet suspicion.
Lyra walks into Adabra's home, glancing around. "Did you say something about a cat, Ms Adabra? Can I pet him? I love cats! We had an orange cat at our temple called Whisk—"
She cuts off as Eldrinspeaks, freezing in place. "Uh? What…? Oh! Ohhhh! Yes, my allergy!" She fakes a sneeze—poorly—then slumps her shoulders in defeat and quickly confesses, "Okay! You caught me! It was a joke! Don't hate me, pleeeeease?"
Lyra looks up at Eldrinwith the most innocent expression her small face can muster.
Adabra walks over to a shelf and pulls down a crate filled with potions. "Here take these potions I made recently as thanks for saving my hide." She gestures to Zephyros and adds, "I saw that monster jump on you! Are you okay deary?"
[Adadra gives each party member one healing potion.]
Mr. Ironheart strokes his brown beard and happily thanks Adabra. "Thank you for your worries and potions, ma'am. No, I believe all of us are alright."
"Now," Zephyros adds. "To the more concerning matter at hand. As of recently, a dragon has been spotted in the clouds. I would imagine something that size is going to be a whole lot harder to fend off than that Manticore. I strongly advice you to return to Phandalin. Not only that, but I'm sure you'd get a whole lot more business, being so much closer to civilization. However, I completely understand if you would rather stay. I would simply ask that you would write a formal letter to Mr. Wester, so he knows you are alright and have been warned of danger."
She cuts off as Eldrinspeaks, freezing in place. "Uh? What…? Oh! Ohhhh! Yes, my allergy!" She fakes a sneeze—poorly—then slumps her shoulders in defeat and quickly confesses, "Okay! You caught me! It was a joke! Don't hate me, pleeeeease?"
Lyra looks up at Eladrin with the most innocent expression her small face can muster.
Turning his gaze from the alchemist, Zephyros stares inquisitively at the cleric. He tries to wonder why someone would ever want to deceive others into believing that one has a weakness to something so mundane, such as flowers. Ironheart slowly says, "Haven't heard that one before. Well, you fooled me."
Yarina steps forward beside Zephyros, her tone measured but earnest. “He’s right, Mrs. Adabra. The town needs you—not just as an herbalist, but as a healer. If worse things come than manticores, people will need your help, and they won’t be able to reach you out here. I understand pride in your independence, but sometimes strength means knowing when to stand with others. Phandalin is safer with you in it.”
Meira grins slightly as Lyra confesses that she'd only pretended to be allergic to lilac this morning. "Aw, I'm sure you could have kept that going if you really wanted to!" She almost sounds disappointed. Stepping a bit closer to the cleric, she too looks over at Eldrin, giving him a wide-eyed and pleading look. "Please have mercy on Lyra. Look at that cute face. Surely she meant no harm." As she looks intently at the elf, she almost seems to actually be worried for the halfling.
After hopefully getting some reaction from Eldrin, Meira steps even closer to Lyra, whispering in her ear. "How could Zephyros have never heard of making a joke like that before? He must not get out much!"
Eldrin exhales slowly through his nose, his gaze shifting from Lyra to Meira with the faintest arch of a silver brow. "Mercy?"he echoes, his tone mild but carrying an undercurrent of dry amusement. "I was unaware her transgression required judgment."His eyes linger on Meira, unreadable, before turning away, offering no further satisfaction only a lingering impression that he'd taken note of more than he'd let on.
Lyrashrugs at Meira. "I was distracted!" Regarding Zephyros, she whispers back, "I figure he could use a few more jokes in his life! Though, I really hope he never swings that big weapon at me."The halfling lowers her voice further, adding, "He’s terrifying! And so big! I might snap my neck just looking up at him!"
When Eldrinresponds, Lyra simply smiles, fascinated by his distant, enigmatic demeanor. How does someone even act like that? For the next minute, the trickery cleric attempts to mimic Eldrin's gaze—cool, unreadable, mysterious. The result is… not quite the same.
Gareth watches Zephyros execute the manticore with an impassive expression. After the deed is done, he gathers his rope, and he pauses for a moment to collect a trophy from the beast, one of its deadly tail spikes. It will make a fine trophy for the mantelpiece back home.
"Zephyros is right," Gareth says quietly to Lyra. "It may not have turned on us now, but it's likely it would have in the future. Manticores are sometimes used as shock troops by orcs. And if they can't find game in the wilds, they have no qualms about hunting people, as we saw today. But it's no longer suffering. When I hunt my prey, I always try to go for a clean, quick kill. Suffering serves no one."
Gareth accepts a potion from Adabra, giving her a smile. "Thank you, ma'am," he says politely.
Lyra admits her prank, and Gareth chuckles. "Nice one," he tells her. "I take it you were behind the shutters opening as well then?"
His amusement only deepens when Lyra attempts to mimic Eldrin's demeanor. He chokes back another laugh.
Adabra's look darts between you both. First to Lyra, then to Eldrin as he warns about the scent in the air. "No cat here, why would you think that... oh, no. I was referring to the.." Her words stop short as Lyra fakes a sneeze. "Bless you, deary." She smiles as it becomes clear you are joking about your allergy.
Zephyros & Yarina,
Adabra's smile fades as Zephyros talks of a dragon in the area. "A dragon, you say... well, I doubt a dragon would take an interest in little ole me. I'm happy here, and my goddess Chauntea will protect me. She helps me grow all of these wonderful ingredients you see." She gestures around the room at all the drying plants hanging from the ceiling and jars of alchemical agents resting on the shelves. "I can't leave my home, and that pompous Harbin Wester can fall in a portable hole for all I care. We dated for a time, but... never mind about that."
This is when Yarina helps and adds her thoughts to the discussion. Adabra listens thoughtfully before responding, "Perhaps you're right, deary. Perhaps you're right." She looks around her home for a moment, a sad expression evident on her face. To no one in particular, she says "This is my home..." Her eyes get watery before she quickly wipes at them to clear. "Well there's nothing for it. If what you say is true, the town does need me close at hand. I'll go pack some essentials." She heads up the stairs with a downcast air about her.
Everyone,
You are left alone on the bottom floor of the windmill.
"No cat?"Lyra looks disappointed, but not for long, as she quickly begins inspecting the different herbs, jars, and potions in Adabra's study.
"What kind of potions do you work with, Ms. Adabra?"she calls out, raising her voice so the woman might hear from upstairs."Apart from healing potions, that is! Antitoxins, perhaps? Oh, don't tell me you make love potions too! I bet those are popular, hehehe. Ah! And you're a follower of Chauntea?" The cleric pauses, then muses to herself, "I bet Chauntea and Tymora get along great." She grins at the thought.
A moment later, Lyra continues, "So, Ms. Adabra, why do you live so far from Phandalin, anyway? Not a fan of crowds? Or do herbs grow better out here? Oh! Do you need us to carry anything for you? There’s a bunch of us—we could grab a few bundles. Herbs aren’t heavy!"
Eldrin turns the small glass vial over in his fingers, watching as the liquid within shifts and swirls. The potion is simple, unassuming—yet holds within it the power to mend wounds, to stave off death. A power that, for all his scholarly pursuits, has eluded him.
As the others converse, he moves through Adabra’s workspace with measured steps, his keen eyes sweeping over the dried bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters, the labeled jars lining the shelves, the mortar and pestle still dusted with the remnants of crushed plants. There is an elegance to this craft—an understanding not born of arcane formulae or rigid spellwork, but of nature’s quiet wisdom.
His fingers trail just above the surface of a worn wooden table, careful not to disturb the arrangement of tools and tinctures. To him, although elusive to him, healing had always been a matter of structured magic—spells learned, energies channeled. Yet here, in this humble windmill, knowledge coalesces into something more tangible. A different path to the same end.
Pausing near the Adabra's workstation, he studies the disarray with quiet curiosity. The method may be unfamiliar, but the intent is unmistakable. This is a power built not on raw arcane force, but on patience, observation, and an intimacy with the natural world that he lacks.
He exhales softly, tucking the potion away into his robes before turning back, his expression contemplative. “A fascinating craft,” he muses, glancing once more at the many vessels and vials around the room. “And one, I suspect, demands no small amount of skill to master.” There is no flattery in his tone—only quiet, genuine interest.
Yarina watches Adabra ascend the stairs, the older woman’s sorrow not lost on her. She lowers her gaze for a moment, respectful of the sacrifice being made, then turns to Lyra with a faint smile.
“Give her a moment,” she says gently. “It’s not easy to leave the place that’s given you purpose, even if it's for the greater good.” Her eyes wander the room again—the herbs, the hanging bundles, the quiet hum of work and life.
Zephyros turns to Yarina, and almost laments, "Aye, I understand that feeling all too well..." The burly man lets out a sigh. He ponders a moment longer, supposedly reminiscing his dark past as he twists the trident around in his calloused hand. The soldier's eyes glaze over, as if a wall erected in place of emotion. Ironheart's gaze darts over to the stairs, and waits for Adabra to return. When she returns, he empathetically states, "It would be our pleasure to help carry many of your things, ma'am." The bear of a man grips his polearm tighter as his arms prepares for a heavy load.
Meira absently paces around the space once Adabra makes her way upstairs. "It is a shame she has to leave her home. But hopefully at some point the dragon can be dealt with and she'll be able to return." She eventually ends up over next to Gareth. "Hey, you seem to know a bit about manticores. Do you think that if we could find the young ones that we could train them or sell them or something?" She glances over at Lyra a moment. "It would be a shame to just leave them. Although, maybe the other manticore would still be with them? Or does only one parent care for the young?"
You collect your trophy from the Manticore before joining the others in the windmill. The tail spike is about 7 inches long and has serrations on both sides. Small barbs also extrude from the spike, which is designed to tear if pulled out of the victim. Adabra returns your smile, saying, "You're welcome, deary."
Lyra,
As you walk around the bottom floor of the windmill, you see jars filled with all sorts of herbs and other ingredients. All of them are labeled and organized. However, you can only see the ones resting on the lower shelves around the room. Sage, coriander, parsley, basil, ginseng, and other mundane herbs and spices. Adabra hears you and responds, "Mostly just healing potions, but I have been known to dabble..." There is a pause before she adds, "I threw all of my caustic stock at that Manticore." She goes quiet as you ask why she lives so far from Phandalin.
Eldrin,
As you stare into the potion Adabra provided, you see it swirl with a red glimmer as if transfused with sparkling glitter. You move about the room, taking it all in with a curious mind. You see jars on higher shelves labeled as death weed, flesh wort, ghost root, as well as several jars labeled as Wyndor's herb. You also notice many of the dried and drying bundles hanging from the rafters are the same type of herb in these jars. Stopping at the workstation, you see a chaotic space. A bag of gems is filled towards the back, spilling out partially onto the table. Most of them appear to be red garnets. The mortar and pestle are covered in a red shimmering powder. From what you surmise, the residue is years of near-daily use. Several vials and glass jars are mostly lined up along the backside of the table, but some lay scattered about the table, empty of contents. A basket of corks rests on the right side of the table. You notice one bottle sitting on a high shelf to your left, void of contents, yet a cork placed firmly into the opening.
Yarina,
The quiet hum of work and life is not lost on you. You notice the millstone still slowly rolling around the bowl in the center of the room, still crushing to powder a dried herd of some kind. The millstone is powered by a slow spinning shaft that disappears into the ceiling beyond.
Zephyros,
Several minutes pass before Adabra returns. You greet her and offer your aid. She has a backpack resting on one shoulder and a cloth bag in her right hand. She stops and looks at you for the briefest of moments before dropping her bag and backpack onto the ground and putting her arms around you in a big hug. She holds onto you for what seems like an eternity, but in reality is only about 6 seconds. As she pulls back, she quickly wipes away tears in her eyes. "Thank you, deary. Your help is appreciated, but I don't want to put you all out. I can make my way to Phandalin alone. It's not too far from here. I'll make that useless mayor send a wagon to gather my tools and whatnot."
Meira,
As you absentmindedly pace about the room, a small lockbox catches your eye on a small table under the stairs.
Everyone,
You may post what you'd like to do prior to and after Adabra comes back down the stairs.
Adabra looks at you all and says, "Thanks again. I'll be sure to tell Harbin you properly warned me. No need to escort me back. I think I can manage on my own." She then heads out of the windmill, past the broken door. She stops outside and turns around to add, "Feel free to stay here as long as you need. It's not much, but it'll keep night's chill from yer bones." If no one stops her, she turns and heads North towards Phandalin.
You have earned enough experience to increase to level 2. What would you like to do?
Eldrin’s gaze lingers on the empty bottle perched high on the shelf. Unlike the others, filled with dried herbs and labeled with precise script, this one is devoid of contents, yet its cork remains firmly in place. An odd detail—small, but deliberate. It piques his curiosity.
Without a word, he lifts a hand, fingers tracing a subtle arc through the air. The gesture is fluid, controlled, almost absentminded. A shimmer of pale blue light gathers at his fingertips before unfurling into the shape of a spectral hand, elegant and translucent, like frost clinging to glass.
The mage hand ascends with effortless grace, obeying his silent command. It reaches the shelf, fingers curling around the glass with deliberate care, then descends, lowering the bottle into his waiting grasp.
If any among the group glance his way with questioning expressions, Eldrin merely tilts his head, his voice smooth, unhurried. “It caught my interest.” No further explanation is offered—only the quiet expectation that if something stands apart, it is worth examining.
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Seeing Zephyros raise his polearm, Meira looks away, turning towards the windmill. She approaches, though keeps back when Yarina tries to force the door.
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 || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Lyra flinches, her outstretched hand lowering as Zephyros delivers the killing blow. Her expression falls from her cheerfulness into something more neutral. She exhales, shaking her head lightly. "I don't think it would've turned on us," she murmurs, not quite arguing, but not entirely agreeing either. Then, with a small sigh, she adds, "Well, at least it's not suffering anymore." The younger ones will still suffer, but there's nothing they can do about that now. Nature, as Eldrin stated, will run its course.
With a flick of her wrist, the fading remnants of her healing magic disperse into the air, and as the group moves towards Adabra's, she stays before the corpse of the manticore for a little while. Searching around, she finds a shamrock—the symbol of Tymora—and places it upon the creature's dead body. Then she clasps her hands together, tilting her head as she murmurs, "Tymora, if I ever have to make a call like this again, maybe toss me a hint? A lucky gust of wind, a conveniently timed bird squawk—anything, really. Just so I don’t have to guess whether I’m being wise or just sentimental..."
With a small sigh, she pats the manticore's side as if in farewell and then follows the rest. Seeing Yarina trying to yank the door open, the halfling pats her on the arm—about as high as she can comfortably reach. A faint golden shimmer dances from the cleric's fingertips to the dragonborn's arm, aimed to help her.
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Yarina,
Adabra responds to your warning, "Yes yes... okay, deary. Give it a go."
You put your shoulder to the door and slam against it. It doesn't budge. However, you feel the warmth of divine energy surge into your arm from Lyra's touch. You slam against the door again, and It bursts open for you.
Everyone,
The door flies open, the top hinge breaking off in the process. The door still hangs there, but no longer secures this windmill in its current condition. Inside, you see a large millstone slowly rotating in the center of the floor, crushing up herbs that give the air an earthy aroma. Eldrin, you notice some hints of lavender in the air. Several bundles of herbs and other plants hang from the ceiling to dry. Jars of herbs and other various ingredients rest on shelves around the room. In the corner of the room, an alchemist's workstation sits in disarray.
Ababra warmly greets you all, "Please, please come in, come in." The woman before you looks to be older but not elderly. She wears simple farming cloths that are stained with several different colors in various locations. She has a lean build and tanned skin. She looks at her door and shakes her head, but her attention returns to the group quickly. "Good thing you came when you did. That Manticore kept telling me I would be lunch and not to worry. That it would make my death swift and painless. The nerve of that thing! Oh... that reminds me!" She pulls a quill out of the broken door and licks it. She spits on the floor after and says, "Darn it...not poisonous." Disappointment lingers for only a moment before she diverts her attention once more.
Adabra walks over to a shelf and pulls down a crate filled with potions. "Here take these potions I made recently as thanks for saving my hide." She gestures to Zephyros and adds, "I saw that monster jump on you! Are you okay deary?"
[Adadra gives each party member one healing potion.]
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Without turning, Eldrin speaks smoothly, “Lyra, mind the air. The lavender is rather potent.” His tone remains neutral, but when he finally glances her way, his measured gaze is anything but, edged with quiet suspicion.
Lyra walks into Adabra's home, glancing around. "Did you say something about a cat, Ms Adabra? Can I pet him? I love cats! We had an orange cat at our temple called Whisk—"
She cuts off as Eldrin speaks, freezing in place. "Uh? What…? Oh! Ohhhh! Yes, my allergy!" She fakes a sneeze—poorly—then slumps her shoulders in defeat and quickly confesses, "Okay! You caught me! It was a joke! Don't hate me, pleeeeease?"
Lyra looks up at Eldrin with the most innocent expression her small face can muster.
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Mr. Ironheart strokes his brown beard and happily thanks Adabra. "Thank you for your worries and potions, ma'am. No, I believe all of us are alright."
"Now," Zephyros adds. "To the more concerning matter at hand. As of recently, a dragon has been spotted in the clouds. I would imagine something that size is going to be a whole lot harder to fend off than that Manticore. I strongly advice you to return to Phandalin. Not only that, but I'm sure you'd get a whole lot more business, being so much closer to civilization. However, I completely understand if you would rather stay. I would simply ask that you would write a formal letter to Mr. Wester, so he knows you are alright and have been warned of danger."
Persuasion: 17
Turning his gaze from the alchemist, Zephyros stares inquisitively at the cleric. He tries to wonder why someone would ever want to deceive others into believing that one has a weakness to something so mundane, such as flowers. Ironheart slowly says, "Haven't heard that one before. Well, you fooled me."
Zephyros, please make a persuasion roll.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
(Yarina will help with Zephyros' persuasion)
Yarina steps forward beside Zephyros, her tone measured but earnest. “He’s right, Mrs. Adabra. The town needs you—not just as an herbalist, but as a healer. If worse things come than manticores, people will need your help, and they won’t be able to reach you out here. I understand pride in your independence, but sometimes strength means knowing when to stand with others. Phandalin is safer with you in it.”
Meira grins slightly as Lyra confesses that she'd only pretended to be allergic to lilac this morning. "Aw, I'm sure you could have kept that going if you really wanted to!" She almost sounds disappointed. Stepping a bit closer to the cleric, she too looks over at Eldrin, giving him a wide-eyed and pleading look. "Please have mercy on Lyra. Look at that cute face. Surely she meant no harm." As she looks intently at the elf, she almost seems to actually be worried for the halfling.
After hopefully getting some reaction from Eldrin, Meira steps even closer to Lyra, whispering in her ear. "How could Zephyros have never heard of making a joke like that before? He must not get out much!"
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 || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Eldrin exhales slowly through his nose, his gaze shifting from Lyra to Meira with the faintest arch of a silver brow. "Mercy?" he echoes, his tone mild but carrying an undercurrent of dry amusement. "I was unaware her transgression required judgment." His eyes linger on Meira, unreadable, before turning away, offering no further satisfaction only a lingering impression that he'd taken note of more than he'd let on.
Lyra shrugs at Meira. "I was distracted!" Regarding Zephyros, she whispers back, "I figure he could use a few more jokes in his life! Though, I really hope he never swings that big weapon at me." The halfling lowers her voice further, adding, "He’s terrifying! And so big! I might snap my neck just looking up at him!"
When Eldrin responds, Lyra simply smiles, fascinated by his distant, enigmatic demeanor. How does someone even act like that? For the next minute, the trickery cleric attempts to mimic Eldrin's gaze—cool, unreadable, mysterious. The result is… not quite the same.
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Gareth watches Zephyros execute the manticore with an impassive expression. After the deed is done, he gathers his rope, and he pauses for a moment to collect a trophy from the beast, one of its deadly tail spikes. It will make a fine trophy for the mantelpiece back home.
"Zephyros is right," Gareth says quietly to Lyra. "It may not have turned on us now, but it's likely it would have in the future. Manticores are sometimes used as shock troops by orcs. And if they can't find game in the wilds, they have no qualms about hunting people, as we saw today. But it's no longer suffering. When I hunt my prey, I always try to go for a clean, quick kill. Suffering serves no one."
Gareth accepts a potion from Adabra, giving her a smile. "Thank you, ma'am," he says politely.
Lyra admits her prank, and Gareth chuckles. "Nice one," he tells her. "I take it you were behind the shutters opening as well then?"
His amusement only deepens when Lyra attempts to mimic Eldrin's demeanor. He chokes back another laugh.
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
Eldrin & Lyra,
Adabra's look darts between you both. First to Lyra, then to Eldrin as he warns about the scent in the air. "No cat here, why would you think that... oh, no. I was referring to the.." Her words stop short as Lyra fakes a sneeze. "Bless you, deary." She smiles as it becomes clear you are joking about your allergy.
Zephyros & Yarina,
Adabra's smile fades as Zephyros talks of a dragon in the area. "A dragon, you say... well, I doubt a dragon would take an interest in little ole me. I'm happy here, and my goddess Chauntea will protect me. She helps me grow all of these wonderful ingredients you see." She gestures around the room at all the drying plants hanging from the ceiling and jars of alchemical agents resting on the shelves. "I can't leave my home, and that pompous Harbin Wester can fall in a portable hole for all I care. We dated for a time, but... never mind about that."
This is when Yarina helps and adds her thoughts to the discussion. Adabra listens thoughtfully before responding, "Perhaps you're right, deary. Perhaps you're right." She looks around her home for a moment, a sad expression evident on her face. To no one in particular, she says "This is my home..." Her eyes get watery before she quickly wipes at them to clear. "Well there's nothing for it. If what you say is true, the town does need me close at hand. I'll go pack some essentials." She heads up the stairs with a downcast air about her.
Everyone,
You are left alone on the bottom floor of the windmill.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
"No cat?" Lyra looks disappointed, but not for long, as she quickly begins inspecting the different herbs, jars, and potions in Adabra's study.
"What kind of potions do you work with, Ms. Adabra?" she calls out, raising her voice so the woman might hear from upstairs. "Apart from healing potions, that is! Antitoxins, perhaps? Oh, don't tell me you make love potions too! I bet those are popular, hehehe. Ah! And you're a follower of Chauntea?" The cleric pauses, then muses to herself, "I bet Chauntea and Tymora get along great." She grins at the thought.
A moment later, Lyra continues, "So, Ms. Adabra, why do you live so far from Phandalin, anyway? Not a fan of crowds? Or do herbs grow better out here? Oh! Do you need us to carry anything for you? There’s a bunch of us—we could grab a few bundles. Herbs aren’t heavy!"
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Eldrin turns the small glass vial over in his fingers, watching as the liquid within shifts and swirls. The potion is simple, unassuming—yet holds within it the power to mend wounds, to stave off death. A power that, for all his scholarly pursuits, has eluded him.
As the others converse, he moves through Adabra’s workspace with measured steps, his keen eyes sweeping over the dried bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters, the labeled jars lining the shelves, the mortar and pestle still dusted with the remnants of crushed plants. There is an elegance to this craft—an understanding not born of arcane formulae or rigid spellwork, but of nature’s quiet wisdom.
His fingers trail just above the surface of a worn wooden table, careful not to disturb the arrangement of tools and tinctures. To him, although elusive to him, healing had always been a matter of structured magic—spells learned, energies channeled. Yet here, in this humble windmill, knowledge coalesces into something more tangible. A different path to the same end.
Pausing near the Adabra's workstation, he studies the disarray with quiet curiosity. The method may be unfamiliar, but the intent is unmistakable. This is a power built not on raw arcane force, but on patience, observation, and an intimacy with the natural world that he lacks.
He exhales softly, tucking the potion away into his robes before turning back, his expression contemplative. “A fascinating craft,” he muses, glancing once more at the many vessels and vials around the room. “And one, I suspect, demands no small amount of skill to master.” There is no flattery in his tone—only quiet, genuine interest.
Yarina watches Adabra ascend the stairs, the older woman’s sorrow not lost on her. She lowers her gaze for a moment, respectful of the sacrifice being made, then turns to Lyra with a faint smile.
“Give her a moment,” she says gently. “It’s not easy to leave the place that’s given you purpose, even if it's for the greater good.” Her eyes wander the room again—the herbs, the hanging bundles, the quiet hum of work and life.
Zephyros turns to Yarina, and almost laments, "Aye, I understand that feeling all too well..." The burly man lets out a sigh. He ponders a moment longer, supposedly reminiscing his dark past as he twists the trident around in his calloused hand. The soldier's eyes glaze over, as if a wall erected in place of emotion. Ironheart's gaze darts over to the stairs, and waits for Adabra to return. When she returns, he empathetically states, "It would be our pleasure to help carry many of your things, ma'am." The bear of a man grips his polearm tighter as his arms prepares for a heavy load.
Meira absently paces around the space once Adabra makes her way upstairs. "It is a shame she has to leave her home. But hopefully at some point the dragon can be dealt with and she'll be able to return." She eventually ends up over next to Gareth. "Hey, you seem to know a bit about manticores. Do you think that if we could find the young ones that we could train them or sell them or something?" She glances over at Lyra a moment. "It would be a shame to just leave them. Although, maybe the other manticore would still be with them? Or does only one parent care for the young?"
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 || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Gareth,
You collect your trophy from the Manticore before joining the others in the windmill. The tail spike is about 7 inches long and has serrations on both sides. Small barbs also extrude from the spike, which is designed to tear if pulled out of the victim. Adabra returns your smile, saying, "You're welcome, deary."
Lyra,
As you walk around the bottom floor of the windmill, you see jars filled with all sorts of herbs and other ingredients. All of them are labeled and organized. However, you can only see the ones resting on the lower shelves around the room. Sage, coriander, parsley, basil, ginseng, and other mundane herbs and spices. Adabra hears you and responds, "Mostly just healing potions, but I have been known to dabble..." There is a pause before she adds, "I threw all of my caustic stock at that Manticore." She goes quiet as you ask why she lives so far from Phandalin.
Eldrin,
As you stare into the potion Adabra provided, you see it swirl with a red glimmer as if transfused with sparkling glitter. You move about the room, taking it all in with a curious mind. You see jars on higher shelves labeled as death weed, flesh wort, ghost root, as well as several jars labeled as Wyndor's herb. You also notice many of the dried and drying bundles hanging from the rafters are the same type of herb in these jars. Stopping at the workstation, you see a chaotic space. A bag of gems is filled towards the back, spilling out partially onto the table. Most of them appear to be red garnets. The mortar and pestle are covered in a red shimmering powder. From what you surmise, the residue is years of near-daily use. Several vials and glass jars are mostly lined up along the backside of the table, but some lay scattered about the table, empty of contents. A basket of corks rests on the right side of the table. You notice one bottle sitting on a high shelf to your left, void of contents, yet a cork placed firmly into the opening.
Yarina,
The quiet hum of work and life is not lost on you. You notice the millstone still slowly rolling around the bowl in the center of the room, still crushing to powder a dried herd of some kind. The millstone is powered by a slow spinning shaft that disappears into the ceiling beyond.
Zephyros,
Several minutes pass before Adabra returns. You greet her and offer your aid. She has a backpack resting on one shoulder and a cloth bag in her right hand. She stops and looks at you for the briefest of moments before dropping her bag and backpack onto the ground and putting her arms around you in a big hug. She holds onto you for what seems like an eternity, but in reality is only about 6 seconds. As she pulls back, she quickly wipes away tears in her eyes. "Thank you, deary. Your help is appreciated, but I don't want to put you all out. I can make my way to Phandalin alone. It's not too far from here. I'll make that useless mayor send a wagon to gather my tools and whatnot."
Meira,
As you absentmindedly pace about the room, a small lockbox catches your eye on a small table under the stairs.
Everyone,
You may post what you'd like to do prior to and after Adabra comes back down the stairs.
Adabra looks at you all and says, "Thanks again. I'll be sure to tell Harbin you properly warned me. No need to escort me back. I think I can manage on my own." She then heads out of the windmill, past the broken door. She stops outside and turns around to add, "Feel free to stay here as long as you need. It's not much, but it'll keep night's chill from yer bones." If no one stops her, she turns and heads North towards Phandalin.
You have earned enough experience to increase to level 2. What would you like to do?
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Eldrin’s gaze lingers on the empty bottle perched high on the shelf. Unlike the others, filled with dried herbs and labeled with precise script, this one is devoid of contents, yet its cork remains firmly in place. An odd detail—small, but deliberate. It piques his curiosity.
Without a word, he lifts a hand, fingers tracing a subtle arc through the air. The gesture is fluid, controlled, almost absentminded. A shimmer of pale blue light gathers at his fingertips before unfurling into the shape of a spectral hand, elegant and translucent, like frost clinging to glass.
The mage hand ascends with effortless grace, obeying his silent command. It reaches the shelf, fingers curling around the glass with deliberate care, then descends, lowering the bottle into his waiting grasp.
If any among the group glance his way with questioning expressions, Eldrin merely tilts his head, his voice smooth, unhurried. “It caught my interest.” No further explanation is offered—only the quiet expectation that if something stands apart, it is worth examining.