(Sorry, accident turned into something bigger so responses will be sporadic for a while.)

"Well, shall I offer you all a meal then? Or would you all like to see where the citadel is?" Madame Hucrele asks after leading the party to her guest house. It's a quaint home, two bedrooms and a hearth.

"From what my children told me, they planned to descend down from the old road into the citadel."

Damay looks about. "Perhaps we can scout a bit before a meal, the more information we have the  better. Now that we are sitting still, I would like to see what I can learn about citidel, would you suggest the town hall or the shrine to have potential historical literature on the matter? I shall like to check both locations regardless. Lack of information can be as deadly as any foe." Damay was used to researching and pulling information out of abstract writing, bit now that he is closer to physically have to investigate, he half worries he is using information gathering as an excuse more then a crutch.

Khazela pads through Oakhurst, quills low, eyes counting doors—hall, jail, shrine, smith, inn—mapping exits and alleys in silence. At the guest house threshold she nods to Kerowyn. “Show where citadel path begins,” she says, clipped and calm. “We go at dawn—fresh feet, clear eyes.” She checks straps, oils blades, waits.

"Books? Well...I'd doubt either would have it. Most of what we know has just been legends about it. It happened long before Oakhurst came to be. Frankly speaking, I think that Garon, the innkeep, knows most about the legend, since my children mainly heard it from him."

"And the Old road is over here, hard to miss with the Ashen plains in sight." Hucrele points over to the edge of the village where a worn out fence hobbles in the wind. The road it borders has a grey plains to one side, spanning the fields with no fauna in sight and a narrow ravine on the other.

Dantos starts to head towards the tavern, shrugging at the group. A place to start is a place to start.

He feel confident that his friends can handle anything that comes up, real or imagined.

Angus joins Dantos as they begin to stride towards the inn. The more information about the Citadel the party has, the more prepared they’ll be. Even if they don’t uncover much, it would be beneficial at least have some knowledge that aligns to the same level the lost adventurers had when they entered; it would certainly be embarrassing to get caught in some sort of trap or pitfall that the people meant to be saved had known to avoid. 

Caldrin listened to the discussion with a quiet, thoughtful expression, fingers absently brushing the cover of the small, weatherworn spellbook at his side. The mention of “legends” had drawn a faint spark of interest—often, there was more truth in myth than its tellers realized—but he agreed with Damay’s point. Information, even fragmentary, was worth collecting before they set foot near the citadel.

“I’ll accompany you to the inn,” he said, his tone measured. “If this Garon knows the stories well enough to pass them on, I’d like to hear the unpolished version before it’s lost to retelling. Details sometimes hide in the cracks between a storyteller’s words.”

At the doorway, he paused to murmur a soft command. A rush of air and the faint whisper of feathers heralded his owl’s arrival from a nearby rooftop. It alighted on the fence post outside, head tilting as if already listening for trouble. “Keep watch here for now,” Caldrin instructed it quietly, then stepped back to the group. “The rest of you can decide if you prefer scouting the road now or waiting until dawn. Either way, we will want a clear plan before we descend.”

(For those that wish to head to the inn)

The inn has a few patrons, most of the villagers still doing some chores at this time. Behind the counter, you see a heavy set man filling a mug. He passes the mug to a patron then noticing your party.

"Good evening! I take it you all are miss Kerowyn's guests, saw you all taking walk around the village. Welcome to Oakhurst and welcome to the Ol'Boar Inn. I'm Garon and I own the place, so what can I get you all for this quiet evening?"

(For those that wish to scout the Old Road.)

The Old Road passes to the east of a narrow ravine. At the road’s closest approach to the cleft, several broken pillars jut from the earth where the ravine widens. Two of the pillars stand straight, but most lean atop sloped earth. Others are broken, and several have apparently fallen into the dark depths. A few similar pillars are visible on the opposite side of the ravine.

Caldrin stepped into the inn with a careful pace, letting the scents of woodsmoke, ale, and earth fill his senses as his eyes took in the warmly lit room. He adjusted the strap of his satchel and offered Garon a polite nod. “Good evening, Master Garon. A simple drink will suffice for me—something light, if you have it.” He drew closer to the counter, resting a hand on the worn wood as though measuring its texture while he spoke.

“We were told you might know more than most about the citadel beyond the Old Road. Kerowyn’s children heard the tales from you, I believe. If you would be willing to share them with us, I would be most grateful. Any detail, no matter how small, may help us prepare for the path ahead.” His tone was steady but earnest, the kind of quiet confidence of someone used to sifting fact from legend.

He glanced back toward his companions, voice lowering just enough to invite them in. “Perhaps while we take our supper, we could hear Garon’s account. Each of us may catch something in the telling that the others overlook.” His hand traced the rim of his mug absently as he waited, already readying himself to listen carefully to every word the innkeep might share.

Dantos follows closely behind Caldrin. He doesn't want to miss out on any information about the citadel. Better to know and be prepared than be caught flat footed. Ha! is a funny phrase, flat footed, all tortles are flat footed.

Taking a look around he tries to find a menu post or if any of the patrons are eating anything interesting. A spot of hunger grumbles in his belly.

Angus nods to Caldrin. ‘I’ll keep an ear out for anything everything whilst we eat; just got to hope beef isn’t on the menu!’ He plays it off with a joking smirk, but recalls how frustrating it was when after so many years of saving up to be an adventurer and buying all the appropriate equipment, he then had to discard all the beef jerky in his ration packs. Apparently minotaur tastes nothing like cow (he’d overheard that tidbit as a young child from conversations between the worst of King Kaligila’s soldiers) but that hardly persuaded the sorcerer to eat it at all. 

(Damay would spend his time trying to find literature and reading up on what he found, even if that means he is unsuccessful at finding anything to even read.)

"Hmm, not much to tell." Garon answers as he heads over to a large pot, ladling in portions of the stew. He comes back over to the party, setting a tray with a few bowls and a loaf of bread down before them. "As the legend goes, the Ashen Plains became the wasteland we know it due to Ashardalon, a dragon of immense power. The citadel seemed to be a home to a cult of his. And when his enemies finally dealt a mortal blow to the dragon, they sent the citadel deep into the earth, to never see the sun. Though it seems the citadel is made of sturdy stuff as it still remains mainly whole deep down there."

(Is Damay searching the inn for books?)

(He would probably start at the village hall and the shrine before the inn)

Caldrin accepted the bowl with a nod of thanks, letting the steam rise against his face as he listened intently to Garon’s words. He tore a piece from the loaf of bread, dipping it absently into the stew, though his focus never left the innkeep’s tale. “Ashardalon…” he repeated quietly, the name carrying weight. “A dragon powerful enough to scar the land itself—and a cult bold enough to bind their fate to his. Even after centuries, such a place would not rest quietly.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice thoughtful but measured. “If the citadel was forced below the earth, then its halls may hold wards or traps meant to keep intruders out—or perhaps to keep something within. Either way, sturdiness alone would not account for it surviving untouched. There is likely more at work.” His fingers tapped the rim of the bowl once, as though marking the cadence of his thoughts.

Looking back to Garon, Caldrin’s tone softened. “You’ve done us a service in sharing this, Master Garon. Stories are often more than they appear, even when wrapped in legend. If there are any other fragments—rumors of strange happenings near the ravine, or talk of wanderers who sought the place before—those details may prove just as important as the larger tale.”

He finally took a careful spoonful of stew, savoring it as he let the words hang, inviting the innkeep to recall anything further that might aid their journey.