A mixture of sounds drifts into your awareness: hoarse laughter, shrill arguments, heavy boots stamping across hard earth, and wet stone grinding on metal. At first it feels distant and muffled like an evaporating dream, but with every passing heartbeat it grows clearer, louder, closer.
Your eyes flutter open.
It is a cold night, the moon just a thin sliver on a sky full of stars twinkling as if openly mocking you. Dawn is still a long way off, but the faintest blush of grey is rising along the eastern horizon. The ground beneath you is damp, uneven and hard, and every muscle in your body aches with a deep, exhausted stiffness.
You try to move.
Pain bites your wrists and ankles. A thick, uncomfortably tight rope holds your limbs fast. A second tug reveals the truth: your hands are bound behind a rough wooden post, your legs tied in front of you.
Memories slowly surface through your sluggish minds.
For days, the caravan you travelled with creaked monotonously on the insanely boring journey down the trade roads of the Sword Coast. Most of the wagons had eventually turned off towards Baldur's Gate, and only three continued south, rattling towards the smaller towns and villages of the Western Hearthlands.
You reached the inn at Nashkel by nightfall, where a few last-minute travellers joined the group before it set off east the next morning along the underused Uldoon Trail.
"It will take around a ten-day to reach Greenest from here," the gruff merchant had said. "If the gods are willing, the rest of our journey will be as dull as it's been so far."
For the most part, that final leg of the trip lived up to that promise. Some of your fellow travellers even joked that the rumours of nearby bandits were nothing but tavern embellishments. And as for the wild claims about dragons? Nonsense. No one had seen so much as a fox chasing a rabbit.
But then something happened.
Was it fate, angry gods, or just terrible luck, the caravan was ambushed. One moment the road was empty, and the next it swarmed with screeching kobolds, snarling dogs, masked raiders, armoured mercenaries and ragged goblins pouring out of the scrubland in a frenzy.
The attack lasted minutes.
Before you knew it, some of the travellers fled, others were cut down, and the rest – yourself included – were overwhelmed, beaten and dragged away unconscious or with sacks pulled over your heads.
And now, who knows how many hours later, your eyes finally open again.
You find yourselves tied to thick posts, five feet apart, close enough to see one another but not close enough to touch. Your packs and weapons are all gone; only your travel-worn clothes remain. You are hungry, dirty, cold, aching… but alive.
Around you, the camp is busy despite the ungodly hour. Dozens upon dozens of campfires crackle, their flames throwing wild shadows of kobolds, humans, goblins, cutthroats, and hooded figures moving between tents, bickering, laughing, and sharpening blades.
Those walking past you taunt, curse and mock you. Some just stare too long and intently until your skin crawls.
The cold air stings your lungs as consciousness fully returns. And for the first time since the attack, you fully understand your situation:
You are deep inside a hostile camp. You are unarmed. You are surrounded. You have no idea what these raiders want... or why you are still alive.
What now?
[Feel free to introduce your characters, react to the situation, or reflect on the ambush and your journey so far. You are all at full HP, just tired, bruised and hungry.]
A relatively tall, pale-skinned dwarf slowly raises his head. Coarse black hair, having come partially loose from the thick braids atop his head and below his chin, sticks out at all angles, hinting at madness, but his deep-set brown eyes are calm as he glares at his captors. "If'n ye mean to kill me, do it. But if ye so much as scratch me armor, I'll be hauntin' ye for eternity."
When his captors turn their back or are otherwise not looking for a second, he'll attempt to burst his bonds (Athletics check +6: 9 on the character sheet, so I guess that didn't work!) He'll keep trying if possible though.
He's otherwise silent, but he does observe his captors and attempt to inuit their motives for keeping him alive (Insight check +4: 18 on the character sheet).
The thin half elf raises his head slowly. It took several moments before his vision refocused and he could take in the full scene. Good news, he thought sarcastically, my mission was a success. I can confirm the rumors of trouble on the road.
Moving ever so slowly, he gently rolled his head from side to side, wiggled his fingers and toes, and drew in a deep breath. Although everything hurt, everything still worked.
Once again in command of his body and senses, Draylen gave their predicament his full focus. A tall pale dwarf was already stirring.
Glancing around, the thin, plainly clad half elf began to test his bonds. Perhaps his thin frame and twig like arms would be able to wiggle free of the rope. His hands twisted and turned, desperately searching for enough wiggle room to slip free.
With a deep calming breath, he exhaled his frustration and refocused on the task at hand. "Any luck with the bindings?" He whispered to the dwarf.
***slight of hand check to escape: 6 ***
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
“Let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.” — Elrond
WATERDEEP, TRADE WAY—In the wake of mounting reports from travelers and merchants, The Waterdeep Times has dispatched this correspondent to investigate rising concerns involving alleged dragon-worshipping groups operating along the Sword Coast.
During the past several tendays, stories have circulated throughout the city describing unusual caravan activity, unexplained disappearances, and masked figures with an interest in draconic history and valuables. While many officials have dismissed these accounts as unfounded or exaggerated, the consistency of testimony across multiple trade routes has prompted a closer examination.
This article marks the first in an ongoing Times investigative series intended to separate fact from fiction and provide the public with clear, reliable reporting on the matter.
Tension on the Trade Way
The journey south from Waterdeep revealed an atmosphere of rising apprehension among caravans and wayfarers. Though traffic remains steady, guards report an increase in nighttime vigilance, and several merchants admit to avoiding travel after dusk.
A spice trader traveling from Baldur’s Gate claimed that masked individuals questioned merchants about valuables and “anything bearing a dragon’s mark.” A textile-caravan guard reported encountering a campsite burned “clean through,” with no survivors or tracks to suggest a natural cause.
While these accounts remain unverified, they reflect a growing pattern of unusual incidents stretching from Daggerford to Beregost.
Greenest: A Focal Point of Rumor
The town of Greenest, a modest trade stop known for calm roads and predictable commerce, has emerged repeatedly in reports gathered along the route. Travelers reference unexplained lights on the horizon, unidentified figures moving after dark, and missing livestock with no trace left behind.
Local farmers interviewed en route expressed concerns over what one described as “something stirring in the hills.” Several claim to have heard wings overhead on moonless nights—claims the Times is actively investigating.
This correspondent expects to enter Greenest within the next few days and begin a systematic inquiry with town officials, merchants, and residents.
—*—
Tam had filed that first report at the last outpost, before their caravan had been attacked. Now she worried her first report would be her last.
She struggled against her bonds, then noticed the other prisoners having no luck. She closed her eyes. “A good reporter always notices the small details—those are the ones that crack the case.” The mantra ran through her mind as she struggled to think.
She looked around the camp, seeking any details she might put to good use. As she did so, she introduced herself.
“I’m Tam,” she said. “What do you make of our chances here?”
[rolled a 1 +8 on my investigation check, so I doubt I noticed anything.]
"Same," he replies in a hushed voice. Noticing a kobold wandering a little close for comfort he, catches Montar's eye and nods in the little dragon-kin's direction. Letting his head hang limply once again, he closes his eyes and waits for the creature to walk past.
"Draylen," he says softly when the coast was clear. "Our chances go up greatly if we can slip free of these ropes," With a quick flick of an ankle a small pebble rolled off towards another of the captives. "Tssssst," he hissed softly after the pebble bounced off his boot.
The ropes bite deeper into your skin as you struggle.
The wooden post behind Montar gives a very faint creak, but the bindings hold firm. Whoever tied these knots knew exactly what they were doing. Still, the dwarf's trained eye catches something else: the camp isn't just busy... it is energised. Raiders move with purpose, not the aimless wandering of bored guards. In fact, the guards look like they are barely watching you, as if they are not particularly bothered about anyone escaping. There's a hum in the air, the sharp-edged excitement of people expecting a reward… or preparing for something significant.
Draylen twists his thin frame with practiced care, trying to slip an arm through the ropes, but the fibres are too tight even for his wiry limbs. The knot digs cruelly into the skin of his wrist, refusing to budge.
Tam squints into the firelight, searching for anything –anything – that might help. Her vision swims for a moment, and she focuses hard on a shifting shadow she briefly mistakes for a sneaking figure… only to realise she has been staring at a kobold battling a skewer of rat meat, trying not to drop its breakfast into the flames. Not her sharpest observation.
Thoughts of pain and shapes in his vision slowly form to become sights and sound. Amadeus sits up. His tawny hair sits flat to his dusty face, damp in perspiration, and the mess on his clothes want to make the gnome weep. Yet even as he silently bemoans the shape of his fine silk vest and tailored shirt, he slowly comes to understand the rather hilarious precariousness of the situation.
"Fine mess this is," he mutters halfheartedly. His skin itches, likely the result of sitting in wet muck and other unpleasant things for Gods know how long. A soft realization hits the young man's face and he goes for his pack, only for his binds to catch him and the relative lightness of his person to assure him he is without his pack. Immediately, his clothes are forgotten.
Drat. The missive. I'll need to recover that. But where should I...? As his head turns left and right, the young graduate once described by his peers as 'ever aloof, ever alert' realizes for the first time that he is not the only prisoner. "Ah. Well." His voice croaks and his demeanor changes. Professionalism is key, after all. He spends only a moment to shake the hair from his face and clear his throat. "Greetings to you all. I seem to remember some of you from the carriage, alas did not care to introduce myself proper. Lord Amadeus Pettigrew Laxer, Esq. T'would be a charm, were our current situation none so... difficult." His voice is rich, deeper than one would expect, yet soft all the same with a noticeable squeak of a voice crack on certain vowels. As he speaks, however, he maintains his air of regality, offering a slight courteous nod to each of prisoners on both his left and his right. With stark realism, his next question is rather poignant. "Be frank, does anyone have a semblance of a plan here? Or would this be the appropriate time to suggest making one?"
He tries to speak low as he says all this, hoping to test the attentiveness of a seemingly preoccupied guard force.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
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A mixture of sounds drifts into your awareness: hoarse laughter, shrill arguments, heavy boots stamping across hard earth, and wet stone grinding on metal. At first it feels distant and muffled like an evaporating dream, but with every passing heartbeat it grows clearer, louder, closer.
Your eyes flutter open.
It is a cold night, the moon just a thin sliver on a sky full of stars twinkling as if openly mocking you. Dawn is still a long way off, but the faintest blush of grey is rising along the eastern horizon. The ground beneath you is damp, uneven and hard, and every muscle in your body aches with a deep, exhausted stiffness.
You try to move.
Pain bites your wrists and ankles. A thick, uncomfortably tight rope holds your limbs fast. A second tug reveals the truth: your hands are bound behind a rough wooden post, your legs tied in front of you.
Memories slowly surface through your sluggish minds.
For days, the caravan you travelled with creaked monotonously on the insanely boring journey down the trade roads of the Sword Coast. Most of the wagons had eventually turned off towards Baldur's Gate, and only three continued south, rattling towards the smaller towns and villages of the Western Hearthlands.
You reached the inn at Nashkel by nightfall, where a few last-minute travellers joined the group before it set off east the next morning along the underused Uldoon Trail.
"It will take around a ten-day to reach Greenest from here," the gruff merchant had said. "If the gods are willing, the rest of our journey will be as dull as it's been so far."
For the most part, that final leg of the trip lived up to that promise. Some of your fellow travellers even joked that the rumours of nearby bandits were nothing but tavern embellishments. And as for the wild claims about dragons? Nonsense. No one had seen so much as a fox chasing a rabbit.
But then something happened.
Was it fate, angry gods, or just terrible luck, the caravan was ambushed. One moment the road was empty, and the next it swarmed with screeching kobolds, snarling dogs, masked raiders, armoured mercenaries and ragged goblins pouring out of the scrubland in a frenzy.
The attack lasted minutes.
Before you knew it, some of the travellers fled, others were cut down, and the rest – yourself included – were overwhelmed, beaten and dragged away unconscious or with sacks pulled over your heads.
And now, who knows how many hours later, your eyes finally open again.
You find yourselves tied to thick posts, five feet apart, close enough to see one another but not close enough to touch. Your packs and weapons are all gone; only your travel-worn clothes remain. You are hungry, dirty, cold, aching… but alive.
Around you, the camp is busy despite the ungodly hour. Dozens upon dozens of campfires crackle, their flames throwing wild shadows of kobolds, humans, goblins, cutthroats, and hooded figures moving between tents, bickering, laughing, and sharpening blades.
Those walking past you taunt, curse and mock you. Some just stare too long and intently until your skin crawls.
The cold air stings your lungs as consciousness fully returns. And for the first time since the attack, you fully understand your situation:
You are deep inside a hostile camp.
You are unarmed.
You are surrounded.
You have no idea what these raiders want... or why you are still alive.
What now?
[Feel free to introduce your characters, react to the situation, or reflect on the ambush and your journey so far. You are all at full HP, just tired, bruised and hungry.]
DM: Hoard of the Dragon Queen Adventure
A relatively tall, pale-skinned dwarf slowly raises his head. Coarse black hair, having come partially loose from the thick braids atop his head and below his chin, sticks out at all angles, hinting at madness, but his deep-set brown eyes are calm as he glares at his captors. "If'n ye mean to kill me, do it. But if ye so much as scratch me armor, I'll be hauntin' ye for eternity."
When his captors turn their back or are otherwise not looking for a second, he'll attempt to burst his bonds (Athletics check +6: 9 on the character sheet, so I guess that didn't work!) He'll keep trying if possible though.
He's otherwise silent, but he does observe his captors and attempt to inuit their motives for keeping him alive (Insight check +4: 18 on the character sheet).
Draylin
The thin half elf raises his head slowly. It took several moments before his vision refocused and he could take in the full scene. Good news, he thought sarcastically, my mission was a success. I can confirm the rumors of trouble on the road.
Moving ever so slowly, he gently rolled his head from side to side, wiggled his fingers and toes, and drew in a deep breath. Although everything hurt, everything still worked.
Once again in command of his body and senses, Draylen gave their predicament his full focus. A tall pale dwarf was already stirring.
Glancing around, the thin, plainly clad half elf began to test his bonds. Perhaps his thin frame and twig like arms would be able to wiggle free of the rope. His hands twisted and turned, desperately searching for enough wiggle room to slip free.
With a deep calming breath, he exhaled his frustration and refocused on the task at hand. "Any luck with the bindings?" He whispered to the dwarf.
***slight of hand check to escape: 6 ***
“Let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.” — Elrond
The dwarf takes in the half-elf with a steady gaze. "Nay," he replies simply. At a moment when the guards are not looking, he adds, "Name's Montar."
DRAGON CULT RUMORS STIR UNEASE ALONG THE COAST
By Tamsin Merriweather
WATERDEEP, TRADE WAY—In the wake of mounting reports from travelers and merchants, The Waterdeep Times has dispatched this correspondent to investigate rising concerns involving alleged dragon-worshipping groups operating along the Sword Coast.
During the past several tendays, stories have circulated throughout the city describing unusual caravan activity, unexplained disappearances, and masked figures with an interest in draconic history and valuables. While many officials have dismissed these accounts as unfounded or exaggerated, the consistency of testimony across multiple trade routes has prompted a closer examination.
This article marks the first in an ongoing Times investigative series intended to separate fact from fiction and provide the public with clear, reliable reporting on the matter.
Tension on the Trade Way
The journey south from Waterdeep revealed an atmosphere of rising apprehension among caravans and wayfarers. Though traffic remains steady, guards report an increase in nighttime vigilance, and several merchants admit to avoiding travel after dusk.
A spice trader traveling from Baldur’s Gate claimed that masked individuals questioned merchants about valuables and “anything bearing a dragon’s mark.” A textile-caravan guard reported encountering a campsite burned “clean through,” with no survivors or tracks to suggest a natural cause.
While these accounts remain unverified, they reflect a growing pattern of unusual incidents stretching from Daggerford to Beregost.
Greenest: A Focal Point of Rumor
The town of Greenest, a modest trade stop known for calm roads and predictable commerce, has emerged repeatedly in reports gathered along the route. Travelers reference unexplained lights on the horizon, unidentified figures moving after dark, and missing livestock with no trace left behind.
Local farmers interviewed en route expressed concerns over what one described as “something stirring in the hills.” Several claim to have heard wings overhead on moonless nights—claims the Times is actively investigating.
This correspondent expects to enter Greenest within the next few days and begin a systematic inquiry with town officials, merchants, and residents.
—*—
Tam had filed that first report at the last outpost, before their caravan had been attacked. Now she worried her first report would be her last.
She struggled against her bonds, then noticed the other prisoners having no luck. She closed her eyes. “A good reporter always notices the small details—those are the ones that crack the case.” The mantra ran through her mind as she struggled to think.
She looked around the camp, seeking any details she might put to good use. As she did so, she introduced herself.
“I’m Tam,” she said. “What do you make of our chances here?”
[rolled a 1 +8 on my investigation check, so I doubt I noticed anything.]
Middle Grade Author
"Same," he replies in a hushed voice. Noticing a kobold wandering a little close for comfort he, catches Montar's eye and nods in the little dragon-kin's direction. Letting his head hang limply once again, he closes his eyes and waits for the creature to walk past.
"Draylen," he says softly when the coast was clear. "Our chances go up greatly if we can slip free of these ropes," With a quick flick of an ankle a small pebble rolled off towards another of the captives. "Tssssst," he hissed softly after the pebble bounced off his boot.
“Let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.” — Elrond
The ropes bite deeper into your skin as you struggle.
The wooden post behind Montar gives a very faint creak, but the bindings hold firm. Whoever tied these knots knew exactly what they were doing.
Still, the dwarf's trained eye catches something else: the camp isn't just busy... it is energised. Raiders move with purpose, not the aimless wandering of bored guards. In fact, the guards look like they are barely watching you, as if they are not particularly bothered about anyone escaping. There's a hum in the air, the sharp-edged excitement of people expecting a reward… or preparing for something significant.
Draylen twists his thin frame with practiced care, trying to slip an arm through the ropes, but the fibres are too tight even for his wiry limbs. The knot digs cruelly into the skin of his wrist, refusing to budge.
Tam squints into the firelight, searching for anything –anything – that might help. Her vision swims for a moment, and she focuses hard on a shifting shadow she briefly mistakes for a sneaking figure… only to realise she has been staring at a kobold battling a skewer of rat meat, trying not to drop its breakfast into the flames.
Not her sharpest observation.
DM: Hoard of the Dragon Queen Adventure
Urk... that was not fun. Where...?
Thoughts of pain and shapes in his vision slowly form to become sights and sound. Amadeus sits up. His tawny hair sits flat to his dusty face, damp in perspiration, and the mess on his clothes want to make the gnome weep. Yet even as he silently bemoans the shape of his fine silk vest and tailored shirt, he slowly comes to understand the rather hilarious precariousness of the situation.
"Fine mess this is," he mutters halfheartedly. His skin itches, likely the result of sitting in wet muck and other unpleasant things for Gods know how long. A soft realization hits the young man's face and he goes for his pack, only for his binds to catch him and the relative lightness of his person to assure him he is without his pack. Immediately, his clothes are forgotten.
Drat. The missive. I'll need to recover that. But where should I...? As his head turns left and right, the young graduate once described by his peers as 'ever aloof, ever alert' realizes for the first time that he is not the only prisoner. "Ah. Well." His voice croaks and his demeanor changes. Professionalism is key, after all. He spends only a moment to shake the hair from his face and clear his throat. "Greetings to you all. I seem to remember some of you from the carriage, alas did not care to introduce myself proper. Lord Amadeus Pettigrew Laxer, Esq. T'would be a charm, were our current situation none so... difficult." His voice is rich, deeper than one would expect, yet soft all the same with a noticeable squeak of a voice crack on certain vowels. As he speaks, however, he maintains his air of regality, offering a slight courteous nod to each of prisoners on both his left and his right. With stark realism, his next question is rather poignant. "Be frank, does anyone have a semblance of a plan here? Or would this be the appropriate time to suggest making one?"
He tries to speak low as he says all this, hoping to test the attentiveness of a seemingly preoccupied guard force.