Our story opens on a caravan headed for Nightstone- a fortified settlement several miles south of the Ardeep Forest, off in the untamed hills that lie between the cities of Waterdeep and Daggerford. The trail to Nightstone connects to the highroad and is marked by a single lonely signpost pointing the way to the settlement. The closest neighbors to Nightstone are the elves who dwell in the Ardeep Forest. In years past, there have been somewhat less than friendly relations between the people of Nightstone and the elves of Ardeep Forest, with violence not being unheard of between the two.

Your caravan is a motley assortment of merchants, mercenaries, travelers and other adventurers. By general consensus, it has been decided to make a stop at Nightstone, with some members of the caravan looking for work, others looking to trade and even those who have no interest in Nightstone but are willing to suffer through a minor delay in their travel if it ultimately means they can continue traveling with the relative safety of a larger group.

Why each individual person is on their way to Nightstone varies from person to person. Some of these reasons might be something along these lines:

-Perhaps you have heard the recent rumors that goblins have been terrorizing the settlement and have decided to take up the reward offered to anyone able to deal with this problem by the High Steward of Nightstone: Lady Velrosa Nandar.

-Wealthy nobles from various nearby cities have been known to use Nightstone as a retreat and go for hunts in the nearby Ardeep Forest. As a result, it is not terribly difficult to find payment as either guide or guard for one of these ventures.

-Nightstone and the denizens of Ardeep Forest have a long history of animosity and violence. Lady Velrosa Nandar has recently been looking to resolve these problems and looking for skilled mediators to assist in this endeavor.

-There is a well known inn in Nightstone. In addition to good food and cozy rooms, the dwarf innkeeper, Morak Ur'Gray, is known to have a fondness for adventurers and a nose for lucrative adventuring opportunities.

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Tortetart has spent most of the last few days chronicling the adventures of the others in the caravan, mostly the mercenaries, but a few of the merchants have been willing to talk. Outside of that, he has been healing minor wounds, and rashes obtained by persons who don’t head warnings well. For now he is speaking with Ankre(?), a friendly face he hasn’t seen in years, just catching up on his adventures since his fateful meeting with the gods.

Over the past few days of this journey, Anchor has been spending his time volunteering to take watch duty shifts during the night. During the days he's spent his time conversing with a few of his fellow travelers, including his old friend Tortetart.

For those times he's found himself with no one to spend time with, he's found the highest/most easily seen spot in the caravan to keep an eye on the roads. In his travels he's found that the least experienced bandits and highwaymen will steer clear of prey that seems too well protected, and in their eyes a Goliath watching over a caravan is enough to give them pause.

Theren has spent most of his time observing the other members of the caravan, since it had been 100 years since he has had any interaction with anyone outside of the monks of the cloister. He has lent help whenever it was needed though, including any minor first aid and taking turns on night watch, something that is particularly easy for him since he only needs to meditate 4 hours each night to be well rested for the next day.

Galen rode in the back of one of the merchants' carts, trying his best to keep a low profile. He'd just betrayed his lord by letting the rebels in to take over. Of course, if he'd heard right, the whole thing was orchestrated by the military and some assassin group or other, and he'd probably be safe for now. Still better to play it safe and keep a low profile, for now.

He was playing bodyguard for the merchant, and spent most of the day outside, axe and shield out, looking menacing. Still, the man needed to sleep sometime, and he was at least trying right now.

Marcon Astoro has a lot to be grateful for on the trip to Nightstone.

With the other travelers easygoing about night watches, the young warrior is free to take the predawn shift, his personal favorite. After completing his exercises and fighting drills, he gets breakfast started. He's no gourmet chef, but waking up to a meal never goes amiss.

The plethora of races in the caravan offers ample opportunity for conversation. His dark skin and hair, combined with his unusual armor, would make him stand out in a crowd of local humans. Here, though, he's an odd duck in an odd flock. His Common is accented with the lilt of the south and peppered with references to obscure books and esoteric sages. He might not always say the right thing, but there's no doubt that he speaks his mind.

And, as the sign for Nightstone points the way, he smiles, his boyish face looking more striking than comely. His thoughts, unspoken, drift to the package he stows with his affairs in whatever cart he can arrange. Armored with sword at hip and bow across back, he stretches his arms out and breathes deep.

"A fine day to arrive!" He announces to no one in particular. "They say that half the fun is getting there, but how sweet the other half will be!"

Ealwald has been observing the rest of the caravan, wondering what he got himself into. He is wondering if taking work as an adventurer was the best way to gain knowledge. Throughout the trip, Ealwald has been doing some low key experiments, waiting for the moment where he can get some real data.

Ealwald looks around, wondering if something were to go wrong how he would get out alive. With this band of idiots, odds of survival seem low. Hopefully, the journey to Nightstone will end soon enough.

Watching as the signpost for Nightstone passes by, Anchor slowly eases himself off of the roof of one of the sturdier wagons in the convoy, being careful not to put too much weight on his bad leg. It won't be long now until they reach their destination, and he'd like to check in with his friend, Tortetart, to see what his plans are upon arrival. Pulling his pea coat close to brace for the evening chill, more of an acquired habit from his time with humans than any issue with the cold, Anchor sets out.

"A fine day to arrive!", a young man says aloud as Anchor passes by. "They say that half the fun is getting there, but how sweet the other half will be!"

"A fine day indeed!", Anchor replies, in a deep and cheerful voice. "Let us hope that Nightstone is half as welcoming as our compatriots on this journey!"

With a wave, Anchor continues searching for where Tortetart could be.

"As you say, Anchor! I could hope for no better."

Marcon watches the limping giant move away, searching for his friend, the turtle-man. A chuckle escapes him at the spectacular variety of people he has already encountered. He recalls, suddenly, the introduction of Treganne's "Peoples of Toril":

Man is not alone in the world, nor has he ever been. For all their numbers and plurality, humans are like a squirrel at the top of a great tree.
Though he sees far, he cannot say he flies. It falls to Man, in the waxing days of their race, to be a gracious beast in the wide forest of History.

Poetic, perhaps, but no less true. Especially here, amid wood elves and tortles and goliaths and even -

Marcon stops himself from even thinking the word. A few nights ago a drunken drover at a caravanserie lost an ear for referring to the half-elven bodyguard as a Drow. His chuckle peters off, and he begins to wander the caravan himself, making small talk with anyone who seems inclined.

"A fine day to arrive!" Galen heard, and a few more pleasantries back and forth.

He sat up from the back of the cart he was resting in and rubbed his face. It seemed he wouldn't be getting good sleep today, after all. All the blasted worrying from his little treachery was still eating at him, after all. He grabbed his ax and shield, hung his ax on his belt and strapped the other to his arm.

Standing up in the cart, he made his way to the back and stepped off.

"About damned time we got 'ere," the half-drow began, before spitting on the ground to his side, "I've 'ad enough of these damned roads. They're bumpier 'an a three copper whore, and not nearly as pretty."

His crude complaints voiced, he proceeded to grab his walking stick from the back of the cart, and make his way to the outside of the caravan. He figured he might as well get ready to crack the skulls of anyone dumb enough to attack a group this large.

Tortetart has a good feeling about the day. Nights Tone is in reach. The caravan is in a jovial mood, well most of them. And his donkey is behaving itself nicely.

For now he utters a soft prayer to Mishakal, hoping for an uneventful rest of the journey. And praises glory to the mood of the party, as a good sign of what’s to come.

Cleaning up his rations and meager campsite, Tortetart gets ready to set out for the last leg of the trip.

After his short search, Anchor finds Tortetart clearing up his campsite.

"Ah, there you are my friend!" he says, as he begins to help pick up along with Tortetart. "I see that your new traveling companion is doing well. Have you decided on a name for it yet?", motioning towards the donkey.

"I'm sorry if I've overstepped our friendship with this, but I heard from some of the merchants gossiping that the one who sold you the donkey was bragging about how much he sold it for. I won't pry to know how much, but will you be alright to get room and board for yourself once we've reached Nightstone? If not, don't fear to let me know! I still owe you more than I'll ever be able to repay."

'Ah, Ankre! You never overstep, accepting the length of your legs of course. But yes, I do suspect i have payed full price on such a unruly ass as it is. It isn't too bad, he did manage to stay closer to my tent this night. I've been debating on Hector or Nestor, both brothers of mine at the temple. And as for my...funding, I am a bit short. But I do tend to find small sums here and there helping people, if not, most towns welcome priests of most natures. And I'm more than sure you'll have plenty of time to ...pay back what is not really owed."

As Tortetart finishes packing up the donkey a thought sparks. "Have you had any luck discovering your godly benefactor?"

"Both are very fine names! I'm sure that they'd both be honored!" He said with a sincere chuckle. "The offer is still there, remember, but I know that Mishakal has always had a way of getting you through tough times."

Anchors smile faded slightly at Tortetart's question. "No..... Nothing new in that regard. I spent some time visiting temples on the Moonshae Isles, but no one there was any use. I can still sense her presence, though, pushing me where she feels I can do the most good." Anchor caught himself and laughed. "Ha ha! I'm not even sure she's a she. Might just be the old sailor in me. What was it that the bards sang? 'My life, my love, my lady is the sea'"

"Oh! Have you considered Nectar? Why not name it after both brothers at once!" He patted Tortetart on his shell with a smile.

“Nectar, hmmm.” Tortetart smiles, and gives a soft chuckle. “I like that.”

Although Ankre is unaware of the jest, the brothers Tortetart is referring to, we’re massive pains in his shell for several years. Naming his donkey after both at once, seems a fine time after all.

“I’m sure all will be revealed to you soon enough. Have you ever found out if there were other survivors from that day? Maybe they found a heavenly benefactor as well!?”

"That's the trouble with pirate captains, Tortetart. No one knows who you are unless you make a name for yourself, then as soon as you sink or get arrested there's another ten captains after you using your ships name, saying they were the ones who took you down. I tried following some rumors, but all I found were three other captains calling their ships The Raving Maiden, none of which had a crew that I knew."

"I figure it's just like my goddess. If anyone survived that fight, they'll find me on their terms... It's been so many years already, I'm not counting on it."

Geli, the spicer's assistant, returns Marcon's wave with a polite smile. She is well-endowed with, as Olgalla put it in his travelogues, "those Bounties which warm the Northman in their long, desolate Winters," and so he has attempted repeatedly to engage her. His lack of success is regrettable, but he knows there will be other opportunities in Nightstone.

Turning a corner, he finds himself walking beside one known to him in passing.

"Well-met, Master Wormwood," the youth says, his tone friendly for all its formality. "I hope the day finds you well."

(Accidentally reposted, apologies)

{Accidentally reposted, apologies)

Thus far your journey has been a quiet, peaceful trip, full of idle banter and general merriment. A fair share of this merriment is derived from a particular wine merchant who somehow managed to gain the favor of a powerful noble back in Waterdeep. Having made both substantial financial as well as some political gains in the following flurry of transactions, he was presently still bathing in the afterglow of his good fortunes. As such, the wine ran freely at night when the caravan stopped to make camp as the man insisted that he might well be set for life as soon as he made it back to Daggerford and finished setting his business affairs in order.

Not only that, but not so much as the hint of a bandit ambush had been seen and no obstacles more pressing than the occasional broken wheel or thrown horseshoe had stalled their advance. In fact, things had been so peaceful that even the most timid of hired guards- those who really only signed on for the promise of three square meals a day, a fire to sleep by at night and coin at the end of their trip, who hadn't seriously considering that they might have to draw a sword- had become drawn into the general sense of complacency. It was not now uncommon to hear such statements as: "Whelp, I sorta wish someone would go ahead and try to attack us- soz I can grab m'self a story or two fer the ladies back home.", among other similar bouts of boasting and bravado.

Of course, they knew just as well as everyone else that such an occurrence was not about to happen. Not nearly so close as they were to civilization. Though their boasting was obnoxious at best, it reflected the general attitude of the caravan: one of lighthearted expectation that they would soon be able to treat themselves to a few nights of good food, drink and sleep in an actual bed while the merchants who hired them plied their trade and resupplied for the trip to their next destination.

Yet, as you draw near the end of that ten mile stretch, you begin to hear the ringing of a bell. The sound grows louder as Nightstone comes into view. A river flows around the settlement, forming a moat. The village itself is contained within a wooden palisade, beyond which you see a windmill, a tall steeple, and the high-pitched rooftops of several other buildings. Apart from the ringing of the bell, you detect no other activity in the village. The trail ends before a lowered drawbridge, two stone watchtowers flank and open gap in the palisade. South of the village and surrounded by the river moat is a cone-shaped, flat-topped hill on which stands a stone keep enclosed by a wooden wall. The keep, which overlooks the village, has partially collapsed. A wooden bridge that once connected the keep to the village has also partially collapsed.

Without any one individual giving any sort of command, the wagons and pack animals slow to a halt well back from the entrance to the town as an uneasy silence falls over the caravan, with only the constant ringing of the bell from within Nightstone to be heard. Both merriment and bravado thoroughly quashed by the unusual circumstances, it seems most are now hesitant to take command of the situation.

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