---

The normally warm tropical air has a faint cold to it, and it was even snowing in the middle of spring. Small chunks of ice floated in the ocean waters around the island. The chill from the wind could go right through the bones, and many tried their best to survive the cold, their saving grace being they had just gotten out of winter these last few months. Were this winter, it might just kill off Man and Sahuagin alike.

The beach sands were cold and damp, both from the snow and blood. Bodies littered the beach, but those that showed signs of life were dragged to a grassy, rocky part of the beach preceding it. The remains of the Wyndspire Falcon rested half in the sand and half in the water in many pieces.

The Halfling man, Jeets stood by the survivors. He explains to them about the recent activity on the island, and the Unnatural cold.

"Hoy, you wouldn't believe tha things that've been 'appenin' here. First 'ese cultist blokes tried ta rob me, a big white dragon appearin', and now its snowin' all over! I bet me lucky coin its 'at dragon causin' this."

He shook his head and looked back at the group "So what's yer stories eh? You can roight outta the sky in that there big airship. I ain't found anymore a you alive, but I 'aven't been in the ship yet. Maybe you'll find something in there eh? Once you get done gatherin' yerselves, meet me up 'ere!" Jeets points to a small rectangle white ten set up on a small hill.

"I'll do my best ta patch ya up, and I'll take ya to the main village not to far from 'here, maybe an hours walk. I'll go get my things all packed up, and wait for ya."

Ah yes! A story you have not heard...hmm...a curious request. Lessons, ehm-stories, pardon, are often an...embellishment of...lessons! Yes, stories, and how they are told often convey such sentiments, but trust me child.

I vill do my best to teach you someszink...new.

Zehr vonce was a castle, built upside-down; eits taaallest tower?
There was only a momentary pause, a paper backdrop of a castle upon a pale blue sky with a tower reaching higher and higher towards the wooden frame of Luci's puppet stage before rattling as their tail released a string and the scene came rattling down.
-reache' fffaaaaahh underground~
The image of a castle was pulled up to the top of the wooden frame, still in view, as the 'tower' was pulled by a weight down and down until being the stage, Luci rapidly pulled a thick string and reeled the first frame up, yanking the castle away until it was merely the image of the inverse tower on a black backdrop.
A pale light shone in through pinholes, illuminated by the tiniest of whispers offered by the bard to construct a weak twinkling light akin to stars around the tower.
A lad, long wait to see their betrothed, an' a prince as their father would owe,
He would wait for a time, and more...as the princess prayed: their captor should snore~
A curl of the Tiefling's tail entered frame, adorned with a cap of folded and painted tin on hinges. The scaly black worm was creepily only barely noticeable upon the backdrop due to the myriad illusions of minor sort until an eye glinted in a carved socket of its 'head' and Luci pulled a string to open its maw. Out jetted a slow gout of flames in pace with its self, its ridges frilling and lighting with the same light.
A brave knight, a wizard, an archer and zee holier, more, all vith ample intent to settle a score...
The scene lowers enough, almost compacting a little for a tiny cutout of what looked like a figure in armor and one with a robe and insultingly cliché hat. Such so to follow the description, the next rolled up as if the puppeteer held the cutouts on sticks between their fingers. A green figure with a bow and angled hat and a white robed figure with a shield and mace in the shape of a cross.
A roar then rattled the ship and the motions stopped only briefly before the narration continued in haste.

"Triumphed and evil vahz vonce again no more!" Luciel chimed, retracting the bits and pulling the back cord to drop the tiny curtain. Their eyes darted as the small crowd of children that had grown 'aawwhhh'd and maybe a single adult boo'd, having not gathered the gravity of the situation. Audibly, air rushed past the ship to a degree that the vessel momentarily dipped. Luci clung to the strings with one hand and a post with the other, letting the mass of the small stage tip and crack as it impacted the floor. A tiny bit of Luciel died, watching the mechanisms and pulleys come dislodge and uncoil; their springs shooting reams of hand-painted backdrop over the floor before the main arch crunched into it.
Luciel coiled, containing his anguish from watching his work be crumpled so simply as he clung to a pillar. A few hyperventilating breaths as he smoothed the plating over his tail and belted it into place was all the preparation he needed before mustering the rage that drove him towards the stairs to the upper deck once the vessel righted itself.

It was a blur of mighty white as the scales of a grand beast met Luciel's eyes. Shamefully, he turned back the way he came even though they were unsure what to even do with what power they had. It was supposed to be a simple flight, so he was told. A beast of such magnitude was nothing like he'd imagined to see in person, but he owed the children an end to the story.

To the...

An end...

A story?
___________________________________________________________________

Luciel gasped awake, gurgling and wretching as they turned and then messily coughed up saltwater and heaved the contents of their last meal in the same motion. A soft sigh ended the exhalation before slowly inhaling, coughing briefly as being no stranger to hangover illness. This was something, different, however. A cold coil bound his insides to the point of paralyzing his limbs and he fell flat on a side, raising his arms up to grip the base of his horns while messily sobbing a few messy bouts and groaning as his probable injuries encroached on him.
"Jeets...*cough*...just..." Luciel began, slowly righting themselves. "I szink I vould bel-*coughing fit* Be-*cough*-lieve such szinks." The news of not finding any others alive wounded the bard deeply, but now was not the time to be of such sentiments. "I vahz an...entertainer, ouf sorts," he began, still a bit shellshocked and just responding as it was requested before bracing against a rock to stand. "N-novon? At all?" they asked, watching Jeets walk off before crumbling and finally taking a moment to turn and behold the remains of what once was The Wyndspire Falcon, dashed across the rocks.

Luciel looked away from the main mass, gripping the nearby rocks and dry-heaving for a moment and the rolling over. Finding themselves to still be within their immediately notable faculties, they briefly relaxed. Seeing no reason to seek out their set what was no doubt smashed to crap at this point based on last he'd seen it, the crates of garments were probably in similar discord.

It was, in all, a mess.

The tiefling merely held their head in their hands as they watched the carnage slowly be washed over by the waves of the tide. No mind was paid to the corpses, and if anything, for each one, they looked more towards the horizon, hoping not to see any they remembered. After a short while, they looked through their bag, taking note of its contents and patting themselves over with some quick mending to tidy up the tatters of their coat and make themselves a bit more presentable before making their way towards the others. Quietly waving their hand on the approach then resting it on their chest. "Ehm...h-hello," they shyly began, out of their element as meeting people while not in character(s) was a rarity in recent years, "Quite zee ride, ah? Heh...oh! I am Luciel, alzough 'Luci' vill suffice." With the conclusion of their introduction, they rested their darkened glasses over their lightly squinting eyes.

Gilwyn Severyl, referred to, with some fondness, as Sev by his fellow crewmembers, stood hunched over the maps and navigational charts that were pinned to a folding table next to the wheel of the Wyndspire Falcon. His eyes followed lines of longitude and latitude, matching them with the compass and sextant attached to poles in front of him. He returned his hands to the wheel, confident that they were heading in the proper direction, the direction of Stormreach. Sev was a skilled enough helmsman and navigator, but on a journey as important as this, he had ceded the wheel to a veteran. He found himself only holding the ship on course in a peaceful lull of the journey, while the helmsman took a well-deserved rest in the crew’s quarters.

Sev whistled a shanty to himself, enjoying the sights of clouds close enough to touch, a sparkling and spanning blue ocean below, and the occasional bird tailing the ship in the hopes of obtaining some scraps. Given the chaos and tragedy of his life prior to his employ on the Falcon, he found himself at the most peace when aboard the vessel, which struck him as odd considering he was an ex Ranger, used to life in the wilds and forests of his homeland. He never expected himself to find peace as a sailor, (or would he be an aeronaut?). He enjoyed watching the crew and the passengers bustle about the deck from his perch at the helm and hearing the whip of the rudder and creak of the wood against the wind but underneath those sounds, Sev heard a rather foreign noise: The beating of wings.

The source wasn’t identified until nearly too late. A massive stark white dragon soared from below, out of the cover of a cloud, the force of its wingbeat nearly capsizing the ship. Sev jerked the wheel to port, barely avoiding the whipping tail of the great beast. He corrected the wheel back to starboard, straightening the ship out again before maneuvering below the dragon,

“Dragon!” he called, “Dragon to port! Get below deck now! Crew, arm yours-“ his command was cut short by a bellowing roar, a blast of frozen air and a sudden powerful lurch which actually resulted in the ship capsizing and spiraling a relatively short distance to an island below. Sev’s last memory before blacking out was falling towards the dazzling blue surface.

He awoke to the face of a halfling man. Sev gathered his senses and observed a small group of other survivors around him, none of whom very familiar, and the bodies of all of his fellow crewmates strewn about him. After the halfling man finished speaking, Sev stood, brushed the sand from his clothes and set about rummaging through the wreckage, looking for his gear, which he found in a relatively short amount of time, finding his familiarity with the ship still useful, even if it was in two different pieces. He donned his gambeson and chainmail, belted on his sword and dagger, found a decent cloak with no holes in it and threw it over his shoulders, slung on his satchel, put his axe on his back, peeking over his left shoulder and his bow and quiver of arrows peeking over his right shoulder. Finally, he pulled on his woolen cap and gloves before returning to the small group of strangers.

“’Lo,” he said, rather sullenly, “Name’s Gilwyn Severyl but most people just call me Sev.”

---

The sound of a quill scribbling upon a page of a notebook is the only sound that fills the private cabin Morgan had paid for himself...well sans the sound of the wind blowing outside that is. He was in the process of taking down notes of his experiences as well as sketching a number of sights he saw on this journey to Stormreach. Admittedly this was a fine voyage, but to his years of adventuring and writing this was a rather bland start to the adventure. With a quiet sigh, Morgan finishes up his notes and decides to wander about the ship in the meantime. After putting out and cleaning his smoking pipe, he then hides away his writing material. Making one final check of his belongings, Morgan put on his backpack and grabbed his walking stick before leaving his cabin.

Life was bustling in the lower deck of the massive ship. Dozens upon dozens of travelers were present and in various states of motion. Some were relaxing and appreciating the placidity of the flight while others were wandering around the ship, curious of the marvel of an airship they were on. Wandering further in the hold, he observed a bard entertaining a group of children with a miniature stage play. Morgan smiled at the sight before continuing his way through the ship. He didn't get too far before a massive blast of wind caused the ship to tip and causing a number of the passengers to stagger. Morgan managed to keep his footing but the suddenness of the gale of wind was extremely strange. "What in the nine hells was that?" He asked more confused tone than irate.

He did not have to wait for an answer as a blast of frozen air slammed into the side of the ship and caused massive damage to the flying vessel; sending it plummeting down like a bird that had it's wing torn off. It was chaos in the lower deck, screams of both young and old filled the air along with the sound of air rushing by at breakneck speeds. Morgan stuck his walking cane in between a guard rail and the wall held tightly onto it for dear life. For a few short moments, it seemed like that it would hold out, but it was all for naught as the vacuum caused by the differing air pressures was too great and tore off the already damaged wall of the plummeting ship. Bringing Morgan along, guardrail and all, into the chilly waters of the sea bellow. The impact knocked the man out completely.

---

Morgan came to with a surge of pain filling his entire body as well as an extreme chill causing he soaked author to shiver like a leaf in the wind. With shaky hands he lifts himself up from the unnaturally cold sands and see the aftermath of the accident. Some were still alive, but a vast majority of the passengers were lying lifeless on the beach or quietly floating in the waves behind him. With a slight limp, he walks over to the small group of survivors and sees a somewhat familiar face of the bard. He along with two others were present. One was a halfling man and the other was what seemed to be a surviving crew member of the ship. The halfling man then explains the situation of the island as well as the situation regarding the ship and the passengers. "What a senseless waste of life..." Morgan muttered quietly to himself and offered a quiet but sincere prayer to the gods that the souls of the dead may find peace. The halfling then told them that if they were ready, they should meet up in his tent on the nearby hill so he could treat their wounds. It was then the bard and the sailor introduced themselves. "Ah, apologies for my rudeness. My name is Morgan Sterling Whitaker. Feel free to call me Morgan."

"Ah jeh, salutations Gilwyn. Paerdon, but I suppose-" Luciel began before the words held on the tip of his tongue, about to have made so simple a line like 'I suppose most people did not survive the crash' into a joke. Somewhat ashamed of their thoughts, Luci stammered another clearing of their throat to convincingly play off a break with the pain of an injury...the group having miraculously survived a crash, after all. "Excuse me. As I was saying, I suppose...ehm...vee are zee most now...Sev" they darkly chuckled with a tone wholly aware of the humor they were making in an apologetic manner, attempting to link the survivors together rather than drive a separation so soon.

"Ehn velcomen, Morgan. I vould prefer zee customs ouf zeh land, myself. First names ehn all, ah?" Luciel spoke, their tone bolstered by another person, and an opportunity to escape the awkwardness they'd been in the process of creating with the fairly handsome, if in a rugged way, half-elf. The limp was not lost to the tiefling who had watched the approach and took their hands out of their coat pockets, nervously wringing their hands for a brief moment before voicing their thoughts. "Sehr Jeets had expressed 'fixing us up' at zeh tent on zee hill," he began, looking a ways off to the peak of a tent some ways away that Jeets was still on the way towards by now. Luciel then continued, "I haf... means ouf sortink you in such a manner zeht zee hill vould be less ouf an obstacle in your state," they then lowered themselves to a knee, placing their hands upon their own chest. Having the luxury of time, the spell could be properly focused. Each hand pulled to their respective side as Luciel inhaled deeply, small sparks of white kicking up between his fingers before exhaling and brining his hands together on Morgan's injured leg, stopping a mere inch from his knee. The sparks calmed to a somewhat pale amber glow that slowly dimmed as the restorative essence of Arcane Respite was spent, seeping into Morgan's body. The focus would begin on his bad leg and work its way throughout from there in a subtle ripple. Tiny clicks of cartilage slipping back into place and ligaments recomposing emanated from Morgan's knee and leg in response until the magic faded and Luci's hands swung down to his sides as he stood. Certainly there was more that could be done, but the expenditure should have been sufficient as to alleviate the pain hinted to with their limp.

Turning back to Sev, Luciel briefly bowed their head and scanned the shore as if expecting more to arrive in the time they were taking to collect themselves. "Eh-ehn vill zehr be anyszink for you...Sev?" they started to offer, having to pause and remind themselves of their supposedly preferred name before continuing, "Zee nurse iz attendink~" with a coy chirp to their tone. Their hands fidgeted with the fingers of the other in some eager nervousness, finding some solace in being able to help whomever he could. The shaded veil of their eyewear aside, the tiefling's eyes were a difficult read with how the inky blackness easily camouflaged how their pupils looked the half-elf over, mostly for any obvious sign of injury...mostly.

"Hoy you lot! You ready to go yet? Jeets waved his arms at the top of the hill. His tent was packed up, although, it seemed to have disappeared more than put away. He also seemed to be holding a new bag...

Jeets trotted down the hill holding dearly to his hat. He approached the three survivors. "Roight, 'eresthe deal, your gonna follow me through a small cave, and that'll take us roight to da main island. Once we're dere, I'll see if can 'ook you lot up with some supplies an' a place to stay. But first..."

Jeets rustles around in his new bag and pulls out three small clear vials, each with an ounce of sparkly red liquid. He holds out his hands and gives one to each of the survivors.

"'Ese here'll fix what ails ya. Probably. Now then let's be off. If ya have any questions, ask 'em while we're walkin'."

He waves the group over as he begins walking towards the hill he was just on. At the top of the hill is a plateau that leads directly into a cliff face. A large tunnel entrance looms over the party. "Through 'ere."

Once the party enters, the temperature rises to an almost normal level. The tunnel is a little dark, only illuminated by the occasional torch sconce, yet despite this Jeets handles its twists and turns effortlessly. "Keep your wits about ya. Its said trouble's been brewin' 'ere keep a look--" It was at this time Jeets stopped abruptly and held his hand up, and pointed forward.

Two men stood side by side in the torchlight. One held a scepter and wore a red and black robe, while the other held a mace and shield and wore a white and gold robe. The man on the left with the Scepter spoke first.

"Welcome 'travellers' you're heading to a very dangerous place. May I suggest you come with us? The master would like to meet you..." The man on the left gripped his mace tighter at the word "Suggest", and began glaring at the party. Jeets slowly put his staff in both hands.

Sev smiled at the tiefling halfheartedly.

“I’m fine, thanks.” He said quietly. He tried to avoid looking at the bodies on the ground, afraid he would see someone he knew. He had had enough tragedy in his life and thought that the Falcon would be his salvation. Of course, he should have known his luck would never have lasted.

Sev was drawn from his pessimistic musings by Jeets returning down the hill. He accepted the vial from the halfling and began to follow him into the cave. Sev typically would have been rather distrusting of the halfling and performing a semi-interrogation before ever venturing into a cave with him, but at this point, the half elf was sort of lost and figured he had nothing to lose and nothing better to do than follow the halfling.

They walked for a few moments in the dimly lit cave before suddenly coming to a pair of people clad in robes. They both seemed dangerous, one, mystically and the other, physically. Sev’s first thought was that Jeets had set them up but as his attention shifted away from the pair and to Jeets to accuse him, Sev noticed that Jeets was just as caught of guard and defensive as the rest of the party. Sev drew his sword and leveled it at the man with mace as his body language suggested “forceful coercion” was what he was hoping for.

“Look, my ship just crashed and my entire livelihood with it. I have no interest in your master and nothing to lose so get out of our way before I move you myself.” He said to the man in red, without taking his eyes off of the mace-wielder.

---

After the tiefling bard produced his magic and applied it to his somewhat injured leg, Morgan applied a little more of his weight on the leg and smirked at the lack of pain. He was still rather cold but at the very least, the swelling and pain from his knee was no longer a problem. "I am in your debt, Luciel." The older man offered the bard a respectful bow before walking to where Jeets had mentioned. To the hill where his tent was located; but was surprised that when he looked at the hill again once more, the tent had disappeared and left nary a trace of it's existence. The halfling then trotted down the hill with a bag that Morgan recognized from his years of adventuring; a bag of holding. It was an uncommon thing to be seen on adventurers but an extremely convenient and useful item when carrying heavier loads than one can carry. He explained to the group that they would have to traverse a cave to reach the mainland. Morgan frowned slightly at the mention of caves. Caves were more often than not more trouble that it was worth as he remembered how easy it is to set up ambushes and traps within them but, if Jeets said it was the best way to reach the mainland, he was in no position to argue otherwise.

Jeets would then offer them a vial each of a healing potion. "Many thanks, Jeets. Your generosity and kindness will not go unrewarded." Morgan told him before putting the potion in the outer pouch on the other side of his knapsack. During this small moment of respite, the human pulls out his notebook and begins taking notes. Morgan needn't look at his notebook to check the legibility and consistency of the notes he took down as years of performing the act had made it a second nature. He would only look to the small leather notebook to sketch images as that was something he needed to pay close attention to so he could capture the details his eyes saw. His scribbling was only stopped when he heard Jeets suddenly stop talking. Looking forward he would see two robed figures, one armed with a scepter which was undoubtedly an arcane focus of sorts and the other was armed with a shield and a rather mean looking mace. They attempted to 'convince' them but the fact that both Jeets and Sev readied for combat. Nonchalantly, the author put away his notebook and spoke to the duo in front of them. "I do apologize but I agree with Sev, we have no interest in following you and would like to politely decline your invitation." While putting away the notebook, Morgan deftly hid away the small switch blade from his bag to the palm of his hand. "Please, do move aside." He could see Sev give the mace wielding one a death glare, Morgan would in turn keep an eye on the one in the black robe, ready to throw the knife at the robed figure's hand holding the scepter.

Luciel's tail swished at Sev's response, their expression holding but losing some of its edge. "Fine, it is," They replied, slightly disappointed but understanding as they tilted their head to follow the man's mannerisms, noticing how their eyes looked seemingly everywhere or rather anywhere but down. Luciel could empathize...and then realized that he was probably staring, finding quick excuse to address his patient who thanked him. The tiefling offered a curtsey in response, "Ah, not at-taall. Given zee circumstances, iz zee least I could do. Alzough, I vould hope eit be a scarcity ouf my talents in zee future, ah?"
Though their grip on common slipped for a moment, the sentiment was a relatable one, phrased in a somewhat grimly knowing joke which roused a chuckle from them as they paced a few steps towards the hill before noticing Jeets returning down the hill.

Luciel offered a small wave as Jeets returned and offered all of them each the small vial of curious red liquid. Truly a rarity even for a vagabond like the performer, who'd seen such tinctures in windows or behind the glass of display cases at marketplace vendor stalls, to hold one, however? Their tail expressively coiled as they held the gift up to an eye, even using their other hand to lift their shaded spectacles up to gaze through the contents with an audible 'oooh'. "Szank you Jeets, I vill attempt to keep eit from goink to vaste," Luciel remarked with a small bow of their head, tucking the glass container into a pocket on their messenger bag, quickly catching up the group as he'd been distracted as the rest had started off while their guide had already began walking as they talked.

Entering the cave, it was not long before the tiefling took off their glasses, tucking them into their bag and blinking a few times with a sigh of relief. "Iz not a complaint, Jeets, but vould eit not haf been faster to travel overland?" Luciel asked after a minute, not entirely understanding why they were underground and whimsically hoping they were being lead to an underground city of sorts. Luci was...well, he was hardly one to stereotype, and merely had no clue what Jeets was and figuring it would be rude to ask. Dwarves, gnomes and halflings all looked so similar to him that he just stop asking as he was certainly one to talk when it came to racial disparity.
Seemingly in response Jeets stopped to direct their attention to two individuals in the middle of the tunnel. The others made it quite clear they had no intention of going with the two what with how Jeets and Sev readied themselves. In a slightly unexpected hustle of their hand to their pack, Luciel produced their own dagger.

"N-now zehn, I believe zeht your master has made quite zee mistake," Luciel began with a small nervous chuckle, tucking the scabbard back into his bag. Holding their hands and dagger close to themselves in an awkward attempt at a defensive stance, they continued, "I highly doubt eit vould be us you are seekink."
In a flourish, Luciel extended their right hand, catching the dagger it held on the rounded pommel to give it a spin on the back of their hand. "Vee ahr...how you say?" the previously meek tiefling cooed, bumping the blade into the air and catching it backwards with their left hand, their right swiftly drawing a small pinch of wool plucked from their bag in a slight of hand. How they held the clump of tangled fibers up, their lowered stance made it seem almost just as significant and threatening as the display and stance with which they clutched their weapon.

"New in town~"

In all hopefulness, Luciel prayed the 'razzle-dazzle' of their attempt at intimidation would at least throw the two accosting individuals off their game...and that they didn't know enough about bard magic to suss out the actual weightlessness in the brandishing of the clump of wool, significant only in its insignificance.

The man in red Frowned. "Hm. Well. If that is your choice, then know that you have chosen... poorly. But so be it." The man began to raise his scepter with one hand, and making arcane gestures with the other. A flash of purple enveloped him, before quickly becoming transparent, leaving the man in a defensive position.

The man in white let out a battle cry as he charged forward. He held a large wooden shield in his left hand, holding it in front of him, with a heavy, spherical mace in his right. He swung his mace in front of him, seemingly at nothing, but a streak of yellow came flying from the mace, heading towards Jeets.

Jeets side steps the ray, but hits the top of his staff, leaving behind a singed tip. Jeets remained in a defensive position, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

---

As soon as the man in red began performing the arcane gestures, Morgan sprang to action. Though, unfortunately, was too late in preventing the caster from performing his spell. With a sharp clang of metal hitting stone, Morgan's small switch blade harmlessly dinged off the stone wall of the cave. "Tch!" the old man produced the sound to express his dissatisfaction of the situation. Not only was the caster gone, it seemed that the mace wielding one had a figurative ace up his sleeve and sent a bolt of energy that nearly injured the group's guide.

Taking a deep breath and focusing the Ki contained within his body to enhance his agility and mobility, Morgan leaps over his companions in a single bound to the chaotic fray of combat. The human monk then, mid-fall, sets his sights on the mace wielding foe; intending to deliver a deadly falling axe kick to his head.