[IC] Storm King's Thunder

Chapter 1

Part 1

You've been traveling along the High Road for days. As evening approaches, you spot a wooden signpost next to a trail that heads north into the hills. Nailed to the post are three arrow-shaped signs. The two marked "Waterdeep" and "Daggerford" follow the High Road but point in opposite directions. The third, marked "Nightstone", beckons you to follow the trail. If memory serves, Nightstone is roughly ten miles up the trail.

[Phoenix]

Lyria Va'lesh

The nights were cool here. Dissimilar to her home in that the air was not filled with salt and noise and light. Lyria marveled at the stars above and could begin to recognize the constellations that portrayed the history of her pantheon.

She was traveling these lands in the hopes of finding a foreign relic of her patron, the Crimson Ram. She'd traveled farther than she ever wanted to, but was enjoying her time as a foreigner. Lyria would occasionally wince at the realization that most did not even know of her pantheon, never mind her own patron. But she enjoyed sharing what teachings she could.

Their path was leading them to Nightstone for the evening. It was out of the way, but being that it was so late now, they needed to stop to rest for the evening.

"Thine Crimson Ram guides thee," she said to he one steering the cart, more out of habit than necessity. Her eyes remained pointed upward, gazing at the glowing dots in the blue-black sky.

[Akacen]

The Goliath, sprawled out in the back of the cart, half hanging off as it were, grunted as he shifted to try and get more comfortable. Whether it was out of effort or out of the zealot's words would be unknown, as he had hardly spoken two words to those he now traveled with.

While the strange female and unusual male had helped to stabilize and heal him following his encounter with a Dire Wolf somewhere far in the wilds, he was less-than personable. At least, as far as the pair could make out at the moment.

As they traveled, the half-giant, who only gave the name "Stormcaller", fiddled with a javelin as though it were nothing more than a stick. The warhammer he carried with him had been settled beside him, and the shortbow and quiver propped up against it. Given his physique, even though he was nearly falling off, it would seem, he took up about half of the cart in his current position. Reinforcing his less-than amiable demeanor, he did not apologize or otherwise suggest that he was concerned that he was taking up so much room.

Laying back, fingers interlaced behind this head, cradling it on the bed of the cart, he gazed at the clear sky...