The twilight in Mox settled like a heavy, indigo blanket, drawing an early chill from the surrounding Kir Kurad Mountains. Nestled at the foot of their formidable, snow-dusted peaks, the Duchy of Sanguistone’s frontier town hummed with a quiet, rugged energy. At its heart, the Silverlagan Inn stood, a sturdy, dark-timbered structure with smoke curling lazily from its stout chimneys and a warm, inviting glow spilling from its leaded windows.
Stepping through its heavy, oak doors, one was immediately enveloped by the hearty embrace of the main common room – a sprawling, boisterous saloon where the clatter of tankards mingled with the low hum of conversation. The air, thick with the scent of roasted meat, spiced mead, and damp wool, crackled with the kind of expectation that only gathers in places where journeys begin and end. A massive, roaring stone fireplace dominated one wall, casting dancing shadows that played across the faces of a diverse crowd of prospectors, trappers, and a scattering of hard-bitten adventurers like yourselves. Sturdy, unvarnished tables filled the room, bearing the marks of countless elbows and spilled ale, while the floor, worn smooth by generations of heavy boots, creaked a welcoming symphony beneathfoot.
Behind a long, polished bar, a burly innkeeper with a braided beard and a knowing glint in his eye wiped down tankards with a practiced rhythm. Off to one side, a steep, winding staircase led to the private rooms above, promising a respite of crackling hearths and sturdy beds after a long day’s travel. For now, however, the heart of the Silverlagan Inn was the common room, a nexus of tales, plans, and the nervous excitement that precedes any foray into the imposing Kir Kurad, where the legend of the Drakentand loomed large on the horizon.
The boisterous murmur of the Silverlågan Inn faded slightly as the door creaked open, revealing a figure that seemed more suited to a Laneutian festival than the rugged frontier of Sanguistone. Lamech, a bard with a shock of fiery red hair escaping the brim of a wide, impossibly floppy hat adorned with vibrant feathers, swept into the common room. His clothing, a riot of bold colors and flowing fabrics that seemed to defy the practicalities of mountain travel, drew a few curious glances. Blue eyes, bright with amusement and a keen observer’s spark, scanned the room until they settled on a large table near the crackling hearth, where a diverse group already awaited him. A flourish of his hand, a jaunty tilt of his hat, and Lamech made his way towards them, a natural storyteller ready for his tale to begin.
Seated at the table, the first to catch Lamech’s eye was a young halfling, surprisingly sturdy for his size, with a determined set to his jaw. His nimble frame suggested an agility that belied his devout demeanor. A small, well-worn holy symbol of his faith rested against his chest. “You’re late,” he said.
Lamech doffed his hat and bowed deeply. “A thousand pardons, good gentles. It seems I had difficulty finding the stepgate.” He eyed the halfling’s holy symbol, in the shape of a wooden balance of justice. “You must be Emem, the priest.”
Emem nodded, but before he could say more, a man who was dressed in purple robes and a pointy hat, spoke up. “I assure you, there is nothing wrong with the circle.” He smirked. “I’m Dauid.” He was a distinguished figure with graying temples and an air of quiet intellect.
“Ah,” said Lamech, eyeing up. “A Venefigrex wizard, if I recognize those colors correctly. No offense intended good sir, I assure you the stepgate worked as intended, the error was in my own poor pathfinding.”
“Good thing ye have me,” said a dwarf next to Emem, whose presence exuded the very granite of the Kir Kurad themselves. His voice, when he grunted a greeting, was like stones grinding together, and a sturdy axe handle jutted from his backpack. Lamech recognized him instantly as Uilleam. Uilleam’s gaze held the unwavering confidence of one who knew the mountains intimately, and the air around him seemed to hum with a quiet competence. “Yer the last to arrive. Let me introduce ye.”
“No, no!” Lamech put up one gloved hand. “Let me put my powers of deduction to work.” He pointed at two halflings, brothers so alike they could be twins, engaged in a hushed, animated discussion. One, with a mop of blonde hair, gestured emphatically as he spoke, his words tumbling out in a rapid stream – this was Jib. His twin, Jab, leaned back in his chair with a more relaxed posture, his brown hair falling across a face that held a hint of roguish amusement, occasionally interjecting with a dry remark. Both had the lean, wiry build and quick eyes of those who favored the shadows.
“This must be Jib,” he pointed at the blonde one, “and Jab,” he pointed at the brown-haired one.
“Very good,” smirked Uilleam. “But they’re easy to spot.”
“Indeed,” said Lamech. “And so we’ll pick easy targets first: You must be Uilleam,” he nodded towards another dwarf, younger than Uilleam but bearing a similar sturdy build, sat with an eager, almost restless energy. There was eagerness to learn etched on his features, though a hint of boredom sometimes flickered beneath the surface. “Aindreas…your apprentice?”
Uilleaum frowned. “Do all dwarves look alike to ye?”
“Am I wrong?”
He sighed. “No.”
Lamech smiled to himself. “A Sanguinite,” he pointed at the checkered tabard of the young blonde human at the table. “You must be Sikstoffer.”
“I am indeed!” said Sikstoffer, who a cheerful demeanor as he vigorously shook Lamech’s hand.
“A local’s knowledge will come in handy,” added Lamech.
Before Sikstoffer could speak, an elf in brown robes spoke up. “It won’t do much good out in the wilderness. The wilds recognize no country or region.”
“And you must be Keogh, a druid from far off Gleannta.” And Lamech was right again as he summed up Keogh, a tall elf with eyes that held the serene depths of a forest pool. A gentle smile played on his lips, and he merely nodded his greeting to Lamech, preferring to keep his hands tucked into his brown robes.
Lamech moved on to the young knight sitting next to Dauid. “Judging from the armor, you sir, are a Knight of Arros. So you must be Sikstrian.” The knight’s arms were crossed but he nodded his greeting. Unlike the others, he wasn’t drinking.
“And last but not least, an Atikoff pankrationist — an unarmed combatant from the East.” Lamech recognized instantly he monk’s robes that were cut off at the shoulder. “You must be Bryon.”
“Amazing!” shouted the young monk, slamming a sloshing mug on the table. “How does he do it?”
“He’s a bard,” said Sikstrian with a sigh. “It’s his job to know.”
“I am indeed,” said Lamech. “I am Lamech the Bard, at your service.”
“And what exactly is it that you do, Lamech?” asked Uilleam skeptically.
“Why, I remember of course!” Lamech tapped his forehead. “My memory has no parallel, and I will record the great deeds of your adventure for generations to read about and wonder.”
“So in other words, ye don’t do much of anything,” said Aindreas.
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