Coldeven 15, 576 CY – Afternoon
Description: Freezing
Temperature: 13.3°F to 38.4°F
Wind: Moderate breeze (S) 13–18 MPH
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Gray, slightly overcast
Dog, the Ranger of the Gnarley (Forest)
Irving the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert
TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert - absent this session
Dixon, the Dwarven Fighter
Oleg, Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Slash, the Bard
Crush, the Half-Orc Fighter - absent this session
Zert, the Hero
Spugnior, the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord, Slash’s companion
The freezing winds of Coldeven 15, 576 CY, nipped at the battered party as they rode out of the desolation of the Temple. Behind them, the shattered halls of elemental evil brooded in the distance; ahead, the ramshackle sprawl of Nulb awaited.
Countess Tillahi of Celene and her consort, Sir Juffer, offered grateful words to the company.
"You have our lives," Sir Juffer said solemnly, pressing a silver-inlaid brooch into Irving’s hand. "May the Queen of Celene herself hear of your valor."
The countess urged immediate departure, unwilling to linger in the tainted lands near the Temple.
At the Waterside Hostel, the stench of sour ale and rotted wood clung to the walls.
Dog glowered at the common room. "If I wake up lighter in the purse," he muttered, "I'll burn this place to the ground."
In the smoky common room, two strangers were encountered.
Muspell Heavyhand, a deep gnome with shifty eyes and a wry smile, offered a bow. "Lost my dog. Maybe found new friends."
Beside him, Tiger Wong, a monk from the far eastern lands, said nothing—only offering a slight respectful nod, his hands folded calmly before him.
Oleg’s sharp eyes missed little, but even he noticed too late—the sword at his belt was gone. By the time the realization struck, Wat the bartender offered a greasy grin from across the room.
The party made ready for the night. Dog and Tiger Wong, unwilling to trust walls that whispered betrayal, slept among the horses. Tiger Wong boiled a small pot of rice, sharing none and speaking less.
Coldeven 16, 576 CY – Morning
Morning was a bleak affair: porridge like mortar, and beer sour enough to strip paint.
Over a whispered breakfast, Oleg quietly cast ESP upon Wat. The thoughts that came back were enough to turn even Spugnior’s stomach.
"Thieves feeding thieves," Oleg growled under his breath. "This whole town deserves to sink."
Mother Scarg provided healing scrolls with a grim smile, while Dog bartered for a stout spear from the village smithy.
Without further ceremony, the battered company mounted up once more and turned their faces back to the horror that awaited at the Temple’s gates.
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