I. The Enigma of the Relay and the Oath of the Paladin

The mysterious Relay beckoned us sit down. A figure whose countenance was a blank canvas—neutral and utterly disassociated from the world about him. As we sat, a sudden, cold shimmer passed over his form, a brief twist of magic before he settled back into his strange repose.

Unnerved by this portend, Crow, the keen-eyed archer and master of the forest, did stammer out the cryptic message entrusted to us by the Gnome: “2 of 27 Enact plan 4c. 2 Marks.” The Relay, offering neither solace nor light, merely broke the heavy silence: “Thank you. The message has been relayed.”

Though we pressed him for clarity on the Gnome accountant and the nature of these arcane messages, his lips remained sealed. Yet, when Crow mentioned our destination—a sacred Waystone—the Relay shifted. After a pause that suggested a silent, far-reaching consultation, he offered us a boon: the service of a new mercenary, a part of a pilot scheme for novice protectors. We chose Phlegan, a stout, stocky dwarven paladin, clad in bulky plate mail that made her resemble a tortoise in its armored shell. Her faith was absolute, her Oath of Devotion permitting her no falsehood. By the morrow’s sun, she was to join us on the journey to the Waystone near Molag, before returning to her next appointed Relay.

Disappointment lingered, a bitter taste from the lack of answers, but the hope of a stout guard buoyed our spirits as we sought our rest.

II. The Scuffle at the Broken Bridge

At dawn, we met the dutiful Phlegan, and despite my harboured doubts concerning the pairing of an aloof elf and a zealous dwarf, we set forth toward the Ritensa river. We found the stone bridge, which spanned the waters where the Ritensa joined the Veng river, utterly cast down into ruin. Rubble and splintered planks lay everywhere, evidence of a violent collapse. Travellers milled about, pointing at the fallen bridge and scratching their heads as they considered their next course of action.

Across the water, two burly, coarse guards, clearly brigands in guise, had fashioned a makeshift raft from what remained of the sunken bridge and were charging an unconscionable toll of ten gold pieces to ferry folk across. Seeing the common people held captive by this extortion, I—Aelfric—felt a fierce theatrical urge. I leapt onto the raft, feigned a dreadful pestilence, and began to wheeze and splutter over the guards’ boots, crying out with the dreaded pox. Crow, ever quick on the uptake, shouted a warning to the crowd, urging the guards to retreat from the “Plague carrier!”

Phlegan, her face contorted in disgust, stood scratching her head upon the riverbank, her pious spirit wrestling with her duty to protect those who so brazenly lied.

“Hold, good sirs, and attend my reason!” I pleaded, swiftly weaving a new tapestry of deceit. “Lo, our cousin dwells upon the far bank of this cursed river, a man of great account—indeed, one of the richest wool traders in all of Critwall! Permit us passage, and he shall gladly pay a kingly twenty gold pieces for each of our heads.”

The coarse guard, utterly unimpressed by my dramatic plea of the pox, seized me roughly by the lapels, and heaved me headfirst into the freezing, swift waters.

This act was Crow’s cue. With the silent speed of a striking viper, his short sword descended hard upon the shoulder of the nearest guard. Phlegan, roaring with a mighty scream that echoed down the valley, swung her heavy mace, clumsily missing the guard and losing her footing amidst the rubble.

As I maintained my balance, my mouth above the frigid water, I espied three swarthy farmer types watching the fray with keen interest. I quickly offered them a bargain: “Help us defeat these brigand guards, and you shall cross with us for but two gold pieces!”

The three men leapt aboard. Crow, regaining his footing after being thrown to the deck by the first guard, watched as the three sturdy bystanders pummelled the guard with shafts of old bridge wood. In the ensuing melee, the guard dropped a pouch by Crow’s feet before fleeing backwards toward his accomplice. Realizing their odds were rapidly dwindling, both brigands dived into the river and were swept downstream.

Crow secretly searched the prize, signalling to me that it contained fifty gold pieces. We waved the paltry fee for our temporary helpers, took up long planks as oars, and amid the cheers of the grateful folk upon the bank, we made our way to the northern shore and set forth once more.

III. Portents and the Man of Shadows

That very night, when the moon was veiled and the fire had sunk to mere embers, Crow’s peerless senses—sharper than any hawk’s in the gloom—woke him from his light slumber. He did not stir, yet his eyes, wide and unnervingly still, fixed upon the tree line. There, at a distance that seemed too vast for mere mortal sight, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark figure, a shadowy watcher whose form seemed woven from the night itself.

Before the cold fear could settle, this figure was swiftly followed by the eerie, silent advance of what could only be described as spectre-like zombie wolves. They moved not with the sound of snapping twigs or heavy paws, but with an unnatural, chilling quietude, their forms barely perceptible against the darkness. They were ghosts given savage shape. Yet, as quickly as they materialized, they dissolved, swallowed by the gloom from whence they came, leaving behind no scent, no track, and no sound—only the ominous dread of a lurking necromancer and the terrible knowledge that our deeds had attracted a predator from the deepest shadows.

IV. The Guild of Bounty Hunters

The next day broke, bringing not grave danger, but a peculiar distraction to lighten our weary spirits. Before us scurried a nimble halfling, whose small legs moved like wind-up toys, and in his wake followed a loudly bickering elf and dwarf. It was a sight that caused both amusement and perplexity, for their trio mirrored the very races within our own fellowship—a striking coincidence upon this lonely road.

The elf, whose name was Dreyol, possessed the lithe fury of a striking hawk and chided the dwarf Pinter with a stream of elegant, venomous critiques. The dwarf, a creature of stubborn earth, responded with guttural, barrel-chested retorts, his every word a gravelly complaint against the elf’s “airy-fairy ways.” They were a study in comic disharmony, entirely preoccupied with their spat.

Seeing an opportunity for sport, I—Aelfric—took it upon myself to distract the arguing pair, weaving a tale of a lost satchel to draw their attention. Meanwhile, Crow, ever the master of stealth, moved with the silence of falling snow, creeping to a vantage point where he might discern the truth of the fleeing halfling.

He returned with a whispered revelation: the halfling was not truly imperiled, but was sniggering behind his hand, fully enjoying the heated chase. The trio soon revealed their deceit: they were but trainees of the Guild of Bounty Hunters, caught attempting some nefarious or foolhardy exploit and now practicing the solemn ritual of pursuit. The chase was merely a staged exercise. With a final, sharp exchange of insults, the fiery Dreyol and the grumpy Pinter resumed their assigned task, leaving us to our path and the darker mysteries that awaited.

V. The Revelation at the Waystone

After days of travel, we reached the fabled Waystones, massive obelisks of ancient make, many still standing proud despite the march of millennia. Crow led us to a towering obelisk, six feet wide and ten feet tall, covered with intricate runes, explaining these stones were places of potent, passive power.

Crow approached the stone, placed his hands upon the runes, and concentrated his keen mind. Phlegan scoffed and rolled her eyes. Nothing happened. He repeated the ritual the next day. Phlegan impatiently braided her hair and yawned.

But on the third day, as Crow touched the runic surface, the air grew suddenly taut and tight around us. Phlegan’s mouth dropped open in awe. From the very back of the massive stone, a hand, an arm, and then a whole person materialized: the half-elf known as Jack of Shadows.

Jack was pale as the moon, smartly dressed, and brimmed with an alluring, potent charm. Upon our enquiry, he confirmed that the Gnome accountant and all the prisoners we had met were seeking to acquire Celestial Powers to ultimately ascend.

The Man of Shadows then issued a stark and profound warning: “You are working for the gnome, but at some point, working for both of us will not do.” He asked about the necromantic dealings, and upon hearing of the dark figure and the zombie wolves, he agreed to call off his “friends,” fulfilling his end of a bargain he had made with Crow regarding the Waystone.

Before his time was up, he directed us to seek further counsel from Gazbar the wizard, a man completely insane, who works at a magic emporium in Molag. And then, his voice dropping to a final, potent instruction: “Should you find yourself in deep trouble, say the name of the man of shadows. It must be his full name and only speak it in the presence of shadows.”

With that, Jack stepped into the cool shade of a tree, the air shimmered one last time, and he utterly vanished. Phlegan, bewildered by the magic, declared she was headed to her next Relay in Molag. Crow and I, our path now irrevocably intertwined with secrets and shadows, decided to spend the night amongst the ancient standing stones.

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