Scattering into the Grey Morning
Following their directions from earlier, different members of the party seek out the town's interesting figures.
The fragile camaraderie of breakfast dissolves as the adventurers disperse from
The Mountain’s Last Light, each pursuing their own objectives under the windy, grey sky of
Vertidor's Rest. The warmth of the inn's hearth fades quickly as the adventurers step out into the cold, damp air. The breakfast sits heavy in their bellies, and the plans made now demand action. The groups and individuals diverge, heading off into the dirty tracks on the greens and narrow paths of the frontier town.
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To the Church:
The first group to arrive anywhere,
Norman,
Gunthard, and
Kal Arion make their way towards the modest wood and stone chapel of the
One True God. The chapel is
quiet and timeworn, with a spire that's little more than a rusted bell frame, its old stones smelling faintly of incense. Ivy creeps across the stone like
blood veins. Inside, morning light filters through stained glass in muddy hues — green, bronze, ash-yellow. The altar is cracked, though lovingly polished.
Candles sputter at uneven intervals. The air smells faintly of wax, wine, and damp earth.
Father Altanis was to be found tidying the altar that holds an open holy text in the chilly sanctuary. His vestments are clean but threadbare. His eyes, when he turns, are the
pale blue of old maps — worn thin by time and worry. He greets the
trio of adventurers with solemn courtesy, his
relief at their survival tempered by
deep concern. Despite the last day gratitude and prayers at the Inn, today
Father Altanis seems wary and
a little overwhelmed.
Norman the Cleric steps forward to make introductions, explaining their presence in town and their encounter with the mysterious and unnatural rats, offering their services, while inquiring about the town's history and the strange foundations Olwin mentioned.
“
Father Altanis. I am
Norman, a servant of the
Light. I’ve traveled far and come to
Vertidor to offer help. You know from yesterday that we found rats beneath the inn. Monstrous things. And we found older stones in the foundations. I ask what you know of this, and what I may do to aid the
Church in these lands.”
Altanis’s expression darkens. He does not move, nor does he offer wine.
“You are welcome,
Brother Norman. But the
Church does not shine brightly here. We are too far from the
Bishop’s shadow. I am glad the
Light of the Saints protected you," he says, "but I was troubled to hear... that you sensed a true evil down there. Not just beasts, but something... unholy." He makes a warding sign.
Father Altanis is polite but cool. He accepts the greetings, while listening to Norman’s overtures with a strained smile, but seems distracted, maybe he has sensed Norman’s inner fire is not entirely in step with his doctrine. "This is worse than I feared. This is the work of the old powers, the forbidden gods whose profane rites stained these lands before the Light arrived!" He makes another warding sign.
About town history, he relates to the other cleric: "
Vertidor has stood longer than I have served here, but unfortunately the unnatural enemies are a constant trial on the
frontier. Not that the natural enemies aren't a problem themselves, but the Bailiff has so far kept the peace. Over
Wolf's Maw Pass - in that land - it is a much different story! Or so I hear, we haven't received visitors from that province in months." He becomes grave. "This region... it rests uneasily on the past.
Ancient empires built structures here from the history I have read, yes, and they delved into practices the
One True God condemns.
Necromancy, worship of
dark entities..."He clasps his hands. "I urge
caution. Disturbing these old places, seeking out the source you speak of... it can unleash
forces best left buried. Some evils are meant to be
sealed away, not confronted."
Gunthard the Fighter, earnest and perhaps a bit blunt, echoes the concern and asks how he might serve the
One True God in this troubled place. The reception of the priest to the axeman is optimist but clearly guarded.
Altanis gazes at
Gunthard for a long moment, then nods slowly.
“You speak like a man who knows what it is to be used. And still you come
seeking use. That is no small thing.”
He steps down from the altar and places a hand lightly on
Gunthard’s shoulder.
“This place has need of
quiet strength. The people fear. They speak in half-truths. Some call it superstition. I say it is the soul warning the flesh.”
The fighter asks
Father Altanis to tell more about himself, the history of the local area, and recent happenings near
Vertidor and within the
Church .
He eyes his weapons, gear and dog, for a long while, while offering slow but complete answers. About himself:
"Dear man-at-arms, I served in the cathedral choir as a boy. Saw
war’s edge when I carried sacrament to broken men in a border skirmish.
My faith is not untested, nor unscarred." he continues. “I was sent here after refusing a transfer to a busy port up north. The Bishop perhaps thought I’d grown too quiet in my priesthood and this was a
fitting punishment. Perhaps I had. But the people here need
peace, not doctrine.”
Altanis says he's not a mystic or a visionary — he is a
survivor, and that's enough about him. “I preach what I must. But some truths, I confess
only to the walls.”
About the region:
“This is the last stop the
Church controls before the next province. The ridge ahead and the valley after was once a crossroad of peoples — before the kingdom's recent settlement attempts, before the invasions of the last century. Pagan druidic circles claimed it was a
listening place. A magical convergence of waters, winds, and will. The Church says such things are
superstition and must be eradicated.” he says he has been in the wild province. "That land has seen battles no minstrel sings of. When the wind carries screams from the east at night —
I remember."
About recent Happenings near Vertidor:
“Three months past, a clerical messenger arrived bearing word of
pagan worship in southeastern parishes. Now, our cellars are infiltrated with evil vermin. A coincidence to test our faith?” He scratches his head, remembering something. "Oh, two travelers — an old monk and a servant girl with scarred hands — passed through this last fortnight. They sleep indoors. In the morning, the girl whispered to the chapel stone before leaving. At the time, I thought nothing of it, today...
Suspicious. Some call them omens. I call them gatherings of forces... of things drawn to
broken places.”
He seems interested in your service offer, suggesting piety and perhaps a donation.
To the warrior, he says “I could use a blade that does not flinch when it hears prayers. If you would serve, walk the town tonight. Speak not. Watch.
Report what you hear.” To the cleric, “Help me with this flock. They are proud, superstitious, and sometimes drunk. But they are not faithless. If you
bring Light to the shadows — even the ones I avoid — you do the God’s work.” In general: "Beware what grows in the dark. And if it speaks,
do not answer. Not until I have written its name.”
As the others speak,
Kal Arion finds a quiet spot to pray, hoping for guidance from the
Voice. During his prayers in the morning, instead of a single one, he hears the following, increasingly unsettling
Voices:
A soft susurrus of leaves
“Child of Light, know that life springs where faith and earth entwine. Seek the roots beneath the stones and let your mercy flow like rain. Nurture what you would protect, even when steel would rend it. Only then will this wasteland flower anew.”
A rasping clang, like sword on stone
“Cleric of one god or ten, strength answers strength. Let your blade be tempered by conviction, not doubt. Go—train the weak, fortify the walls, and show no mercy to that which claws from below. Order is forged in fire and blood.”
A sudden clap of thunder in his mind
“Pray here, pray there—words are wind. If you would know truth, rise above this chapel’s roof. Let lightning show the secret cracks in walls and soul alike. Then leap—fearless—into the gap between belief and reality.”
A hollow tick of bones clicking
“Life is fleeting, holy one. You seek to bind darkness, yet you worship a light beyond your reach. Embrace the stillness beneath the feet of the living—there you will find power beyond prayers. Fear not the dead, for they know the true shape of the world.”
A hiss in the deepest corner of the chapel
“Silence your voice and hear the stones speak. What the Church buries, I reveal. Come to the sealed undercroft, lay your hand upon the talisman’s door… and I will show you wonders that shatter faith.”
Each
whisper fades as suddenly as it rose, leaving
Kal with a
choice of pursue any of their wiles, or not answer to them...
This threefold visit to
Father Altanis is a mix of
political tension,
personal faith, and
occult foreboding.
Norman, perhaps accompanied by
Gunthard, leaves to contact the
authorities.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seeking Craftsmanship:
Stein Von Steiner, clutching the grim trophies from the cellar battle, follows Olwin's directions into the town proper, seeking out local artisans. He stretches his legs carrying the horrible monster, to the astonishment of onlookers, down a narrow sidestreet, past a couple wagons piled high with furs and salted meats.
Smoke curls from a squat
brick kiln, where hides hang on racks above a smoky pit. A low
wooden sign swings in the breeze:
[*]
Donarin’s Fine Furs & Leatherworks
Through a half‑open door, the air smells of tannin, smoke, and something almost—though not quite—
rotten.
A burly man in a leather apron crouches over a bundle of pelts. His thick arms are covered in salt‑stained scars; his expression,
unreadable. Seems like
Stein found
Donarin the furrier. The furrier says without looking up:
“Make it
quick. The smoke I use’ll strip more than just hair if I let it cool.”
He then glances at the enormous
pig‑sized rat pelt
Stein produces, rolling it carefully with one calloused hand.
“Ver… vermin, you say? That’s the
biggest I’ve ever seen. Not sure I want that stink in my shop... I could tan it—for… say, forty silver crowns. And I want half up front. If it comes out right, it’ll be a
showpiece cloak. If not… well, you’ll still owe me."
Stein's optimism faces immediate hurdles. Using his
commercial acumen, he successfully
haggles with the man for a 10 silver pieces discount, for a total of 30 sp.
Stein learns from the man that if he helps deliver a shipment of fresh deer pelt from the hunter's lodge outside town (saving him a kiln run), Do
narin will do the rat pelt
at cost—20 silver and a promise
Stein will fetch hides in the future. "You better bring me more of these—deal? I do standard hides. If you bring me something more… common, I might keep the ten off discount.” In the talks, Donarin mentions two more itinerant furriers who pass through this season—and one of them is likely anytime. Also a
rumor: there is a dye made from a
mountain fungus that can cover the
rat-musk scent—though it costs another 10 silver.
The Bone Carver’s Workshop
A few streets over,
Stein finds a small shop cluttered with woodchips and bone fragments. A faded sign reads:
[*]Ithmar’s Carvings & Curios[/b]
Through the
dusty window, he sees tools carved from antler and a single pair of rat‑sized incisors mounted in a display case. Looks
promising, isn't it?
Ithmar the Bonecarver is hunched at his bench, delicately chiseling into a deer jawbone. However, he glowers when Stein lays the rat teeth on the counter and says "“
Unlucky materials. My blades go dull on bad bone. Haven’t you
heard the tales? Teeth soaked in bad blood poison the hand that carves them.” He warns of
bone‑spirits that sometimes haunt workshops when they carve
blood‑born remains and pushes them back. “Now get out before I lodge these back in your skull.” This surly individual doesn't want to even hear Stein's further proposals. Maybe he comes back later?
In both cases,
Stein's plan to create impressive props faces
early frustration, using up his early morning time, likely triggering superstitious gossip, and requiring more
negotiation or searching to achieve his goals. Now he heads out to discuss with
the town officials.
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To the Market Square:
The morning finds
Vertidor's Rest stirring to life.
Flipping Felix the Thief arrives at the bustling
Market Square, quickly followed by
Tillomar the Accused and his dog
Fergal. The
market square is like a muddy circle where tents rise like mushrooms after rain. Yes, the market square is actually a circle.
“Smells like wet bread and regret. I love it.”
Felix seeks out the moneylender,
Greenwald the Tallyman. His place of business, a small but tidy timber-framed building near the
Market Square, stands out from the more rustic structures. Inside, it's orderly, smelling faintly of ink, with ledgers neatly stacked and a few
locked chests visible.
“That little ledger-gnome’s hiding something worth stealing. I can smell coin from a mile off.” Nevertheless, here the tallyman reigns — part merchant, part extortionist, part civil servant.
Greenwald greets them with his thin, calculating smile, flashy clothing and a trader's hat. "Ah, the
heroes of the hour," he begins, gesturing towards sturdy stools. "I trust you rested well after your... exertions. Nasty business, that. Shows how quickly
things can turn sour in this region."
The meeting goes well, as the tallyman warms quickly. He has a merchant’s appreciation for a sharp eye and sharper tongue.
Greenwald, perhaps spotting
Felix's nimble appearance or simply seeing a potential client or agent, treats him
cordially. He is receptive to discussing
ventures into the borderslands, offering information about recent caravans, rumors of finds, and even hinting at specific
opportunities he might
fund – relating back to the cellar discovery as
Felix relates it to him in more detail.
“That cellar? Bah. Don’t let them fool you. The
foundations here go
deeper than the faith does.”
"I just learned about some of the
talk last night. Old foundations... ancient work, Olwin claims? And a tunnel leading deeper?" His eyes gleam with interest. "Such places, remnants of the
fallen empires, often contain more than just
dust and bones. Relics, artifacts of
historical value... sometimes even forgotten caches of Imperial coin. However, these monstrous beasts, a palpable aura of evil... this sounds like more than just old imperial ruins. We're likely dealing with an artifact of significant potency, perhaps tied to one of the pre-Arandian cults or the valley's... less savory history."
He leans forward, lowering his voice slightly. "The Bailiff? He cares little for history, only for taxes and
keeping the peace, such as it is. The Church?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "
Father Altanis would sooner see such things destroyed than studied, condemning them as
heresy."
"Here's my
proposition," Greenwald continues, steepling his fingers. "You clearly have
the skills to handle whatever lurks down that hole. I am prepared to finance your
expedition – properly. I can offer a generous advance in silver, enough for quality supplies:
ropes, lanterns, oil, perhaps even healing herbs. You keep any
mundane treasures you find – loose coin, gems, whatever." Felix replies: “Y’know what would be worse than rats? No rats. Something
feeding on them.”
He pauses, his eyes sharp. "My only condition is this: any items of clear
historical or arcane significance – imperial relics, seals, ancient texts, unusual
magical components – you bring them directly and discreetly to me. I have...
collectors... who pay well for such unique finds. Naturally, I will offer a
fair price for them, based on their
rarity." He smiles again. "Think of it. Proper backing,
minimal risk for you, and a chance at real profit beyond a
few copper coins from an innkeeper. Far better than trying to convince the Bailiff to part with town funds, wouldn't you agree?"
His helpfulness, however, likely has a
hidden angle. During their encounter,
Felix notices
Greenwald casually counting names off a ledger — two of which are crossed out with
red ink.
Locals that went missing? Tillomar, with his skeptical inclination, is mostly silent during the encounter but hears both what
Felix does and what the thief ignores. What is this man's business after all? He is suspicious...
They leave and go find
Mad Orla near the market.
Felix's attempt to speak with
Orla meets a much colder reception, unfortunately.
Mad Orla mutters at
Felix, stares at him with cloudy eyes, and
hisses a phrase in a
forgotten tongue that both
Felix and
Tillomar for their own personal reasons understand.
“Little shadows follow you, sharp-fingered. Don’t let them gnaw your sleep.”
This manifest as
Orla cursing
Felix with
-1 Luck. A child,
Orla’s “little spy” slips
Felix a charm made of rat vertebrae and whisper: “It keeps him asleep if you bury it. Don’t forget to bury it.”
Tillomar, observing nearby, notes the stark difference in reactions, perhaps reinforcing his own skepticism about who to
trust in this town. She approaches
Tillomar "Looking for rats, tracker?" she rasps, holding out a bundle of dried, thorny weeds. "Wrong scent. Smell for the cold. Smell for the fear. That's the stone-heart's trail." Noting his
bandaged hand, she adds, "That bite festers different. Needs willow bark chewed with graveyard dirt, not just bandages." Her advice is practical for his skills but unsettling. "Watch the shadows that don't move right – ghosts cling to the talisman's chill."
As if all that wasn't enough,
Fergal barks sharply near one basement door.
Felix might miss it.
Tillomar won’t.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Outcasts on the Prowl:
Having concluded their tense exchange near the inn door,
Zollo the Manhunter and
Hrod Landson set off into the town.
Hrod, walking beside the
Manhunter, offers his counsel: "
For better or worse, I wager these folk would hold thine words and the words of thy god in greater esteem were you to join myself and these other roadchasers in ridding this place of whatever evil besets it."
Zollo grunts noncommittally, the pragmatic logic possibly resonating with the demands of
Hunkar's Trial, even if cooperation chafes. They move through the dirty streets,
Zollo's eyes constantly scanning rooftops, alleyways, and the
faces of the townsfolk for
omens or
targets, while
Hrod observes both his companion and the settlement, a
silent, imposing presence.
(Rolling a 1d30 on the town encounters table. Please stand-by for the follow-up.)
It’s almost afternoon. The mist has begun to burn off the dirty trail that winds past Vertidor’s southern edge. Birds do not sing here, and even the trees lean away from the path as if tired of waiting for something terrible to pass.
As Zollo and Hrod approach a weather-warped marker stone, they hear a wet-sounding cough, followed by a voice like wind through stained glass:
“Ah. Travelers. Yes. Just the sort I had hoped not to meet. No matter.”
A
small figure emerges from a thorn hedge. His coat is bright
violet, patched in over twenty places. His feet are
bare and
bleeding. His left eye twitches independently of the right. Around his neck hangs a rosary made of buttons and tiny bones.
“I am Ailber, yes, once of the Greenheel Parish of Lower Elmwood. A traveler, a mystic, a messenger. Oh, I had followers, once. But they wandered off. Or were eaten. Hard to say.”
(He lifts a
cloth-wrapped bundle — it’s twitching slightly.)
“I am, however, lost. Dreadfully. And perhaps you can direct me to an affordable inn. The sort that won’t ask questions about smell or substance.”
He eyes
Zollo and
Hrod up and down.
“You two look like you’ve seen the inside of holes. That’s a compliment. I find holes very honest. I have work — maybe you’d like it. Honest work. Or… work that pays.”
He points to what he's carrying. The twitching bundle contains something preserved — part flesh, part… organ. He wants it delivered to a halfling apothecary named Grelda of the Hollow Root in the Southeastern Borderlands,
“where the trees drip resin and memories.”
“She’ll give you coin and soup. And maybe screams. She likes to test people.”
What a a
pitiable mystery.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Questions at the Inn
Midmorning at
The Mountain's Last Light.
George the Ranger sits with the last of his grits and eggs cooling on the plate. The fire pops softly. Da Prophet stares into the hearth, lost in reverie. From outside, the wind tickles at the window shutters like a begging dog.
George presses
Olwin Durn for answers after the old ranger's
ominous monologue about the inn's history and the foundations built to hold something in. "Voices..." George muses, turning back to
Olwin, "Does the chapel have an undercroft?" he asks, reasoning that such a deep structure might have an access point elsewhere, like a gatehouse.
Olwin shrugs, carving another curl of wood. "
Church business ain't mine, Ranger. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't. Father Alstan keeps to himself about what's under his floorboards. Wouldn't know." Olwin sets down the knife he’d been carving wood. “
You’ve been listening too much to fire‑talk and wind‑lies. That’s the trouble with us Rangers. Always walking through stories and wondering why our boots fill with mud.” He offers no confirmation but no denial either, leaving
George to ponder the possibility. “
But you’re not wrong, there must be something under that little chapel, much like here.” he concludes.
Alfred the Bard, having just finished his song about the
Rat-King, listens intently to this exchange, filing away the details.
Olwin takes a drink, then adds: "
The chapel was raised atop some of the oldest ground in town. Built soon after first garrison set post here, it's that old. My father-in-law said it was a tomb first. Then a shrine. Then a chapel. No one ever agrees what bones are laid beneath.” He meets
George’s eyes. “
Father Altanis has the key. Or the words. Maybe both. But he’s never opened about it. Not in my time here. And I’ll wager a cask of good wine he never will — not without a sign.”
George gains confirmation that some in town (
Olwin, perhaps
Brenna) are aware of deeper things, but
choose not to disturb them.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seeking Authority
Inside the common room, observing the others dispersing,
Wolfgang von Schwarzscheid decides someone needs to
approach the authorities formally. "
I will go and parley with the Bailiff," he announces to those remaining (Alfwine, Osgar and the others), "
to get information about this threat and negotiate for equipment, funds and maybe some help from the town guard." He heads upwards the streets towards the
Bailiff's Hall.
The
upper square of
Vertidor is quiet but tense —
no softness. The
Bailiff’s Hall looms like a tomb for parchment and protocol, its narrow tower half-covered in creeping moss and faded livery. A pair of
town guards — wearing leather armor and long-faced expressions — stand at the base of the stairs. A clerk waits beneath an arched entry, holding a wax board and stylus with the sharpness of someone who believes paperwork is the
highest form of justice.
At the Hall in the upper square, Wolfgang the brave, calm diplomat thinks:
Baillif Gerwin Voseric seeks order. Speak wisely. Bring proof or piety. Sanction may follow. Or scorn. He knows his noble bearing and structured ambition are about to meet bureaucratic tension. As Wolfgang von Schwarzscheid is about to ascend the stair, his robe trailing, his boots ringing crisply on the stone, one guard adjusts his grip on a spear and states flatly. "“Name and matter.” Clerk (before Wolfgang can reply): “The Bailiff is occupied. You may
wait — or
present formal cause.” A pause. The wind gusts slightly uphill. The clerk adds, more quietly: “Sir Voseric sees only what serves order or survival. If you bring neither,
bring patience.”
With no
rat’s hide, a
written report, or a
bloodied token, there's not much of an evidence to show this lowly clerk. The only resort outside of just waiting outside is bringing up his noble status and use his diplomatic skills.
"“I am von Schwarzscheid. As a Noble Warmage sanctioned by the Arandian authorities, I have fought for banners you can scarcely afford to dream of. I come with warnings and the means to answer them. Will the Bailiff risk missing them?”
The clerk stiffens, scribbles a note, and enters the hall. Moments later, he returns and brings an answer:
"
Bailiff Voseric is occupied but will receive you as soon as he can, please wait for a moment." He points to a bench in the square. Maybe this local bailiff is unimpressed by another adventurer seeking attention despite his noble status? Maybe you can provide a more compelling reason for interrupting his duties? As he's receiving this non-answer, Wolfgang sees his fellow adventurers stretching their legs uphill approaching the
Bailiff's Hall, Norman, Stein and maybe others.
There are many options for
Wolfgang and the party to
navigate the gatekeeping, impress or frustrate the Bailiff, and possibly initiate a
formal relationship between the adventurers and the town's authority — or
burn that bridge gloriously.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scouting
It’s still morning in Verridor’s Rest. A grim mist lingers in air. The Mountain’s Last Light recedes behind them as
Alfwine the Pale and
Ostgar the Quiet slip into the day like whispered rumors. The town bustles to distract itself from what it dares not name. Ssticking to their plan, they set off to scout the cellars of buildings adjacent to the building.
Before leaving the inn’s shadow,
Alfwine turns, peering toward those who remain:
Ryre, hunched in a corner chair, eyes half-lidded;
Alfred, warming his hands and thinking in verse; and
Da Great Green Prophet, who stares at a knot in the wall as though it's whispering. Will they ever be of
help?
Determined, they check attentively the nearby buildings.
Building 1: The Baker’s Basement
They find a bakery and
greet the baker, asking to investigate the building. After explanations and a cautious acceptance by the owner, they go to a small, flour-dusted
cellar beneath the bakery, where it smells of yeast and soot. Sections of floor have sagged inward, and the bricks are wet to the touch. Behind stacked barrels is a
circular gnaw-hole, wide enough for a large rat… Other than that, nothing in it of note.
(Roll on your Intelligence attribute)
Building 2: An Abandoned Weaving House
The building is
boarded up, but easy to pry open by the duo. In the interior,
dust hangs in shafts of gray light from cracks in the walls and roof. Broken looms lie still, thread rotted. Under a broken floorboard they find a
bone bead necklace, dripping wet, though no water is present. A
dead rat, belly split, insides blackened. Normal-sized, they think.
(Roll on your Wisdom attribute)
3. The Alley Between
In a narrow passage between the two cellars, they find a
scratched sigil in chalk on the back wall. Possibly drawn by children… or not. Even more strange: There is a
rat skull nailed to the wood behind a pile of crates.
(Roll on your Intelligence attribute)
The party confirms that there is rat activity nearby and the rat-tunnels extend beyond the inn and are entering other buildings. How to proceed now?
Ostgar becomes increasingly unsettled. He wants to stop. He confesses he had a dream of
digging teeth.
Alfwine suspects a secondary access point to the tunnels below lies within this block.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Prophesying
Sitting by the hearth, eyes rolled back,
Da Great Green Prophet utters lines that chill
Brenna to her bones. A line she claims she
heard this once before… from someone who
went missing.
“First the root, then the claw. First the king, then the maw. Beneath the breathless stone, it dreams.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Conclusion and Preparing for Next Post
The
adventurers are now scattered across
Vertidor's Rest, pursuing their individual and group objectives. They face varying degrees of cooperation and hostility from the locals, begin gathering fragmented pieces of information (or hitting dead ends), and the true complexity of the situation beneath the town starts to unfold. Chapter 1's
challenges have begun.
Vertidor’s Rest at Dawning Light
The Mountain’s Last Light Inn
3. The Alley Between