Deep within the Elvyn Wilds, three adventurers run full force through the winding trees and foliage. Crunching underfoot are thousands of golden-red leaves spirited off their trees by the pull of autumn. The setting sun, relaxing into a lower angle in the sky, hints at nightfall. Usually around this time, the three would be diligent in setting up camp and collecting enough wood to last through the cold night, but their attention is captured now by something more demanding than the threat of icy fingertips.

A dry, guttural wail booms through the forest, sending winged creatures scattering above the canopy of trees. The sound is followed by the heavy thuds of wood meeting wood, and the less-grounded trees succumb to gravity. One of which falls forward, its whistling branches warning of collision.

“Sable!”

Hearing the urgent call of her name by her warrior companion, the smallest of the three adventurers, a halfling witch with petite, dark features and tightly curled hair, momentarily spins around on her heel and holds up a sure hand to the advancing hazard. With a burst of purple energy emanating from her gloved palm, the falling tree seems to hit an invisible barrier that ripples with a pearly shimmer upon impact. They continue on with quickened breaths as another deep wail echoes through the woods.

Up ahead, burnt orange sun slices between the tree trunks. It looks to be a clearing and, with any luck, an escape from the impending bludgeoning. Running through the light, our adventurers find themselves perilously placed at the lipped edge of a cliff. The healer of the group, a spindly young elvyn man with long, white hair wrapped into a bun, inspects the terrain below and asks in a shaky stutter, “Viktor, where do we go from here?” Over a hundred feet down, a crystalline river refracts the blooming ruby of the setting sun, and the three are presented with a choice.

The warrior turns to face the quivering woods. A pit in his stomach sinks deeper now, well below the navel. “Good question,” he replies between heavy breaths. Will they stand and face the threat, or jump and risk a fatal fall?

Thrashing out of the forest’s edge comes a massive wooden club smoothed to a shine by years of labored use. Holding the weapon is a twenty-foot-tall forest giant with a hefty, muscular build. Gnarled, moss-gray hair covers its mostly naked body in patches. In a language unspoken by our three, the giant taunts its prey and lifts the club overhead with both monstrous arms. Viktor, the largest in the party, a half-orc with desert-brown skin, makes the call in his mind. Hastily, he grabs the other two into a tight, sweaty hug and falls backward off the cliff, narrowly missing the clubbed strike save for the tip of his beaded braids.

Down they fall together, screaming as loud as their voices will allow. They plummet into and are consumed by the frigid waters of the river. A mixture of adrenaline and impact, broken slightly by the half-orc’s inhuman build, leaves the adventurers conscious for only a few moments to feel the cold touch of the water seep through their clothes, their skin, and deeper still. Soon enough, awareness leaves their bodies, a hush settles in their minds, and they float away into a quiet black expanse.

Along the stony riverbank, three wet bodies lie unconscious. The crisp evening air is accompanied by a whisper of muted sunlight, so close to setting yet still bleeding through the muddled foam clouds. Celest is the first to wake. Glistening threads of white hair, now unbound by the rolling currents, veil his face haphazardly like a wavering bride. A groan of confusion is followed by a gasp of realization as he looks to the left and sees his friends sprawled across the waterfront. “Viktor—Sable—be living, oh Goddess!” he pleads while stumbling to meet them. Checking their breath, he finds them alive and hot tears of relief well up in the corners of his narrow, yellow eyes before sliding down the flat bridge of his nose. “Thy mercy knows no bounds, my divinity,” says Celest. “Thank you, a thousand times over. Thank you.” His palms press into the ghostly gray stones of the bank as prayers of protection slip through beholden lips. Faint white light gathers at his words and heals a small portion of the damage taken by the party.

The soft sound of Celest’s murmurings slowly rouses the other two. Sable’s round, starry eyes open in panic. She jolts up with a yelp that sends Viktor scrambling to his feet, clenched fists ready to swing. A pause, as the two take in their surroundings, is broken by a frustrated whine from Sable. “What were you thinking?” she asks. “You could have gotten us killed—or worse!”

Viktor’s upper lip twitches with irritation.

She shuffles through the pockets of her dress, taking inventory. “I think I lost my powdered mandrake root. Shit. There go my suggestion spells,” she says under her breath, but loudly enough for him to hear.

“Yes, thank you so much, Viktor, for saving our lives. If it weren’t for you, we’d be giant’s stew right now. How valiant—how noble you are!” says Viktor sardonically. “Maybe you could show a little gratitude to your hero instead of moaning over some dried potatoes!”

“Mandrake root,” Sable snaps. “That was the last bottle I had. You know what we had to go through so that I could get my hands on that stuff.”

Viktor shakes his head like a wet dog sending droplets of water flying in all directions. “Was that the time in the jungle with those vines that nearly ripped Celest’s arm off, or the time when you were charmed into believing that horse was your grandmother?” he asks with a wry grin.

“The former. And we agreed not to talk about the horse thing. Please, just forget that ever happened. Honestly, it’s cruel that you keep bringing it up.”

“Hmm. Never,” he says, then turns his attention to Celest. “Alright, Sunshine. Enough chatting to your mommy in the sky. She’s probably sick of you by now.”

Celest moves to sit on his feet and looks up at the warrior with still-dewy eyes. “She is a goddess,“ says Celest, clearly offended by his teammate’s choice of words.

“Ah, yeah,” says Viktor as he helps Celest stand upright. “Sorry.”

“We could have stayed and fought, you know,” says Sable. “I had plenty of spells prepared.” She takes out a thin piece of sandalwood bark and snaps it between her fingers with a spin. A gust of hot wind dries her clothes and radiates outward to catch the rest of the party.

Viktor scoffs and crosses his brawny arms. “I don’t think magic would have done us much good. You didn’t even have enough mana for that spell to hide us, remember?”

“My illusion spell takes a lot of energy,” she replies, “and that’s hilarious coming from you, o’ valiant hero who swings an axe first and asks questions later.”

“As if that’s actually—“ He pauses mid-sentence as the color in his face fades to a greenish-gray. “My axe.” Viktor swings sharply to the right and sprints into the water. A few minutes pass as the others wait, but with each surface and subsequent dive, Sable grows more and more impatient. After the seventh try, a deflated and empty-handed Viktor drags himself back on shore. “Let’s find a taphouse,” he says, “I need a fucking drink.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure we’ll find a cozy inn brimming with sweets and ale in the middle of the forest!” says Sable as Viktor stomps off downstream, and she moves to follow.

The once-foamy clouds condense to silver wool and allow a light fall of rain to escape their form as the three head south. Dense wintergreen trees crowd the forest’s edge, reaching out wantingly toward the sparkling waters of the river. “How far did we float? These trees look nothing like the ones in the Elvyn Wilds,” Sable asks.

Celest stops to ponder the question but is unable to explain the change of scenery. Viktor continues ahead, stride unbroken, determined to find anything that could turn their situation around.

After a half hour’s travel down the bank, they catch sight of a dock jutting out into the calmer waters. Bits of rotted plank have fallen away, and a frayed old rope tied to the piling suggests it was once used to anchor a small boat. “There’s a welcomed sign of civilization,” Celest says with a slight smile.

“A dead one, maybe,” adds Viktor as he scouts the surrounding area. Directly across from the dock, a scanty trail, overgrown with moss and fern, snakes into the woods. “But this looks promising.” They follow the path for a time with some trouble. The sun is gone, and not only is Celest’s light orb enchantment dim, but he also can’t quite find sure-footing on the moss. After stopping twice for the cleric to heal his own scraped knee, Viktor hoists Celest onto his back and continues forward.

“I’m so sorry, Viktor. I’m such a burden to both of you. After everything you’ve done for me thus far, the least I could do is walk on my o—“

“For the last time, Sunshine. It’s fine. You’re fine. I’m fine.”

The minutes creep by like thick sap sagging down a towering deepwood trunk, but eventually, the forest thins and opens. The three adventurers find themselves facing a fortified city of dark, milky stone. The mammoth gates of which are rusted and ajar.

Celest taps his teammate on the shoulder to be let down.

“Certainly didn’t expect to find a city out here,” says a bemused Sable as they slip through the gates. “No map I’ve studied of the Wilds ever mentioned one.”

The structures of this city languish with neglect. Broken roof tiles litter the pavement, most of the street lanterns have been shattered, and a musky smell of rotting cloth and soot tickles the back of the throat. Still, on the main road, a larger building holds a warm, orange light that leaks through the windows and onto the wet pavement. A sign hanging from the door reads “The Red River Tavern” in red lettering.

“Sweet medicine after a piece of shit day,” says Viktor as he heads to the entrance. “Why is it always me who has to pick up the slack?”

“Don’t pretend you have any other skills besides making bad guys bleed. You’re not allowed to complain. You’re the one that got us into this mess after all,” Sable quips. “We’re in some busted city in the middle of nowhere and completely off mission. We probably won’t even make it back to the Wilds in time to collect the eclipse bow from the temple of the moon.”

Viktor gives her an exceptionally stale look and then swings open the door with a thud.

The halfling lets out a joyless chuckle. “I need some time to myself, Celest. Why don’t you make sure our guard dog doesn’t bother the locals.” Since entering the city, a drumming headache has been creeping up behind her eyes. After the elf nods in compliance, she meanders down the street with a thumb to her brow and disappears into a thick blanket of fog.

Inside, the hearth is smoldering warm. It drives back chilled fog that laps at the leaded-glass windows. Viktor sits at a timeworn table that is dwarfed in comparison to his imposing build, and Celest opts for the seat next to him. One leg of which clicks on the floor with any shift of weight. “Shit day. Shit service.” Viktor eyes the bar maiden, who is preoccupied with another patron.

“Would you like me to calm you?” Celest holds out a welcoming hand.

“Nope.” Viktor leans away and pushes himself to a standing position. “All I need is some damn ale.” He goes to slump over the bar counter and asks the barkeep for a drink. The man pours a chalky rose wine from the bottle and slides it to the half-orc. It appears this wine and some stale bread are the only things they’re selling. He downs the bitter liquid and pounds his fist down twice for another.

“Ow,” says a figure whose forehead and arms are pressed like a wax seal into the bar top. “You must be strong.” They look to be human, short with sandy blonde hair. Sitting up, Viktor can see that their round face and smoky, jade eyes are pointed in his direction but not focused on anything in particular. “My name’s Nyx. You ever been anyone’s bodyguard?”

“I’d say. Why? You need someone to protect you?” Viktor downs the second drink as if it were spring water.

“Not me. It’s… my sister who needs protecting.” Nyx takes out a coin and taps it on the wood, getting the attention of the barkeep. When the man walks over, Nyx says, “A glass for me and another for the big one.”

“What’s wrong with your sister?” Viktor asks as he sucks down the third brew. “And if she’s in danger, why are you here and not with her?”

Nyx chews on their lower lip. “I needed a drink, same as you. There’s only… so much I can handle,” they say in a hushed voice. “It’s a demon. That, I’m sure of. It comes in the night, but gods know what it actually does. Memories are fuzzy when I try to focus, but I know its voice. It’s poison.” Their thumbnail digs into the tabletop. “Last time it came, it bit her. Her neck was bleeding, and she was just standing there in the drawing room. I don’t know where I was before my other sister and I found her, either. I think, in some way, we’ve all been under the beast’s illusions. So, what I’m wondering is… if the coin is right.” Nyx bows their head and sighs before asking, “will you help us? Otherwise, I just—I don’t know what to do.”

Meanwhile, drifting along on the somber flagstone alleyways a block away from the tavern, Sable talks out loud to herself while the aching pressure in her skull thumps for attention. “If I were taller, he’d take me more seriously. Maybe I should lose the dress and go for something more… utility based?” She shakes her head and continues. “No. Definitely not. This dress has so many pockets.” Sable sighs, rubbing her temples in an attempt to ease the pain, and wonders how much time away from her teammates would fix this knotted headache. Leaving the two of them alone for too long, however, could prove to be even more stressful in the long run. Her reflections are interrupted by the low howl of sobbing.

With a hardened demeanor, she responsively follows the sound to a middle-aged human man curled around a pastel blue child-sized blanket. “Hello, sir?” says Sable. “Are you in need of any assistance?”

The man looks up, snot and tears sticking to an unkempt, brown beard. A look of hope and confusion lasts only a moment before his face is overtaken with grief.

“What’s the problem here?”

“Briar,” he spouts. “My daughter is missing. Sweet child—she won’t survive out here!”

“Out where exactly?” asks Sable, quickly taking a small notepad and enchanted quill from her dress. “Could you give me a description of what your daughter looks like?”

“Here! Markovia! Outside!” he screams. “She’s never been out on her own before. She-she’s a petite thing. Black curled hair. Just passed her nineteenth year. Eyes like blue crystal. She’s been gone since yesterday.” The sobbing starts again, and he smothers his face in the tattered blanket to cover an agonized expression.

“Briar: black hair, blue eyes, nineteen,” says Sable as she steps closer to the man. “I’ll try my best to find out what’s happened. This is your home?”

He follows her pointed finger to the nearest building and nods weakly in agreement.

She considers, for a moment, inquiring about the city itself but decides against probing for answers from a clearly broken man. More than likely, she thinks, he would not be the most reliable of sources in this state. His grief, though, is heavy and certain. It pulls on her own.

He looks her in the eyes, now stricken with confusion, and asks, “You would help me? Why? I don’t have any coin—I couldn’t pay you if that’s what you’re after.”

“I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of misfortune, sir,” she says while putting the paper and quill away and carefully removing one of her gloves. Old burns have disfigured her obsidian skin. The scars start at the fingertips and disappear under the bell of her sleeve. “I help because I’ve needed help. My village was attacked by a horde of goblins in my youth. They came in the night and burned our farms to the ground, stole our food and animals, and slaughtered dozens of my people. It all went to ash. Halflings aren’t much equipped for violence, you know, and there was no one there for me then. We were sitting ducks.” She slips back into her glove and rests a hand on his shivering shoulder. “Sorry if you didn’t care to know, but I’d like you to trust my intentions. I will try to help you. No coin required.”

The man squeezes tightly to the blanket, nods while avoiding her sympathetic gaze, and quietly stands to return home.

The witch takes her leave after waving goodbye, but soon after starting to walk, the drumming in her skull ignites into a sharp buzz. Her forehead crinkles together as she winces. Stumbling to the side, she braces herself against the wooden planks of a cracked barrel that has been abandoned on the street. Her vision momentarily fades to black before she finds herself somewhere entirely new.

A terrible rain permeates the cold dead of night atop a black marble balcony. Along its railing leans a woman with hands clutched so tightly to the stone that it looks like her fingers could snap. The wind rips wildly through her chin-length brown hair and the pastel yellow fabric of her nightgown as she looks in horror behind her.

“You are mine. There is no escaping this,” a man’s growled voice chases through the rain.

The woman frantically shakes her head in denial as the man corners her escape. A hooded black robe conceals his form.

“You will not deny me any longer.” His open palm swings toward her, but she catches it before it hits her face. A struggle ensues as he attacks, attempting to grab and hold her still, and she defends until the hand gripped over her mouth is bitten. He yells, pulling away before retaliating with a shove to her chest. The wet stone causes her foot to slip as it tries to stabilize her, and she stumbles over the railing, falling down into oblivion. “No!” The man’s voice cracks like lightning.

Sable gasps, the shock bringing her back into reality.

“What?” she huffs between strained breaths. “What was that?” She dusts off her gloves in an effort to self-soothe and collect herself, then takes off toward The Red River Tavern.