October 17–20, 973
Forced Rest, Found Peace
For the first time since descending into the Manchester sewers—since the jailbreak, the tax collectors, the sinkhole, the Sereth, the water elemental, and that regrettable fireball incident—the party finally stopped moving.
Not because they wanted to, mind you, but because their armor and sanity demanded it.
Barin declared it in that tone of his that brooked no argument:
“If you don’t sit still for three days, something’s going to fall off you that you’ll miss later.”
Phineas, his pale apprentice, nodded furiously.
“Your… your pauldrons are cracked, your greaves are warped, that one buckle is actually holding on by hope, and—gods forgive me—some of your straps smell like they died. And I’ll need a couple more days to finish refitting the armor you stripped from the Crown’s tax collectors.”
Thus the mandatory rest began.
Dolven’s Hollow—once derided by the party as “hopelessly slow” and “a good place for ambitions to be buried”— turned out to be deeply pleasant when one’s bones were jelly and one’s nerves were frayed
The villagers were discreetly proud of the heroes who’d come to stay with them but also had the good sense not to bother them (except Hunkle, who had become a minor celebrity; the farmers took turns challenging him to stump-pulling contests).
Ant slept for fourteen hours straight after her first mug of cider and didn’t dream of polyamorous patrons even once.
Cassyndra had quiet time to review her notes and carefully not think about the water elemental’s last moments in the pipes.
Laveleen sifted through Rudric Thorn’s journal, frowning thoughtfully at the blasphemous poetry.
Gareth polished his armor until it gleamed in ways it hadn’t since before the riot.
By the twentieth, restlessness had replaced fatigue, and plans for the future came calling.
Plans and Warnings
When the party informed Barin of their plan to travel to Hollowmere, he set down his hammer so hard that Phineas flinched. “Hollowmere,” he repeated, in the tone of a man contemplating whether to scold, sigh, or simply pray.
Then he leaned on the anvil and began, “Three days’ walk,” he said, “north and a pinch west, up into the early teeth of the Skyspire Range. Beautiful country—rivers, pines, fields—and then an increasing number of things that want to stick knives in you.”
Phineas nodded solemnly. “Or rocks. Kobolds use rocks.”
Barin continued, “Hollowmere used to be a sleepy farming village,” he said. “Best beer this side of the Tareth. Ran a candle-lighting festival every autumn. Adventurers passed through all the time—old ruins, old stories. Pleasant place.”
He glanced toward the window.
“But seven, maybe ten years ago, the Crown started digging. Copper mine, they say. Copper.”
His eyebrow arched high enough to demand its own jurisdiction.
“Copper doesn’t usually require fences, armed patrols, and barracks big enough to house a small army.”
Phineas whispered, “Very suspicious copper.”
Barin lowered his voice.
“There’s an Ebon Blades cell up there. I’m near certain. But listen carefully: You do not mention Dolven’s Hollow’s cell. You do not mention the jailbreak. You do not connect one cell to the other. Ever. The organization is… compartmentalized. For everyone’s safety. Especially yours.”
He pointed at them one by one to emphasize the point.
“Also—goblins, hobgoblins, kobolds. Nasty little tribes sprinkled throughout those hills. They don’t organize often… but when they do, they take scalps.”
He stepped back.
“So go, if you must. But go smart.”
The Road: A Helpful River Spirit (Sort Of)
The party set out under a clear sky, the morning cool and easy. Barely two hours out of Dolven’s Hollow, they met two fishermen trudging the opposite way—baskets full of salted Tareth River fish, shoulders bowed under the weight.
After a bit of friendly banter, one of the fishermen leaned in.
“You’re adventurers, right? You’ll want to hear this,” he said. “Something strange happened three days ago.”
They had been rowing upriver when their net snagged on a submerged log—or so they thought. The boat spun sideways in the current, lodged itself under the roots of a leaning willow, and refused to budge.
“We hacked at the roots. Tried pushing with oars. Tried swearing at it—professionally, of course. Nothing.”
The younger fisherman nodded.
“Half an hour stuck there. We started thinking the river wanted a toll.”
Then the water around the boat rose—not bubbling, not surging. Rising smoothly, deliberately, like a hand lifting a child from a chair.
A shape formed beneath them, humanoid and shimmering, composed only of water and reflected sky. It cupped the bottom of their boat without breaking the surface.
And then—it pushed.
One gentle heave freed the boat from the roots, spun it smoothly into clear water, and sent it drifting back toward midstream.
“And then it was gone,” the fisherman said, rubbing his arms. “Not a wave. Not a splash. Just… gone.”
The party exchanged quiet looks.
Shamus murmured, “A good spirit.”
Cassyndra whispered, “…Or one trying very hard to be.”
Either way—the omen felt kind.
Arrival in Miley
The rest of the journey was blissfully unremarkable: no goblin ambushes, no diseased giant rats, no whispers from extradimensional horrors offering “mutual benefit.”
By early afternoon, they reached Miley, a sweet little crossroads town where gardens grew in tidy rows and a wooden swan perched on the well as though pretending not to be weather-rotted.
The Broken Handle Tavern stood at the crossroads—a cozy timber building with an oversized, bent-iron mug swinging gently in the breeze. Warm light and the scent of onion soup drifted out the open door.
Inside: warmth, stew, ale, and—because trouble adores their company—a halfling tavern owner pacing behind the counter with the expression of a man in need of exactly the sort of help adventurers tend to offer just before lunch. He looked up as they entered. “Oh! Thank the gods,” he breathed. “You’re adventurers, aren’t you? Real ones? With weapons and moral flexibility and all that?”
The stew kept bubbling behind him. Outside, Miley carried on blissfully unaware.
And inside the tavern, the first threads of a new adventure began to tug.