Everyone thinks that all great adventures have to start in a tavern. Tell you what pal, those people are absolutely correct. Places filled with tons of drunk people tend to be great for gossip, fighting, fucking, and gambling - basically all the things that anyone and everyone always wants to do.
That's why in this adventure I'm going to begin in a tavern and by quite the odd twist of fate, end in a tavern. Before we go any further, let me say that sometimes the hero doesn't save the day. Sometimes doing the right thing isn't always actually the right thing to do. I don't blame you if you don't understand. It'll be a while, but we'll get to it eventually.
In fact, this was what I was thinking as I laid on the floor of the Emerald Dragon in a puddle of booze and blood. Well, the drunk sailors that surrounded me were forcing me to think about what kind of mask I was going to have to wear over my face after my skull got squashed. I was thinking a burlap sack with two holes poked into the sides so that I could still hear.
A raspy voice snapped me out of my deep thinking, "what'll it be friend? Five gold pieces or your little, ard 'ead?"
"Yall can give me five gold pieces… that's fine," I whispered.
The man guffawed and replied, "yer a smartarse too! I like me a smartarse."
I was greeted with a merciful kick to my head that knocked the senses out of me. The ensuing beating took me to the brink of death, but it all felt like one big pillow fight. That's the funny thing about pain. It's literally all in your head. If you aren't awake or otherwise aren't all there then you don't really feel anything.
I came to my senses when I'd been tossed into the storming, dark, and muddy streets. My body ached and it refused to respond. I probably had a concussion too.
After a while a large, hooded figure made its way out of the shadows. It knelt in front of me, almost making sure that it could look into my eyes.
A deep voice escaped the shadowy maw hidden by the man's hood, "hmph, brave."
I didn't have the energy or gall to talk. Pain was starting to flare up across my body as my senses returned to me. My response was to go unconscious. I figured I could deal with the torment later.
Dreams are fickle, incorporeal stories that reveal just how messed up we really are. Sometimes we sleep and we don't dream at all. When I awoke in a dark room surrounded by dozens of undead creatures I didn't feel like I was dreaming, but I also didn't feel like anything was quite real.
"The portal!" Yelled a familiar, deep voice from behind me.
I didn't turn around. Instead, I took in my surroundings. There were two sources of light in the room. One was a green portal that sat almost an entire league away from me. The other was... well, me. Specifically, light was coming from magical power that crawled across my skin like creeping flame.
Undead minions of all kinds closed in on me. Instinctually I tapped into my gift and connected with The Weave. Life became a blur of colors. Threads of translucent magic spanned from every creature in the room. The majority of these lifeless beings emitted very controlled, green threads of light. The threads would occasionally brush up against my own, which were chaotic and orange.
A massive abomination of an ogre who was missing its left arm and its head stumbled up to me as it lifted its wooden maul menacingly. I spoke words, but did not comprehend them as my ringed hand reached out and brushed one of the ogres green threads. Immediately the surrounding mass of fiery energy permeating from me rushed onto the thread, crawling towards the ogre as an increasingly corporeal force. Prying eyes would have seen me blast the ogre with a volley of scorching rays, but to the magically attuned the display would have been a thing of beauty.
Ray after ray unleashed into the ogre until its flesh had been completely pummeled to ash. After a moment of silence a whisper of power echoed from the portal on the other side of what was beginning to feel like a black chasm. This seemed to rustle the other creatures, causing them to force themselves upon me like a horde of rats.
A gargoyle, a creature of stone and incandescent white magic was the first to react. It flew at me, its aura meeting mine in an almost instant wave of flames. I blasted it with a firebolt and spun my hand around like a spool, smothering the beast in a constant spray of molten heat. An explosion soon resounded from the air and stone debris peppered my robe.
Large formations of zombified men and women rushed at me in waves. I held my opened hand before me and my chaotic, orange threads began to lick at the rings on my fingers. They glowed like metal fresh from a forge as a swirling ball of flame formed in my hands. I lobbed the mass of power upwards and watched it curve into the middle of the undead pack.
Threads of green magic seemed to covet the spell, drawing themselves to the great orb as it launched itself forward. The fireball placed itself in the center of all of the undead and let loose a roar as it expanded and devoured a score of the dark creatures. I took advantage of the chaos, blinking to reveal the threads of azure magic that extended out of Faerun.
I extended my will towards a thread that was very close to the portal. My aura seemed to thin and link with the source of power. Words continued to spill out of my mouth and in a moment I found myself standing directly beside the unholy circle.
Upon closer inspection it was obvious that the portal was being fueled by life force. The frame of the device was constructed by blood-covered bones, held aloft by two pillars of corpses that extended a stone's throw into the darkness above. My mind didn't want to believe it, but I was also standing on a mound of bodies.
Ignoring the sounds of approaching undead from behind me, I blinked once again. This time the violet, arcane energy from the portal itself was revealed to me and I reached out with both of my hands to physically grasp at its magical threads. Before I could cast a spell to seal the portal, a hand extended from the other side of the device and enveloped me in a gray energy, severing my ties with the magic of the summoning ritual.
The hand was followed by a tall, lean humanoid. Its gray skin seemed to simply be missing in many places on its body, as if it had been flayed. It wore tattered, black robes that were adorned in a cuirass of golden chains and amulets.
Somehow, I knew this creature.
It formed what looked like a smile as its unholy aura swelled around mine. The Weave suddenly closed and what appeared in its place was the worst pain I've ever felt. Emerald lightning violently rushed out of the newcomer's twisted fingers and penetrated into my defenseless body. I howled in pain and attempted to call upon The Weave once again, but it was over.
I awoke with a red linen blanket draped around me and in a soft bed covered in white sheets. I could smell meat and hear the sizzling of boiling water. I was in a humble living space that consisted of a bed, chest, a chair, and a table. The large, cloaked man sat in front of an occupied fireplace and stirred a suspended pot.
I jolted upwards and flames crawled up my spine, evaporating into the air as they reached my head. The figure froze for a couple heartbeats, then continued stirring.
After a pause he asked, "what did you see?"
I didn't respond.
"Why are you in Tyr?"
I continued to keep my mouth shut.
"I am the one who cleaned and healed you," he said as he removed his cloak and draped it over the chair.
I patted my body and noticed my brown, silk robe hanging off of a hinge next to the room's only window. I ran my hands all the way down to my undergarments, not feeling a single indication of any bruises or cuts. It hit me slower than it probably should have, but I'd been magically healed.
The man turned towards me for a moment before focusing his attention on whatever he was cooking. He wasn't necessarily a man, though he was male for sure. He was a Firbolg, a being with ancestral roots in giants and ancient fey charms. His hair and beard appeared to be twig like, but trimmed. His skin was a charcoal, or perhaps a very light green color. His traits gave off the appearance of a thick oak tree with how stocky and tall he was.
"Hmph," he grunted. "In my tongue I am called Wandering Light Weaver. Your people simply call me Joe."
With a name like that, he was definitely a Firbolg. Joe leaned into his chair and the sound of rustling metal echoed into the room. He was probably wearing chainmail, which meant his weapon was probably close by as well. I continued to sit in silence and stare at him.
He let out a deep groan, "you were more talkative in the bar downstairs."
"We're still in the Emerald Dragon?!" I exclaimed.
"He speaks," he sarcastically said before letting out a chuckle.
I moaned in displeasure, "shoot, how long have I been out?"
"About two hours," he replied.
Two hours wasn't too long. It meant that those sailors were probably still in the common room. I looked around the room for my other belongings. I was specifically searching for my two traveling pouches.
"They took your gold," Joe said as he took a sip of his concoction. "And your boots, gloves, and other belongings."
"Horse shit," I cursed.
One of the pouches had my focus, which was a set of five golden rings, hidden inside of it. I also had a good amount of coin and a collection of various spell components. I took the blanket off and hopped out of the large bed. I stumbled a little, surprised by how far off the ground it was.
"I'm finnin to lasso up some sailors and take em to pound town," I stated as I collected my robe and threw it on.
Joe looked amused as he asked, "how?"
"Gonna introduce them to the fires of the Nine Hells," I muttered on my way to the door.
I stopped as I heard the large Firbolg get out of his chair.
Joe grunted, "What are you called?"
"Back in Bedorn they called me Gael. Round here I suppose I'd still be called Gael," I answered.
The joke went completely over Joe's big head.
He responded, "a borderer?"
"Darn tootin," I said in what was almost a spit. "You comin' or what?"
Joe pulled a mace out of the pot and waved his hand over the flames of the fireplace, making them disappear. He'd been stirring his stew with a mace. I guess Firbolgs were a different kind of strange.
"I will come," he replied as he fished a wooden shield from under the bed. "I will repay you for standing up for me when no one else did."
Well I'll be damned. I'd completely forgotten the reason why I was in this situation in the first place. I'd gotten the snot kicked out of me for intervening when those sailors decided to pick on good old Wandering Light Weaver. They probably figured they could bully or swindle the socially naive Firbolg into giving them some drinking money.
Tyr was an island and port town located about fifty leagues west of Waterdeep. It wasn't very aptly named because around here there wasn't any sort of police force. Waterdeep had sent one of its lawmasters, but he was just one man. Around here you needed to be able to stick up for yourself. It was my kind of place.
Activity in the common room of the inn was starting to die down. The Emerald Dragon was constructed in a way to allow for more rooms upstairs, this meant that there were plenty of support pillars downstairs. Each pillar seemed to be surrounded by round tables and chairs that were all nearly empty. The room also had a side door with easy access to the outhouse in the back and a kitchen behind the bar so the owner could get away from patrons every once in a while.
In the far corner of the room a pale, blond haired elven woman was playing her lute and singing about the war against the Cult of the Dragon. The song teased the evils of the cult and glorified the heroes who stood up to confront them. Her traveling attire, rapier, and large rucksack made her appear as if she may as well have been one of those heroes.
Directly in front of the stairway, with his back against another of the room's corners, was a hooded man. The smoke from his pipe seemed to mask his face and play with the surrounding light in strange ways. To this day I still don't quite know why dark and mysterious individuals hang out in the corners of every bar or tavern in Faerun. Just… Why?
The most important detail to note happened to also be the loudest. The bartender was busy serving drink after drink to the boisterous group of sailors. Their group had severely diminished in size, and by that I mean that the majority of them were passed out on the bar or sprawled over random tables. Four of the sailors remained, including the older gentleman who had threatened me.
Both of my pouches were in front of him and he seemed to be going through all my things while he enjoyed a pint of grog. To his right sat a halfling and a dwarf who were engaged in an arm wrestling contest and to his left was a barely conscious half-elf who seemed to be hitting on what he thought was the bartender.
The bartender made eye contact with me as I crept down the stairs, trailed by Joe. She shook her head and motioned for me to return upstairs. It was good to know that she was looking out for me, but it wasn't necessary because she was probably about to hate my guts. Bartenders don't like trouble.
"Put your weapons away. We shouldn't need em unless this gets ugly," I told Joe.
He nodded and stowed his mace. He kept his shield out, and it was then that I realised the thing was covered in carved, magical runes. His shield was his spell casting focus. I thought that was the most practical thing ever, and tried to envision myself using a magical shield. I raised my eyebrows at him and nodded approvingly.
I began to whisper and moved my hands in a pulling motion. The Weave started to become visible to me and it encouraged my movements. The charismatic and pink aura given off by the bard's music bounced all around the room. The sailors were happy, excited, and tired all at once. Their emotions bombarded me like prismatic rain. I ignored every distraction and focused on my five golden rings.
I wasn't able to see them, but that does not mean that I wasn't able to sense them. I imagined the smell of gold mixed with the oils of my skin. I could almost hear them clanking together whenever I motioned with my fingers. As my imagination grew more and more vivid, the rings began to leave the pockets of the sober sailors one by one. All of the rings slipped through the air and slowly drifted to my fingers.
The sailors had no idea what was going on, but the bartender sure did. She sensed the imminent trouble and disappeared into the kitchen. I didn't waste a single moment, it was time to light these guys' asses on fire.
I imagined what I wanted my magic to do and my body began to produce what was needed in order to cast the spells. My mouth, hands, and fingers all moved in perfect synergy as the legs of the stool that the older, raspy voiced sailor sat upon spontaneously combusted. I then quickly snapped my ringed hand at the half-elf, sending a firebolt his way. It slammed into the back of his head and his forehead collided with the bar with a resounding thud, presumably knocking him out.
Ironically the half-elf's compatriots didn't seem to notice the spells at all. They probably assumed that he'd finally blacked out from the grog. The three leapt out of their seats when the older man's clothes lit on fire. He was quick to throw them onto the floor, his naked body revealing a thin cutlass that he was hiding in his pants.
The man burped before shouting, "you!"
"Good evenin'," I answered.
He drew the cutlass and pointed it crudely towards me. His minions both produced daggers that they too had been hiding.
"Shoulda stuck ye like a pig," his voice rasped.
"Right," I hollered. "Here's how it's gon' go."
The three seemed hesitant. The dwarf and halfling eyed one another while the older sailor gave me the stink eye.
"You're gonna leave my stuff on that there bar and make like horses," I stated.
After a pause I mentioned, "ain't even gotta pay me back for them drinks you bought with my gold, neither."
I could tell that the humiliation of being naked in front of his shipmates was starting to get to the old man. He let out something that resembled a warcry and charged forward. His goons followed suit.
I reached out towards the stool that was still on fire and transported all of that heat to the floor between the man and myself. He stepped on the open flame and his bare feet betrayed him as he face planted onto the floor of the common room. The blow was enough to knock him out cold.
The other sailors were met by a clobbering delivered by Joe. He blocked a knife thrust with his shield, then shoved it into the face of the dwarf. The smaller man backed up, cearly dazed by the blow.
Taking advantage of the distraction, the halfling lept on a table and then onto the Firbolg's back. He then stabbed his dagger twice into Joe's chest. I could hear the links of the chainmail breaking as the blade penetrated the armor and sunk into the Firbolg, but I didn't fully process what happened. Joe yelled as he picked the halfling up and used his body like a club against the dwarf. He slammed the two into one another and they dropped to the floor, unconscious.
Joe breathed heavily and inspected me. He was looking for any wounds, I suppose. We surveyed the rest of the sailors, none of them were stirred from their drunken slumber. I collected my boots and gloves, which were on the floor right next to the bar. Then I proceeded to loop the belt connected to my two pouches around my waist and sifted through them. It took me a while to actually see the wounds on Joe's chest.
"Dammit," I cursed as red streaks of blood began to cover his chainmail.
"I'm fine," he replied.
The carvings on his shield began to glow with a light very reminiscent of the sun. He held it up to his chest and his wounds began to close. Additionally the blood that was on his clothing slowly faded away, his chainmail repaired itself, and for all intents and purposes he appeared as good as new.
I smiled and commented, "neat party trick."
He nodded in response, appearing content with himself.
"Those bastards spent ten gold pieces on drinks," I said as I placed two gold pieces onto the bar. "Should cover the stool, let's get outta here befo-."
A loud voice boomed behind us, "what in all the Nine Hells happened here?"
I turned to see a man in a full set of plate armor bearing a tabard of Waterdeep. His facial features spat Northerner which were highlighted more so by his almond colored hair, eyes, and groomed beard. Not only did he have a fancy, and very respectable moustache, but he also had his long sword drawn. It was Tyr's only lawmaster.
"Oof," I whispered.