Wagon Tales

The sun had long dipped below the horizon as the adventurers returned to Achordia, their bodies weary from the trials of their latest journey. Their boots kicked up the dust of the quiet town's main road as they made their way to the Nobody's Inn, a familiar respite where they could finally take a well-earned rest. Inside, the warm glow of firelight and the murmur of conversation wrapped around them like a blanket.

As the evening wore on and their ale mugs clinked in quiet camaraderie, the adventurers gathered around a table to discuss the matters of law and order for the hamlet they had vowed to protect. The topic of cannibalism was first to rise, with Douglas, ever the practical one, arguing that it should be strictly outlawed. Chord, his mind sharp and his spirit just as determined, countered with a call for the abolition of slavery—an institution they could never accept within the borders of Achordia. The debate quickly grew heated, as voices rose and opinions clashed, touching on the complexities of sentient beings and whether even the undead should be protected under such laws.

The conversation spilled into many hours, with the council members—an unusual but united assembly of adventurers—dissecting laws with the fervor of seasoned politicians. Murder was definitively outlawed, though it would be excused if committed in self-defense. Still, the arguments about sentient undead and the balance of justice raged on well into the afternoon.

It was then that the adventurers noticed the silent watcher perched high above them. A snow owl, its pale feathers glistening faintly in the dim light, had taken up a spot in the rafters. Its bright eyes glimmered with curiosity, its attention fixed on their every word. Vincent, with his druidic powers, sensed the creature’s presence and reached out with his magic to commune with it.

"Who are you?" Vincent’s voice rang out softly in the language of the wild.

The owl, with an air of quiet dignity, responded through Vincent’s mind, introducing itself as Ranaldo, a familiar to Solicitor Lowrie. It had been sent ahead to watch over the town and ensure the arrival of its master. As Vincent relayed this information to the others, their curiosity piqued, they turned their attention to the arrival of Solicitor Lowrie herself.

A long, ornately-carved phostwood palanquin arrived in town, borne by a group of gnomes cloaked in shadowy hoods. As the palanquin was gently set down, a woman emerged, cloaked in fine black and red velvet robes that billowed as though they were alive. Her jewelry was heavy and opulent—rings, bracelets, and necklaces laden with precious metals and glittering gems. She moved with the assured grace of someone used to the weight of power, her boots clicking on the cobblestones with each step.

Solicitor Lowrie’s arrival was nothing short of regal. She had the air of someone who dealt with matters of far-reaching consequence, and her manner was as sharp as the blade at her side. The adventurers, recognizing that her presence meant something significant for Achordia, made their way inside the inn, where the meeting would take place.

The conversation with Lowrie was both enlightening and troubling. The elven woman, with her worldly knowledge, explained the intricate web of politics surrounding Achordia. The surrounding territories were not suitable for alliances, and even worse, many of them permitted slavery or were riddled with prejudice. Worse still, their ideologies were incompatible with the ideals the adventurers sought to establish in Achordia.

Yet, despite these grim realities, tokens of diplomacy were still being sent—gold, primarily, intended for Achordia’s future. Lowrie spoke with careful precision, her voice smooth and measured, as she explained that a carriage bearing gold from the surrounding realms was on its way. But before the conversation could go much further, Ranaldo, Lowrie’s familiar, returned with dire news.

The shipment had been ransacked.

The bandits on the trade road had slain the driver and stolen the gold, their nefarious intentions clear. Lowrie, despite her displeasure, accepted the situation and prepared to leave. Before she did, however, she extended invitations to the surrounding areas, hoping to solidify some form of diplomacy with their neighbors.

The adventurers, determined to uphold their vows to protect Achordia, gathered their weapons and made their way west, to the site where the bandits had been reported. It was a few miles outside of town that they found the metal carriage, half-open, surrounded by three highwaymen attempting to break into it. The horses were nowhere to be found, and at the back of the carriage was a strange sight—a large metal cage, draped in leather.

Without hesitation, Chord, Tyr, and Barluk surged forward, weapons raised. Barluk’s greataxe cleaved through the air, cutting the chest of the first bandit. Tyr’s mace crashed against the chest of another, and Chord, fists like thunder, pummeled the remaining bandit.

Vincent, ever the versatile druid, shifted into the form of a massive grizzly bear, roaring in fury as he swiped at the bandits with claws as sharp as daggers. Douglas, his arcane power a steady hum beneath his skin, loosed bolts of crackling energy from his fingers, striking another assailant.

But then, something changed. Two of the bandits, their forms growing grotesque, transformed before their eyes. Their clothing ripped as their bodies swelled with muscle and fur, turning into hulking, unnatural wolves. The forest to the west had always had its secrets, but none so dreadful as the presence of werewolves.

The fight raged on. Steel clashed with fang, and blood stained the earth as the adventurers faced the feral fury of the monstrous wolves. Barluk, though battered, fought on with a brutal intensity. But as the sun began to dip below the horizon, the first of the twin moons rose into the sky. In that moment, the transformation overtook Barluk, his form contorting as his face stretched into a wolfish snarl and silver fur covered his body.

The adventurers were now not only battling the bandits but also their own comrade, who, now a were-creature, turned his fury upon them. The sound of claws scraping against metal and axes swinging through the air filled the night as the battle continued. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the bandits were defeated. They turned their attention to Barluk, knocking him unconscious before he could do any more harm.

The adventurers found the girl in the cage, her trembling form huddled in fear. A slave girl from the north, she had been taken by the bandits, and now she was free, thanks to their efforts.

The return to town was troublesome. Vincent in bear form hauled the cart while Chord kept Barluk subdued. The villagers looked on in awe and concern as the adventurers carried Barluk—still unconscious—and the shivering girl into the temple, where Sister Dawn would tend to their wounds and heal them of their afflictions . As for the gold, it was safely tucked away in Chord's magical pouch, hidden from those who might seek to use it for darker purposes.

The adventure was far from over, but for now, Achordia was safe.

Metal wagon used for secure gold transport.