The Heroes' Journey Begins (in Merivale)

Merivale, a humble town in the serene Valley of Hope, surrounded by rolling hills and fertile fields. Quaint cottages dot the landscape, with a gentle river winding through its heart. Despite its modest size, the town is known for its warm, welcoming community, making it a favored resting spot for travelers on their way to Farhope. This is where our heroes' story begins....

The four of you are all relatively new on your adventuring path, and one way or another had found yourselves in the bustling port city of Farhope looking for a way to ply your trade. After a series of small coin temporary gigs, you were hired on collectively to escort a merchant on his semi-annual trip along the King's Road to his hometown of Merivale. The journey was largely uneventful except for a very successful encounter with a group of bandits near the Sea of Tears, but the downtime gave the four of you a chance to get to know one another and realize that together you're pretty formidable. The Merchant, one Abram Zalaxas, was so impressed that he not only extended an open offer for you to be his security on any and all future trips to the city, but he drafted a letter of Mark, a formal voucher on his name that your group may take to any prospective employers.

You currently find yourselves taking a well deserved bit of rest and relaxation at the Valley's Rest, a cozy inn run by the cheerful Marla Homebrew and her daughters, Ruby and Pearl. The warm common room smells of fresh bread and hearty "manticore" stew (really just beef or lamb) and Marla’s famous Spiced Apple Cider, a comforting cure for weary bones. Adorned with local crafts, it’s a hub for travelers and townsfolk alike, sharing stories and songs that are often sung long into the night. Ahh, life is good...

If you feel so inclined, I'd like each of you to recount a memorable moment from the journey to Merivale - something that gives insight into your characters. It could be an action taken, a decision or choice, or even a tale or confession shared around the campfire. The goal is to give us some foundation for establishing the relationships between members of your newly established troupe.

Thorne Underbough was a man of quiet purpose. Tall and lean, with long brown hair pulled back in a loose tie and eyes the color of turned earth, he carried himself with the composure of one who had learned early that the world rarely listened to noise. His gear was simple and well-kept—a short bow worn smooth by years of use, a weathered dagger at his hip, and a hunter’s cloak that smelled faintly of pine and smoke.

He was not a man of many words, but those he offered came steady and plain, like stones from a riverbed.

Where others saw wilderness as danger, Thorne saw pattern and providence. As such, he hunted not for the thrill of it, but for what was needed and no more.

---

There had been one night on the road to Merivale when the company learned this truth for themselves. The journey had stretched longer than expected after a storm swept inland, drenching their supplies and spoiling most of the dried meats in the merchant’s wagon. By dusk, spirits were low, bellies were empty, and tempers had begun to fray. Abram Zalaxas was pacing by the campfire, muttering about ruined goods and the cost of delay, when Thorne stood up, slung his bow over his shoulder, and disappeared into the trees.

"I will be back soon." were his only words.

He was gone for hours. The others argued whether to go looking for him, whether the forest was safe at night. But just when the first doubts began to take root, he returned—quiet as mist, with a brace of wild fowl tied at his belt and a small bundle of herbs in his hand.

He set to work without ceremony, plucking, cleaning, and dressing the birds with the same care one might give a sacred rite. The scent of roasting meat soon filled the clearing, mingling with woodsmoke and wild thyme. When the meal was served, it was simple but good—better, somehow, than the feasts found in city taverns.

Abram, moved by gratitude, tried to praise him for his skill. Thorne just shook his head.

"Wasn’t skill," he said. "Just patience."

Caldra Brightward, Oathsworn. Caldra spent her youth working her father's smithy hammering out nails and horseshoes, and tending her aging grandmother. While her mother had plans of marriage and comfort Caldra focused more on the well-being of others and was often found helping the poorer families in the area on her time off. With no real plan she was content to follow her parent's , until one day a band of traveling priests and oathsworn passed through her home town. She was shocked when one of the oathsworn removed their helm to reveal an aged lady who chatted with the smiths young daughter and opened her eyes to the greater world. A sense of purpose and a desire for more filled Caldra's heart for the first time. Her parents, of course, were having none of it but her grandmother interceded on her behalf and her parent were finally convinced to give her a chance. Working tirelessly she turned all of her skill to crafting a weapon and set of armor to wear in her future travels as she was taught the basic tenants of the oathsworn. Finally after a year she finished her training and took up her armor, shield, and mace, which she swore to use to protect the weak.

---

After defeating and driving off the bandits Caldra tendef the wounded, including a couple bandits that survived but could not flee due to their injuries. While tending these she learned that many of the bandits were simple peasants driven to crime to support their families in times of hardship or under the tyrant of an oppressive Lord. Her gentle nature drew her to their plight and she sought to comfort them as they headed towards judgement upon deliverance to the town magistrate.

The night before reaching the town Caldra was restless and could not sleep for an unknown reason. Deciding to visit the prisoners one last time she found the manacles empty. She rushed to find the two, only to come up them attempting to break into Abram's strongbox. Unarmored and weaponless she tried to talk the two into surrender without another fight. One turned on her with contempt, derision, and a knife Caldra learned all their previous words of hardship were a ploy to manipulate the softhearted oathsworn. Then to her surprise and relief the other stood to her defence, slaying his former companion before running off into the night.

Caldra reported all but still has yet to understand why some who fall to the dark revel in it's embrace while other can still be saved, if only they can be reached.

Kessa Quickstep is social and friendly during the trip, but anyone paying attention can tell that she reveals very little about herself and her past. The most personal detail anyone got out of her was about her surname. Abram commented on it and asked about its origin. She shook her head and responded.

"I didn't get it from my parents," she said. "The guild gave it to me."

"Oh, what guild?" Abram asked, not thinking before he spoke.

"The one you don't name," she responded. That ended the conversation until someone else brought up a different topic.

---

When the bandits attacked, Kessa initially seemed to run. A few moments later, she appeared behind a bandit that was wrestling with one of Abram's hired laborers. Kessa's dagger sank into the bandit's side three times in rapid succession. The bandit fell to the ground coughing blood. Kessa gave the laborer a cold nod, then slipped away again. Kessa killed at least one other bandit in a similarly brutal fashion.

Kessa was quick to search the bodies when it was over. She handed over everything she found to Abram.

"Um, thank you," he said. "Did the, uh, guild teach you how to handle a dagger?" he asked.

"The guild taught me a lot of things," she said. Then walked away.

Caldra grabs her shield and mace as she rises to get feet and calls to get companions We must aid them!

Rushing to the door Caldra thinks to herself First locate targets, victim and threats. Best not rush healing into the unknown.

Reaching the door (opening it is needed) she quickly peers outside. If the way is clear she steps out and to one side so as to be backlit for only as short a time as possible.

Kessa looks at the door with a furrowed brow, still holding her mug halfway to her mouth. "Huh," she says.

Then she looks at the crowd as if only just now realizing they are all staring at her and her companions. "What? Guard's night off?" Then she looks to see how the others at the table react.

"Oh, we gonna be heroes again?" Vilde asks and stands up. "Are those more bandits?"

She peeks through the doorway a bit, but standing behind a table when seen from the door.

"I swear, Caldra, if they mess up my robes any more, you'll gonna help me clean them for just opening that door to any potential bandits."

Thorne was already on his feet before the echoes of the scream had faded. The calm that had rested on him all evening—the quiet satisfaction of food and warmth—was gone. His eyes hardened, scanning the room once before locking on Kessa.

"Kessa," he said, his voice low but firm, cutting cleanly through the rising panic of the inn. "Let's go."

As he said that, he was already moving, stepping over a toppled stool and toward the door with quick, measured strides. The bow came off his shoulder in one smooth motion, string taut and ready, the simple weapon suddenly seeming far more dangerous in his steady hands.

As Caldra moved ahead to the doorway, shield raised, Thorne slipped to her flank—just far enough to give her room, but close enough that the two worked as one: her the wall, him the arrow behind it. He scanned the windows, the shadows, the flanks—the habits of a hunter now turned to war.

"Right," Kessa says with a nod. She takes one more swig from her mug then follows the others.

You step outside the doors to find the town square, the place you had arrived at only a few hours before, nearly completely transformed. The large golden oak in the center of the square is still there, but instead of the bucolic bustle of a rustic marketplace and social hub you find chaos and panic - villagers fleeing and running for the dubious safety of their homes, market stalls overturned, one of them starting to burn. At the center of the maelstrom, a horde of twenty or so goblins of various sizes, capering about, cackling with the glee of mayhem and destructive revelry.

The largest of the bunch, a battlescarred male with a crude leather eyepatch and a partially missing ear sits on the back of the largest rat you've ever seen in your lives, barking out orders. When he spies people emerging from the tavern armed and ready for a fight, he shouts in something between a squeak and a growl, "Givvit to me! Da Boss will 'ave our 'eads if he don't get it." (because as we all know - all Gobbos speak in Cockney accents).

He then turns his attention to a cluster of smaller goblins who are busily destroying every bit of property they can get their tiny grubby hands on, and calls out, "You lot! Take care o' dese mutts! Let's go boys." Then he spurs his rodent mount into action and heads out of town, a small and squirming bag draped over his shoulder.

In the momentary silence as the smaller goblins, the type local folk call Gerblings, cease their destruction and turn their eyes to you, you seem to hear a tiny, highpitched but muffled voice calling out for help receding into the distance.

It's time to roll Initiative!

Thorne looks around, counting how many Gerblings are turning toward them and how far they are from the group.He shoots an arrow on the nearest enemy.

Caldra readies herself to fight and advances to interpose herself between the goblins and her allies.

So far in terms actions for the opening round we have: Thorne 1, Caldra 1, and Kessa 2.

It's kind of hard to get an exact read on the number of these critters due to their hopping and swarming and scampering, but Thorne's hunter's eye reckons that there are about 8 or so. The pack is clustered near an overturned merchant's stall roughly 20-25 feet away.

The Hunter let's fly with an arrow which finds it's mark and drops the creature before it even has time to let out a shriek. The rest of them turn to you, red eyes filled with malice and prepare to charge....

The Scene: The town square isn't terribly large, and is laid out in a rough circle centered on the Golden Oak, the fronts of the various permanent buildings about 25-30' away from it. The Gerblings, armed with crude short blades and hatchets, are near what used to be one of the temporary merchants' stalls that are arranged under the boughs of the tree during the warmer months. Its a straight shot over open ground between you and them. Those of you who are outside the tavern are standing on its front porch, a single step up from the packed earth of the square. There are no railings, but four slender posts arrayed equally across the front hold up the overhanging roof. There is no furniture or other cover on the porch, which looks to be primarily intended as a place for patrons to shake off rain or snow and hang up their outer garments before entering the establishment (as evidenced by rows of pegs carved in the shapes of cute forest animals on either side of the doors).