0 - High Road

Session Zero - The High Road
Early Spring, 1491 DR
You were hired for simple work: escort a supply wagon to Phandalin, meet Gundren Rockseeker, and get paid.

But Gundren and his friend, Sildar Hallwinter, rode ahead yesterday with unusual urgency. Gundren practically vibrated with excitement—talking around some secret he wasn’t ready to share. Something about an "incredible discovery," that would change everything for the Rockseeker brothers.

High road, Sword Coast, Faerûn
Evening, the 20th of Ches
While Gundren and Sildar spurred their horses south with urgency bordering on recklessness, you took the sensible path. Contracts are worth nothing if you’re dead before collecting.

You spent the extra day in Neverwinter preparing properly —buying provisions that wouldn’t spoil, checking straps and axles, replacing frayed rope, and loading the wagon so the weight sat right on the wheels. Armor was oiled, blades honed, spell components counted and recounted. The kind of careful preparation that rarely makes for good stories—but keeps you alive long enough to tell them.

You weren’t alone when you finally set out. Another merchant was bound south as well, his destination the growing settlement of Leilon rather than Phandalin. Close enough, at least for a time. He hired two guards — a broad-shouldered warrior who walked beside the cart with practiced vigilance, and a quiet hunter who ranged ahead and behind, eyes always moving, never lingering in one place too long.

Together, your small caravan passed through Neverwinter’s southern gate and onto the High Road.

The road here is wide and well-worn, packed earth bordered by grass and low scrub. To the west, the Sea of Swords glints dully under an overcast sky, the salt wind ever-present even when the water itself is out of sight. To the east, rolling hills rise toward darker country—wooded stretches and broken ground where the road’s protection thins with every mile.

Traffic is light. A few northbound wagons. A pair of riders who pass without slowing. Gulls circle overhead, their cries fading as the day wears on. By evening, the sounds of the city are long gone, replaced by wind, insects, and the creak of leather and wood.

As the sun dips low, you make camp just off the road—close enough for convenience, far enough to avoid advertising yourselves to every passerby. A small fire is lit and carefully banked. The wagon is checked once more. Watches are discussed. The merchant and his guards keep to their side of the camp, polite but reserved.

This is the first night of the journey and nothing has gone wrong... Yet!

Nelly is a tiefling, a young woman with the blood of fiends running through her blood. But she has a noble heart. She was the one who spoke up when farmer's sheep blocked the road, and the driver was yelling at the farmer. There have been other instances where she stood up for the underdog.
Right now, she is lying by the fire, resting while tinkering with a pair of manicals. Playing with the lock, opening and closing them.

An hour later, the fire has burned down to a low, steady glow when a sharp yelp—high and panicked—comes from the scrub just beyond your wagon’s lantern light. There’s a brief scuffle, the rustle of grass, then a rough laugh.

One of the merchant’s guards—the broad-shouldered one who walks beside the cart during the day—steps into view. He has his boot planted firmly on the hind leg of a young fox, pinning it to the ground. The animal twists and snaps weakly, its ribs heaving, one forepaw caught in a crude wire snare that’s biting deep into the fur and flesh.

"Damned thing almost took my rations," the guard says, giving the fox a hard shake for emphasis. "Clever little bastard. Thought I’d teach it not to get too close to honest folk."

The fox whines, a thin, desperate sound, eyes wide and reflecting the firelight. The ranger—his companion—stands a short distance away, arms folded. He doesn’t intervene, but his expression tightens, jaw set as he watches.

Alex looks over the tableau with some concern. The guard's sadism was written all over his face. What a detestable example of humanity, Alex thinks to himself. If only his older and wiser companion, got to the poor animal first. Confronting this jerk directly would only feed his guilt into rage. Let's try charm, at first.

Alex carefully stands up, and with a smile on his face addresses the guard holding the unfortunate fox. Getting into your rations, you say? Certainly a cause for consternation, my good sir, especially for one as strong and burly as yourself. Why, without those rations, how would you have the strength and endurance to continue so admirably in your craft? Protecting yourself and your companions from the cruel dangers of the unknown! I sincerely hope that butters him up but good, Alex thinks.

Continuing, Alex says foxes are crafty, wily, and cunning, indeed. The fact this this one appears weak, tired, malnourished, and wounded is no excuse! We must think of a punishment to fit the attempted crime. Alex strokes his chin as if in deep thought. I have it! We must exile this poor beast from our camp, never to return. Merely letting it loose without repast or repair would not teach it the necessary lessons! It must be taken by one who is wise in the ways of nature, confused as to its location, and then let loose with the sternest of warnings. For even the beasts understand the emotions of sentients, do they not? I see your older, and less puissant, companion to be one wise in the lore of the forests and the wild. We should prevail upon him to be the instrument of noble justice! 'tis certainly beneath your concern, my good man! Good man my @ss, that cretin would snap the foxes leg just to see it in pain.

While we await the meting of justice by his hand, perhaps I can entertain you with a tune or a ballad?

Nelly supports Alexander's statement. If your rations was left unsecured, then its not the foxes fault. Let it go, or be know as Critter-slayer.
Now, with the threat of ridicule for the rest of their journey, it should be an easy choice to let the fox go.

The guard squints at Alex as the words keep coming.

At first, his grin holds—crooked, self-satisfied—but it starts to falter somewhere around "strength and endurance". By the time Alex is stroking his chin and proposing exile as punishment, the guard’s brow furrows deeply, as if trying to wrestle the meaning of the speech to the ground and losing.

"Uh…" he says, shifting his weight. The fox yelps again as his boot presses down without thought. "What?"

He looks from Alex to Nelly, then back again. Nelly’s voice cuts through the moment and that one lands more clearly. His jaw tightens at Critter-slayer.

Igrem looks at the exchange, not willing to intervene for now. He definitely supports Alexander and Nelly's take on the issue, though.

The guard eyes narrow as the rest of Alex’s words finally settle into place. The smile is gone now, replaced by a hard, simmering glare. He looks at Alex again—not confused this time, but measuring. Then at Nelly and Igrem.

"…You think I don’t notice it?" he growls. "All that fancy talk. Songs and noble justice. You think I’m some fool you can dance around?"

His boot presses down harder. The fox lets out a piercing cry, legs kicking weakly as the wire snare bites deeper. The guard bends slightly, reaching for a dagger at his belt, thumb brushing the worn leather of the sheath.

"You want to make me look like an idiot?"

The ranger shifts now—not stepping in, but clearly tense, eyes flicking to the guard's dagger, then to the rest of you.

The guard draws the blade, steel catching the firelight as he lifts it, angling it toward the fox’s neck.

"No beast is worth that."

The fox thrashes once, then freezes, eyes wide and glassy, like it knows its about to die.

Alex freezes. OK, charm didn't work. Split second, would ridicule be better or would challenging the guard to a contest for the life of the fox be better? My backup juggling dagger has shiny enough glass on it that it may look more expensive than it is, could I tempt him with that? Or will switching from charm to insulting be more likely to shift the guards focus from the fox to me, and allow that ranger to swoop in?

Nelly starts to narrate as David Eddenburrower. Here we see the small opportunistic fox, caught by the big strong human man.

It's is trapped with no means of escape. The fox has angered the big strong human man, and only with his blade the big strong human man, can feel please again.

Once he has killed the fox, dressed it, cleaned it and eaten it, only then will this appease the big strong human man.
Anything less would just make him a slayer of small animals. A Critter-Slayer

Alex, this isn’t about rations anymore. It’s about face. About being seen as strong, unquestioned, dominant. Your charm failed because it made him feel small; ridicule would do worse. Challenging him, baiting him, even dazzling him with a pretty blade—none of it gives him what he needs in this moment.

If you draw his focus fully onto you, steel will follow. Blood will be spilled—human blood. Yours, or his, or both. The fox would likely live… but the camp would never be the same. The ranger would step in only after the line was crossed, not before. If you don’t escalate—if you let this play out after Nelly’s interference—it will almost certainly end more simply: a dead fox, a grim sort of supper, and a man convincing himself he was justified.

Nelly, your words land. Not as persuasion—but as mockery, clean and sharp.

The guard’s face twists, color rising fast. His eyes flick to the others in camp, to the ranger, to you. For a heartbeat, something like doubt flashes there.

Then it hardens.

"Shut up." he snaps.

Before anyone can move, the knife comes down.

Alex, it's now or never.

Igrem starts a nervous laugh and stands. "Really? Are we going to start a full scale fight for just this little fox? Come on, I'm sure it is not worth it. Come over here and take a drink. You know Alexander, he is always looking for a good word and an occasion to catch the limelight. Maybe it is not worth all this fuss?" says the diminutive wizard, showing a conciliatory body language, in an attempt to deescalate the situation.

Alex watches in mute horror as the knife blade descends. Oh FVCK, he's going to kill the poor creature, races through Alex's mind. Alex has no reason to believe the fox is anything other than a dumb beast, however. I got a good read of that bastard's mind, and were I to even flinch in his direction, he would gut me next. And gut me he would; I'm no knight or champion. My skills are in finesse, not brute strength, and he is more aware of me than anyone else right now, d@mn my foolish tongue.

A feeling of impotent helplessness fills Alex as he realizes that in this tableau—at this time—there is nothing substantial he can do to arrest the wanton cruelty of the younger guard. As he watches in horror, Alex lowers his face and whispers a prayer to his patron goddess.

Oh Smiling Lady of Good Fortune, Beshaba's Bright Sister, watcher over those who dare their luck, but not of fools who cannot calculate the odds, grant your unworthy servant the opportunity to redress the evil embodied in this brute in some fashion. Be it to guide him—or others—from cruelty or be it to help your shining face to turn from those who would abuse their own and others' fortunes. But a glancing touch of your grace would befit me well, Lady Luck.

The knife falls.

The fox’s cry cuts off mid-sound, a sharp breath swallowed by the night. Its body jerks once beneath the guard’s boot, then goes limp, the wire snare rattling softly as tension leaves it. A dark red stain spreads into the dirt.

The guard exhales through his nose, satisfied. He wipes the blade on the grass, then nudges the lifeless body with his boot to free it from the snare. Scooping the fox up by the scruff, he turns and tosses it toward the older ranger.

"There," he says flatly. "Dinner."

The ranger catches it by reflex, then looks down at the small, still form. His mouth twists.

"Barely," he mutters. "There’s hardly any meat on it. Skin and bone."

But he doesn’t argue further. With a resigned shake of his head, he carries the fox a little way from the campfire and begins the quiet work of cleaning it, while the guard stalks off to his bedroll, ignoring Igrem, interest spent.

---

The night settles again. Crickets resume their song. The fire crackles low and steady, renewed by fresh timber. Whatever tension lingered bleeds slowly into the dark, unspoken but not forgotten. The smell of blood fades, replaced gradually by the thin, gamey scent of meat roasting over the coals.

Time passes.

Eventually, Jacob, the merchant, approaches your side of the camp, holding a small pot and a ladle. He hesitates, glancing once towards his side of the camp, then offers a thin, conciliatory smile.

"Sorry you had to see that," he says, to no one in particular. Or, perhaps, to your group as a whole.

"Road’s hard on tempers."

He lifts the pot slightly towards Alex.

"Stew’s still warm. Not much, but you’re welcome to some."

Igrem politely refuses the food if asked. "Thank you, but I'm not very much hungry..."

Alex looks up at Jacob. "Thank you, sir, but I'm not much interested in meat tonight." Before the merchant has a chance to leave, Alex pipes up "Is there anything in particular that has your group so on edge? Any rumor or the like? Our proprietors galloped off last night and I would not like to think that something amiss may have happened to them."

Thank you Nelly takes a blow of soup and happie eats it, enjoying her meal.

Road might be hard, but so is the city. I feel that the road is an overall nicer place to be.

Once she is done eating, she gathers the utensils and takes them the stream to wash them, before going to bed.

The merchant nods first to Igrem, accepting the refusal with a small, understanding dip of his head. He pauses when Alex speaks, studying him for a moment. When Nelly accepts the stew, his shoulders relax just a touch.

At the question, he exhales and shifts his weight. Up close, Jacob looks like a man who has spent more years on the road than he would care to count—late forties, perhaps. His beard is neatly trimmed but threaded with gray, his hair pulled back with a simple leather tie. He wears practical wool and leather, mended more than once, and keeps his hands busy even when standing still, fingers worrying at the belt or whatever he is carrying.

He glances down the dark line of the road before continuing.

"Early spring’s always like this. Demand for goods spikes—folk want seed, tools, iron, salt, all of it, and they want it yesterday. Trouble is, winter drives things hungry. Wolves, goblins, worse. Creatures start ranging farther than they should, poking at camps, testing nerves. Most of it’s nothing. A snapped snare. A missing sack. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. But enough little things add up, and tempers get short."

At Alex’s mention of Gundren and Sildar riding ahead, Jacob frowns slightly.

"Didn’t hear anything specific. No attacks on the High Road that I know of—nothing confirmed, anyway. But folks are jumpy. Something about trouble east, near the Triboar Trail. Bandits, maybe. Or monsters. Hard to say which stories are true."

He nods then gestures loosely between the three of you.

"If you don’t mind me asking," he says, tone mild, conversational, "how’d you all come to be traveling together? You don’t strike me as kin. Shared a story or two? Bled together? Or is this one of those arrangements where coin put you side by side, and today’s the first night you’ve really had to see what kind of folk you’re traveling with?"

He shrugs lightly.

"Nothing wrong with any of it. Just curious. Makes a difference, when trouble finds you instead of the other way around."

There’s no suspicion in his voice—just genuine interest, the kind born of long nights and shared fires on the High Road.

Alex listens as Jacob describes the tensions of the first-thaw runs on the High Road. Having spent the majority of his young life in either Amphail or Waterdeep, this is about as far as Alex has been outside of civilization, and it's only going to get worse. I should learn what I can from Jacob's wilderness experience, Alex thinks.

Alex shudders slightly at Jacob's mention of bandits or monsters. These are not going to be the same as the thugs or brigands of the Waterdhavian docks, he realizes. Getting a tad more nervous, Alex slowly and unthreateningly unsheathes his short sword and dagger, and proceeds to sharpen them nervously. I almost needed to draw these in anger tonight, he thinks, realizing that could have been a rather final end to his nascent adventuring career.

At Jacob's question, Alex perks up. Waiting until Igrem finishes, Alex concurs. "I agree with friend Igrem here," he begins. Coin is a most powerful motivator, especially to those who find themselves in its need. My distinct shortage in that area, and here Alex taps his rather flat coin-pouch lightly, some…misunderstandings…with the fine men and women of the Waterdhavian City Watch, and a personal matter or three all conspired rather serendipitously to thrust me on to the path to fame, fortune, women, and riches. Although, to be quite honest, Master Jacob, I have seen neither hide nor hair of anything other than mud and grumpiness, so far."

Jacob listens without interrupting, his expression thoughtful as Igrem speaks, then faintly amused as Alex launches into his more colorful explanation. At the mention of the City Watch, he raises an eyebrow, but wisely lets that particular thread lie.

"Fair answers," he says. "Most folk I meet on the road start with coin. Some grow into trust. Some don’t last long enough to find out which kind they are."

To Igrem’s question, Jacob exhales and looks past the fire again, toward the dark line of the High Road.

"Out of the ordinary?" he repeats. "Not exactly. This stretch of the High Road’s about what it always is, this time of year. But..."

He gestures vaguely into the dark.

"Like I said, early spring brings hungry beasts, impatient merchants, and folk who haven’t shaken winter out of their bones yet. Wolves range a bit wider. That’s not danger so much as… friction."

His eyes briefly track Alex’s sharpening blade, then move on without comment.

"Bandits and monsters get talked about every year. Most of it’s just stories travelers tell themselves to explain why the road feels less friendly once the thaw comes."

Then Jacob turns his attention to Nelly, who has finished eating and cleaning.

"And you?" he asks, voice softer now. "You haven’t said much about how you came to this road. You strike me as someone who didn’t leave the city just because her purse was light."

He tilts his head slightly.

"What made you take up the road, Nelly?"

Ah... yes... The city became to hostile for me, so I left with what I had and took to the road. Her words are truthful, even if there are small omissions.
Justice for the underdogs is also needed here.

She has said what she want about the subject and the wanted poster bearing her name. With her sleeping arrangement made she is peparing to turn in. Wake me when its time for my watch

Jacob listens to Nelly’s answer without pressing. He nods once, slow and respectful. He’s learned when not to ask for the rest of it.

"Aye," he says quietly. "The road’s got room for folk the city chews up. And it has its own kind of justice, for better or worse."

When Nelly mentions watch, Jacob gives a small, approving grunt and steps back offering the group a final nod.

"Get some rest," he says. "I’ll keep my lot quiet."

With that, he turns and walks back toward his own camp, his silhouette thinning into the firelight and shadows.

Igrem agrees to take the dusk watch, preferring a continuous sleep. He will take advantage of the time alone to study the book, or the few parchments he brought with him.

Looking at both Nelly and Igrem, Alex sighs and says "I guess that means I take graveyard shift." Which, truth be told, wasn't so bad. He did tend to do a lot of his best work…in multiple areas…in the dead of night. Alex plans on practicing his knife throwing routine whilst the others slumber. A good routine is only made better by relentless practice, he thinks.

So Igrem takes the first watch, keeping close to the fire while the last light fades from the sky. He uses the quiet hours to study his book and parchments, committing arcane notes to memory before turning in for a long, uninterrupted sleep.

Deep night belongs to Alex. Though he claims the graveyard shift with a sigh, truth be told, it suits him just fine. While the camp sleeps and the fire burns low, he keeps watch and practices his knife-throwing by starlight, the repetitive motion calming his nerves as the hours slip past.

Before dawn, Nelly rises for the final watch. She greets the pale light of morning as it creeps over the hills, mist clinging to the road and the chill of night slowly easing.

No threats emerge, no alarms are raised, and the night passes uneventfully, leaving the party rested and ready to continue along the High Road.

Morning comes quietly.

As the camp begins to stir, the younger guard lets out a sharp curse. He sits up abruptly, staring down at the knife he’s just pulled from its sheath. The blade is dull brown now, rough with patches of rust that flake away under his thumb.

"What in the Nine Hells…?"

He turns it this way and that, scowling. The balance is right. The nicks along the edge are familiar. Even the worn leather wrapping on the handle—darkened by years of sweat and use—is unmistakably his.

"This is my knife," he mutters. "Same handle. Same weight."

His eyes lift, immediately finding Alex.

The guard narrows his gaze, suspicion hardening into something sour. "You," he says flatly. "Funny man! Tell me! Now! Did you touch my gear last night?!"

Alex rolls over, stretches, and begins preparing for his morning ablutions. A quiet, peaceful night is nothing to be ignored, he thinks. Maybe the road won't be so bad—so long as it doesn't rain!. Alex shudders at the thought of mud getting into his tunic, or worse, his smallclothes. Rubbing his eyes as he extracts himself, he starts his morning ablutions. Washing his face, brushing his teeth with a twig, checking his possessions, including the various weapons he has secreted on his body.

After packing his bedroll, Alex eyes his hides with askance. They are uncomfortable, stiff, and smelly. Oh for a proper ox hide set, he mentally laments. As Alex sighs and makes his way to his armor, his thoughts are most rudely interrupted by the younger guard from yesterday—the fox-killer.
Oho! It seems that the Mistress of Good Fortune has heard my prayers. Well, M'lady, I shall dare all, and trust in the Lady.*

Alex turns slowly to the younger guard. "Are you, perchance, talking to me, my good sir." Alex vocally enunciates the word "good" with the barest hint of sarcasm. "I am both honored and surprised. Honored that you recognize my cutting wit and risible turns of phrase." At this, Alex performs a shallow bow, never taking his eyes off of the guard's eyes. The eyes telegraph the movement; that is what my fencing instructor always said. While slightly bent over, Alex draws a couple of copper coins from his pouch, which is nowhere near his dagger, thankfully.

Straightening up, Alex continues "I am surprised, in that you had the mental acuity to discern the humor in the first place. Your mien and demeanor both speak more to the puissance of your musculature—especially between your organs of aural receptivity!"

Alex starts one coin dancing in his hands; around his fingers, between his knuckles, sliding across his wrist, Alex attempts to keep the coin moving. Then he adds a second.

"Touch your dagger? My dear sir, is that what the youth are calling it these days? What an unfortunate euphemism. I shall have you know—in no uncertain terms, mind you—that I much prefer to sheathe my dagger. If you would like your gear touched, there are plenty of people in the dock ward who would be willing for a nib or two." Alex keeps the one-handed coin juggling going on, leaving his other hand relaxed, but close enough to his weapons should things go awry.

"As for the slip of metal in your hands, my good man," once again, Alex slightly stresses the word "good", playing more to his companions, the ranger, and Master Jacob, than to the oaf who accused him. "I have perfectly serviceable weapons of my own. Those, I would be happy to show you if you wish", Alex says with a wide grin.

The guard blinks. Once. Then again.

Whatever fury he woke with falters under the weight of too many words, most of which slide past him like rain off oilcloth.

"Hah," he snorts despite himself. "You talk like a bard with a mouthful of marbles."

At the mention of sheathed daggers and dock ward nibs, his brow furrows—then his lips twitch.

"…Touch my gear," he repeats slowly. "That’s—" He huffs out a short laugh before he can stop himself. "That ain’t what I meant. Gods. And I don't wanna see yours either."

Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He scratches at his beard with his free hand, eyeing the coin trick with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant interest.

"You didn’t sneak up and swap it, then?" he asks, less accusatory now, more uncertain. "Because I’d swear it was clean last night. Ain’t never seen rust crawl like that."

Igrem think to himself that his friend Alex will definitely get into big troubles one day. But today is not this day, it seems, at least for now.

"Can I have a look?" he simply says to the oaf, looking concerned, and hoping to be able to check if there is magic at work there. "Did anyone experience the same issue?"

Nelly is surprised when she sees the rusted blade. She checks her own knife, armor and other equipment, if she can find similar changes anywhere else.

I heard stories about a monster that could cause equipment to rust, by its touch, but that is hardly the case here. I hope

Igrem, you take the knife carefully, turning it in your hands with a practiced eye. There’s no mistaking it—this is the same blade the guard used last night to kill the fox. The balance, the edge, even the faint notch near the tip where it struck bone are all exactly as you remember. The rust, however, is fresh: uneven, patchy, as if it bloomed all at once rather than creeping in over time.

You focus, searching for the telltale residue of arcane influence—warping in the metal, lingering resonance, the faint hum that magic often leaves behind. There’s nothing arcane.

You glance around the camp. No one else reports trouble. The same guard’s longsword is clean and bright. Spare blades, spearheads, armor buckles—everything else is exactly as it should be. Whatever happened, it was precise. Singular. And personal.

---

Nelly, you check your own gear out of habit, running your fingers over steel and leather. Nothing has changed. No corrosion, no weakness, no sign of decay.

Yet as you straighten, a quiet certainty settles in your chest. This wasn’t chance. The feeling is familiar, like the moment before an oath is given or a prayer is answered. Some divine hand brushed the world here, lightly and briefly, leaving just enough of a mark to be noticed by the one who needed to notice it.

Whatever force caused the rust is already gone. But the message remains.

---

Igrem looks at the oaf, not sure what to say and what not to say that would trigger him. Eventually, he elects to feign to misunderstand the cause. "Not sure what it is... Did you clean it well?"

Tell me... that dagger. Was that the dagger that killed the fox? Nelly is all business now, and the soldier is the center of her attention now.
Did you just piss off some powerful being?

"Clean it? Aye. Same as always. Wiped it down a couple of days ago. Ain’t my first year on the road."
"What? Of course it was," he says, irritation flaring. "It’s my dagger. Only one I carry at hand."

He snorts at the rest of her words, shaking his head hard.

"Piss off some powerful being? From killin’ a fox? No. No. That’s nonsense. It’s rust. Just rust. Damp air, bad luck, cheap iron—pick one."

Still, he slides the knife back into its sheath with less confidence than before and reaches for his pack.

"Enough jawin’," he mutters. "Sun’s up. Road won’t walk itself."

He shoulders his gear and starts toward the wagon, already putting distance between himself and the conversation.

Having dared danger, taken a risk, and honored his patron, Lady Tymora, Alex proceeds to get ready for the road in contented quiet. Rather unusual for the normally loquacious lad, actually.