2. Phandalin

Redhawk, your donation to rhe orphanage grants you free meals and a room at the Inn. Boggart's Survivalist trait also grants him free "meals" and "lodgings".

Alex, Linene Graywind buys your shortsword for 5 gp.

Alex, Igrem, meals and lodgings cost 1 gp.

---

After a brief discussion, the party agrees to leave the Triboar Trail behind and travel through the surrounding hills and scrublands instead.

Redhawk leads the way, picking routes that take advantage of ridgelines, patches of brush, and scattered stands of trees. Gertrude occasionally voices her opinion about these choices with indignant snorts whenever the terrain becomes particularly uneven.The countryside rolls away around you in waves of green and brown. Clumps of thorny shrubs dot the hillsides, while isolated trees cast long shadows in the morning sun. Here and there, rocky outcroppings rise from the earth.

Meanwhile, Igrem's knowledge and learning may prove valuable during the journey. The mage could draw upon his lore to identify local landmarks, recall stories about Wyvern Tor and its history or recognize signs of old ruins and forgotten roads.The rolling terrain and countless patches of brush make it impossible for Redhawk to watch every direction at once while leading the group.

Boggart, with his familiarity with the wilderness and his habit of noticing things others overlook, could serve as the party's lookout.Last but not least, Alex could fall into the role of supporting one of the others—helping guide the mule through difficult terrain, keeping an eye on the party's supplies and equipment or do something else entirely.

Redhawk is not as familiar with this type of terrain but as they progress it gets easier to spot tracks left by others be it animal or humanoid. He gets more comfortable with the lay of the land.

Despite his obvious dislike of wild areas, Igrem begrudgingly agrees that going off road is probably the best option for the party. He tries to remember any useful lore that could help find useful places, or avoid danger.

Alexander Simonnet Natalis de Bertier du Puy felt better than he had in a while. After a solid meal and the first decent night's sleep he had had in a while, he felt refreshed with no lingering after effects from his wounds of the prior week. The day was young; the air was fresh. The birds were singing, and he had a shiny new rapier at his waist. Finally, a weapon I can trust he thought, reminiscing about his days at the Waterdhavian salle d'armes at which he trained. He followed behind Gertrude as they left the road and traipsed through the woods, watching as Redhawk, Igrem, and Boggart either scanned the terrain or wracked their minds.

Alex thought over the map they had studied in Phandalin. We must be in the foothills south of the Triboar Trail, he thought. Looking around, he figured that for now, Redhawk was the more skilled at checking for deadfalls and other wilderness traps, although he probably could recognize something if he put his mind to it. Given the noise from Gertrude and the wagon, he figured he could be forgiven for whistling quietly as he followed along. 🎶

Redhawk proves once again why the party has come to rely upon him in the wilderness.

He leads the group through the hills with remarkable success, choosing routes that keep you moving fast and below ridgelines. Most of the time, you are hidden among thickets of brush and scattered trees. Even Gertrude seems to sense the need for quiet, her usual complaints reduced to occasional soft snorts.

But the rolling terrain and dense shrubbery make it difficult to see far ahead, and even Boggart's sharp eyes fail to catch two figures approaching from the opposite direction.

By the time either party notices the other, you are barely thirty feet apart.

In fact, you hear their conversation before you actually see them.

One of the men—a broad-shouldered fellow—grumbles:

"We won't make it to the Temple of Truth before dark and you're walking so slowly."

The other, a lean, dark-haired man carrying a small keg under one arm, replies irritably:

"Ursic will kill us if we don't get back tonight. Can't you carry the keg now? It's so darn heavy."

A few steps later, the brush parts.

Both groups stop dead.

The two men stare at you.

You stare at them.

---

Igrem, at the mention of the Temple of Truth, you suddenly recall an old tale from your studies.

Long before Phandalin was rebuilt, when the North was guarded by the ancient kingdom of Phalorm, a lonely keep stood upon a broad hill north of Icespire Peak and south of Neverwinter Wood. Beneath that hill lay chambers of carved stone and clear springs, and there the faithful of Tyr, Torm, and Ilmater raised a sanctuary and watchpost to protect the region and its roads.

When Phalorm eventually fell, the keep was abandoned by its guardians—but not left empty. The orc tribes that swept into the region claimed the hill as neutral ground. Though they had little use for the gods of the Triad, they respected the site's reputation for sacred oaths and hospitality. Chieftains gathered there to settle disputes, forge alliances, and negotiate peace. In time, even humans and dwarves came to regard it as a place where enemies might speak without fear.

It became known as the Temple of Truth.

Then came treachery.

One clan invited its rivals to parley beneath the old keep and murdered them under the guise of peace. A brutal battle followed. Fire consumed the ancient halls, stone collapsed, and many died—warriors, shamans, and guests who had trusted in the sanctuary's sacred protections.

The betrayal was so infamous that the hill was abandoned thereafter, its sanctity forever broken.

The old stories claim that on stormy nights, pale lights still flicker among the ruined stones and ghostly voices echo across the hill. The dead, bound by broken oaths and ancient treachery, are said to linger underneath...

Alex, does not recognize the name. Maybe it's from the north?

It doesn't seems to carry any obvious religious significance either. There is no well-known saint, hero, or divine servant named Ursic that Alex can recall.

Boggart is momentarily startled by the sudden appearance of others, but waves at the strangers, ever cheerful. "Hail, goodfellows! How fare you this day? Any news from further on?"

The two men nearly jump out of their boots at the sound of Boggart's cheerful greeting. Instinctively, both step backward.

The lean man carrying the keg drops it to the ground with a thud and draws a short sword, while his broad-shouldered companion pulls a longer blade and glances nervously between the party members, clearly counting heads and weapons.

Then Boggart waves.

The gesture seems to catch them off guard.

"Uh… hail?" he replies uncertainly.

Redhawk seeing the weapons being drawn will say"Let's have none of that gents. He have no quarrel with each others. Just some travelers bumping into each other is all."

Igrem frowns when hearing the temple named by the larger man. He frowns even further when seeing steel being drawn. He approaches just behind Redhawk and asks: "Did you just say Temple of Truth?"

Alex looks over the men. It was interesting that the first instinct of the men was to draw weapons. Most humans and gnomes gathered around a wagon and a mule didn't generate cause for consternation. Well, maybe Igrem's scowl was a bit scary. There was something amiss about the pair, Alex thought.

The broad-shouldered man lowers his sword slightly, though he does not sheathe it.

"Easy there," he says, forcing a nervous smile. "Didn't mean anything by it. It's just that we didn't expect to meet anyone out here."

He nudges his companion with an elbow.

"I'm Feder, and this is Rilke."

The lean man gives a curt nod, keeping his sword in hand.

Feder glances at the wagon and then at each of you in turn.

"So… where are you folks headed? Me and my friends are part of a little adventuring company. Heard tell there's treasure in the old Temple of Truth — maybe you'd be interested in a profitable proposition."

---

As he speaks, Alex watches the pair carefully.

Their clothes are serviceable but mismatched, more like scavengers than proper adventurers. Their weapons show signs of hard use and poor maintenance. More telling still is the way they instinctively reached for steel and the nervous glances they exchange.

You cannot prove anything, but your instincts immediately whisper that these men feel far more like bandits than adventurers.