Session Zero — 06/04/989
Strangeways lay under a bright summer sky, the kind that made the town’s worn edges easier to ignore. The clocktower stood silent as it had for years, its hands frozen in time, and the streets carried the steady rhythm of millwork and grain carts—the last pulse of a town that once mattered more than it does now.
The party gathered outside Town Hall, drawn together by circumstance and the promise of legitimacy. Adventuring without sanction was a fast way to draw the constable’s attention, and none of them were eager to start their story in irons.
Inside, they met Desmond (Clerk), the head clerk. He was a striking man—tall, broad-shouldered, sun-darkened, and perpetually half-hidden behind a pair of spectacles. Rarely seen outside his office, Desmond was deeply respected in Strangeways. He listened carefully as Zel Cunningham made the case for a probationary charter, citing rumors of trouble at a nearby farm. After measured consideration, Desmond agreed. The license was temporary, conditional, and unmistakably a test.
With paperwork secured, the group turned their attention outward.
The People of the Party
Gideon Kael stood apart by sheer presence. A farmer’s son, the tenth of fourteen children, his body was built by labor and hardened by duty. He worked for the constable and carried himself like a man who expected violence and accepted it. Quiet, watchful, and heavily armed, Gideon spoke little but meant every word.
Zel Cunningham was different—sharp-eyed, composed, and observant. A full caster whose magic was not widely understood, she carried herself with the confidence of someone used to numbers, systems, and quiet influence. Her longbow was a curiosity; her mind was not.
Leda Gebhart looked like the wild things she loved. Her dark hair was braided with a streak of red, gray eyes alert and curious, purple tattoos winding down her arms. A druid by calling, she chafed against expectations—especially those of her mother, the mayor—and gravitated naturally toward the untamed edges of the world.
Mol Potts, lanky and dark-eyed, moved with the restless energy of a mind always working. Bandoliers of vials crossed his green robe, and his curiosity leaned uncomfortably toward the anatomical. As the son of an apothecary, healing came easily to him—though his interest in how things worked inside raised eyebrows.
Corwin Thorne looked every bit the professional. Fine summer clothes, polished boots, a dagger at the ready and a scimitar concealed beneath his cloak. The son of the town constable, Corwin walked the line between law and ingenuity, skilled, sharp, and always looking for the clever way around a problem.
The Farm to the Northwest
The first crisis came quickly.
A farmhand—Alec the Farmhand (Dead), in service to the Grogan family—was found dead. His body bore arrow wounds, cuts, and bite marks. Nearby, a black leather scrap marked with a crudely drawn red skull lay discarded. Gideon suspected goblinoids, a theory supported by rumors that had circulated for months without proof.
When the constables arrived, they questioned aggressively—especially Corwin—but offered little help. The party chose action.
They headed northwest.
Grogan Farm was already burning when they arrived. Gideon found the family slaughtered. Leda picked up a trail leading away from Strangeways. Corwin assessed the scene and determined at least five attackers had entered, fought, and ransacked the house. Mol confirmed the arrows used on Alec matched those from the farm.
Six miles out, the trail led into hills and gnarled trees heavy with webs. Leda spotted a sinkhole—dark, unnatural, descending into worked stone rather than natural cave.
The Tomb Below
A rope ladder descended into marble corridors etched with Elvish script. Corwin recognized the writing, though its meaning remained unclear. The architecture was ancient—old even by elven standards.
Inside, webs blocked northern passages, sheltering venomous spiders. Beyond them, rare bulbcap mushrooms grew in the damp shadows. Blood and copper coins led toward a set of double doors.
Guttural laughter echoed beyond.
When the doors were breached, goblins poured forth.
The First Fights
The first combat was swift and brutal. Gideon charged, killing one goblin outright. Corwin followed, blade flashing. Zel’s arrows screamed through the air. Leda analyzed, Mol prepared, and one goblin fled through a secret door as quickly as the fight began.
Loot revealed Elven construction and old coin. Thirteen gold pieces and goblin equipment were gathered before the party pressed on.
Chanting echoed deeper within.
Two goblin pyromancers ambushed them with fire and grease. Leda’s magic clashed openly with flame, drawing Gideon’s concern—magic was dangerous, visible, and not something to flaunt. The pyromancers fell, leaving behind scorched stone and a reminder that not all threats were crude.
Beyond lay a looted tomb—elven remains disturbed, symbols in gold inlaid into the floor. Mol carefully restored the bones as best he could.
Then came the throne room.
Trask and the Bugbear
A massive, furred figure sat upon a crude throne—Trask, flanked by a lurking bugbear. The battle was savage.
Gideon was dropped. Leda nearly killed. Corwin was critically wounded. Mol’s healing kept them standing by threads alone. Zel’s magic thundered through the chamber, and in the end, Trask was killed—spiraled to death by druidic magic.
The bugbear fell moments later.
When the echoes faded, the party stood bloodied but alive.
Among the spoils was a magical discovery: a +1 Potency Rune.
The chest remained unopened.
Where Things Stand
The party survived their first true trial.
Strangeways still slept uneasily.
And whatever lay beneath the town had only begun to stir.