Adventures of Malric 01

3/10/872 - 3/21/872

Malric Kindhell, a young and somewhat naive Tiefling bounty hunter known for his silver tongue and quiet intensity, had just completed a routine bounty delivery in the trade town of Trostenwald when his path took an unexpected turn. A messenger arrived bearing a summons from Grevin Thalorindel , an Elven Archmage in the port city of Nicodranas. The message was terse but enticing: Grevin had a job for him and would cover all expenses. With no pressing obligations, Malric accepted the offer and found himself boarding a luxurious carriage bound for the Menagerie Coast. Curious about how a distant wizard even knew of him, Malric pressed the messenger, who simply offered a shrug and a cryptic “He’s a wizard” — a phrase that lingered in Malric’s mind like a shadow that couldn’t be shaken.

The ten-day journey south was uneventful but opulent. Malric arrived in Nicodranas well-fed and rested, deposited at a lavish inn where a private suite had already been reserved in his name. A note awaited him there, penned in precise, flowing script — Grevin requested his presence at the Great Library near the bustling shipping docks. Making his way through the teeming streets, Malric was mildly surprised to find his infernal lineage drew no attention. The cosmopolitan port seemed to ignore his appearance, and for once, he felt truly unburdened by prejudice.

Upon entering the grand, echoing halls of the library - reminiscent of the monastic sanctuary where he had once trained — Malric was greeted by a scholarly attendant who led him deep into the labyrinth of books, eventually arriving at a thick, ancient door. It swung open on its own accord as the attendant quietly took his leave. Inside, Malric met Grevin at last - a figure who exuded quiet mastery, appearing outwardly in his sixties but carrying the timeless presence of an elf who had seen centuries pass. After cordial small talk, Grevin laid out a tale that intrigued Malric’s sense of history and danger alike. Over two hundred years prior, an expedition from Nicodranas had ventured to the icy, mysterious island of Foren in the far north of Eiselcross. They uncovered ruins of possible ancient value, but the mission faded into obscurity after its patron’s untimely death. Recently, Grevin’s associate Urgon Wenth rediscovered a journal from the expedition, sparking new interest. Unfortunately, maps critical to the expedition's location had been stolen by Corda, a notorious Dwarven monk turned criminal, before they could be studied. Now imprisoned in the impenetrable Wintermire Asylum, Corda had kept her secrets - and the key to the map vault - hidden.

Grevin’s request was clear, though the task was anything but: infiltrate Wintermire Asylum, reach Corda, and convince her - with words, not weapons - to give up the means of unlocking the vault in her stronghold near Bladegarden. Grevin had already dispatched scouts to the vault, but it remained sealed by potent magical wards only Corda could bypass. Despite her incarceration, the Dwarven monk retained influence, and Grevin feared she may still seek the treasure from behind prison walls. Malric’s mission would not rely on brute strength or arcane force but on empathy, persuasion, and psychological acuity. Before he departed, Grevin told him to head north to Frostmere, where two of his trusted agents - Ajax and Grem, seasoned rangers - awaited to aid in the treacherous approach to Wintermire Asylum. The journey ahead would be cold, perilous, and unlike anything Malric had yet faced, for it required not just resolve, but the unraveling of a dangerous mind behind iron bars.

Malric listened intently as Grevin, with the composure of one used to orchestrating long games of power and patience, laid out the next stage of the journey. Passage had already been arranged aboard a galleon named the Sundancer, moored just across the harbor at Nicodranas' bustling main port. The ship was under the command of Captain Solaris, a man whom Grevin vouched for as “good and honorable,” though the wizard's tone hinted that Solaris was also no stranger to danger. Solaris’s crew included Karwin, a grizzled former mercenary serving as first mate - stern, disciplined, and likely the true disciplinarian on board - and Tharivol Dalanthanis, or “Saltwhisper,” an elven second mate known more for his silver tongue and flair for drama than his adherence to protocol. Grevin handed Malric a writ of passage, instructing him to present it in the morning for immediate boarding. The Sundancer’s route would hug the Eastern coast of Wildemount, stopping at scattered ports like Jigow before ending its 3,300-mile voyage in Frostmere - a frostbitten frontier village clinging to the Rime Plains. The journey would take three months at best, a stretch of time long enough to test the patience of any man.

The offer was clear and generous, at least on the surface. Grevin promised 150 platinum for Malric’s efforts - a staggering sum. Fifty now, 100 upon success, and even a share of whatever treasure lay hidden in Corda’s sealed vault. But it wasn’t just about coin. There was something in the Archmage’s voice, an unspoken implication that success here could lead to further opportunities - perhaps even access to deeper, more arcane secrets. Still, Grevin offered no illusions: this mission required more than just clever words and personal resolve. There would be dangers ahead - some subtle, some bloody. Mercenaries, he advised, would be worth the investment, and Malric was free to recruit whoever he trusted to brave the frozen North. With the meeting concluded, the tiefling returned to the sultry streets of Nicodranas under cover of twilight, his mind already plotting the path ahead.

But for all the taverns, guildhalls, and back-alley hangouts he visited that night, no blade-for-hire showed interest in leaving Nicodranas’ warm sands for a realm of cold teeth and bitter winds. Most were too comfortable, too rooted in the coinflow and comforts of port life. Malric’s frustration built with each polite refusal and derisive laugh. Eventually, he found himself outside a crumbling watering hole called The Sighing Widow, empty-handed. Taking a shortcut through a narrow alley behind the tavern and eager to return to his inn, he was ambushed. From behind crates and seaweed-covered boards, three men leapt from a hidden passage. Blades flashed. Words were few. Instinct kicked in. The first thug, cackling and wild-eyed, fell immediately to a swift, precise magical blast. The second, silent as death, was struck down and left broken but breathing. The last, bearing a sailor’s tattoo and a grin too wide, fled into the night. Breathing heavily, Malric stared down at the secret entrance the men had emerged from - a path not on any map.

Curiosity overruled caution. He followed the passage into a forgotten alcove beneath the city; perhaps once a cellar, now half-collapsed and reeking of mildew and old death. The signs of habitation were recent: bedrolls, rusted tinware, gnawed bones; some not quite animal. But what drew Malric’s attention was the chest. Ornate, imposing, and completely out of place, it rested among the decay like a relic from another world. Carved with symbols of squidlike tendrils, crashing waves, and strange celestial patterns, the chest exuded magic. It slid across the floor unnaturally light, yet refused to open to any mundane effort. A closer inspection revealed magical wards - abjuration to protect, conjuration to conceal or summon. And then there was the lock: not a keyhole, but a curved indentation with narrow grooves fanning outward. It demanded blood - but whose? Anyone’s? A bloodline? A race? A sacrifice? Malric stood over it, the silence of the cellar thick with mystery, the weight of its secrets humming beneath his skin. Something old slumbered within the chest, something meant to be found… or perhaps never opened. With that, Malric lifted the oddly light chest, and headed back to the inn. The trip back was uneventful.

Malric rose with the dawn, bathed in the golden light filtering through his inn’s windows overlooking the busy port of Nicodranas. From his vantage, he could see the Sundancer - the aging galleon that would carry him thousands of miles into the frigid unknown. The ship rocked gently at the end of a long stone pier, her sails furled but her masts proud, even if time had dulled her once-splendid timbers. Her hull bore the faded elegance of a bygone age - a ship that had clearly seen both glory and hardship. Malric checked his gear with practiced efficiency, ensuring the writ of passage Grevin had given him was tucked securely in his coat. Before heading to the docks, he made a short detour to an alchemist’s shop, chest in tow. The alchemist, curious but cautious, could confirm only that the lock on the ornate chest required a liquid reagent - likely blood - to activate, and saltwater, when applied, caused the chest to vibrate subtly. Still, its true key remained a mystery. Malric left with more questions than answers, though he did purchase a well-lined jacket and gloves for the northern journey, preparing for the frigid winds of Frostmere.

The docks were already a maelstrom of activity by the time Malric arrived. Deckhands with sun-worn skin and muscled arms darted across planks, shouting over one another as they hoisted goods, wrangled netted sea beasts, and dragged carts filled with crates and dried supplies. Amid the chaos, Malric spotted a flash of red cutting through the crowd - unmistakably the fine cloak Grevin had described. He made his way toward it and found himself face to face with the ship’s captain: a rail-thin man with an imperial mustache that seemed to direct his expressions like semaphore flags. Captain Solaris was studying his charts, his golden sextant catching the early morning light like a holy relic. Beside him stood two others - Karwin, the grizzled first mate with eyes like chipped granite, and Tharivol, or “Saltwhisper,” the flamboyant second mate whose mismatched eyes and rakish grin bespoke mischief and bravado in equal measure. After Malric presented the writ, Solaris smiled warmly and accepted it, confirming Malric’s passage with an affable nod. “Any friend of Grevin is a friend of mine,” he declared, motioning for Malric’s chest to be stored among the cargo and introducing his cabinmate: Dazhra, a towering half-orc with a face full of scars and a scowl.

Dazhra led Malric below deck, past the thundering steps of sailors above and into the ship’s dim, wooden belly. The half-orc was mostly silent, gesturing as he explained the layout of the ship with clipped words. Their shared quarters were small, tucked beside barrels that stank of fish and fermented fruit. Two hammocks swayed gently above the floor, separated by a short stack of crates and a storage chest. “Yours,” Dazhra muttered, pointing at one of the hammocks before listing the meal times and storming out. Malric quickly familiarized himself with the lower decks: his room sat close to the stairwell, which led up to the deck and down toward the hold. He passed the mess hall, capable of seating ten, and spied a locked armory filled with weapons. Opposite stood the captain’s private quarters, also locked. The ship, from what he could tell, stretched about 170 feet from prow to stern, with cargo storage, crew quarters, and dark, creaking corners that spoke of long journeys and older stories. The chest he’d retrieved the night before now sat in the hold, nestled among the other mundane crates, its secrets biding their time.

As the sun crested higher, preparations reached a fever pitch. Sailors scrambled across rigging and shouted to one another in the kind of practiced chaos that only came from years of shared labor. Captain Solaris took the helm, his voice ringing above the cacophony, while Karwin and Tharivol coordinated the final logistics with brisk authority. Dazhra secured the ropes and barked orders to the lower-deck crew. Among them, a goblin mop-hand was scrubbing the deck diligently, his oversized shirt flapping with each movement. The Sundancer shuddered as her sails unfurled with a resounding snap, and with a last flurry of shouted commands, she pulled free of her moorings and glided out into the wide blue. The sounds of the city began to fade, replaced by the groan of timber and the rhythmic slosh of water. Nicodranas, bright and teeming, receded into the haze, its towers and laughter becoming little more than a memory against the horizon.

Malric stood at the railing, the salted breeze whipping his cloak as he adjusted to the gentle roll of the ship beneath his boots. The sea stretched endlessly before him, full of promise and peril. The scent of brine was sharp but invigorating, and he found himself breathing deeply, his focus sharpening with the changing wind. Footsteps behind him signaled another presence. Turning, he found Solaris again, this time with a woman at his side. She was striking: dark hair streaked with violet, eyes alert and calculating, her blue coat embroidered with draconic glyphs that shimmered subtly in the sunlight. “You’ve met most of the crew,” the Captain said, “this is Virellia, our navigator. She has never led us astray.” Virellia offered Malric a measured look and a nod, her gaze lingering slightly longer than formality required. After a few polite exchanges, she returned to her station, her presence as composed and precise as the stars she followed. With introductions complete and the city behind them, the journey had truly begun.

As the Sundancer slipped farther from the receding coastline of Nicodranas, Malric Kindhell remained at the railing for some time, absorbing the quiet rhythm of the sea and the subtle hum of magic within the ornate chest now stowed below. Eventually, he turned to Captain Solaris, who stood nearby with a spyglass raised and his red cloak fluttering dramatically in the sea breeze. Seeking to better understand the course ahead, Malric inquired about the journey’s route and what lay between him and the frigid expanse of Frostmere. The captain lowered his spyglass with a thoughtful flick of the wrist and gave a half-smile, one mustache twitch accompanying his words. “The trade route,” Solaris began, “is just between me and Virellia, until I file the official path with the Kryn ambassador at Port Arlith - our first stop on this voyage.”

The captain’s tone turned more measured, almost reverent, as he described the island. “Port Arlith is nestled in the cradle of Arlith’s Crown, an island forged of obsidian and fire, where the volcano sleeps but never dies. Its caldera is wrapped in thick jungle, blanketed in mist, and veined with glowing flora. At night, the place comes alive in eerie colors - green, violet, and the deep cobalt of midnight seas. Tendrils of bioluminescent vines crawl up the basalt cliffs like living veins of magic. It’s like nowhere else on the coast.” Solaris paused, adjusting his cloak and casting his eyes toward the horizon. “The port itself is a diplomatic outpost of the Kryn Dynasty. All ships of the Clovis Concord traveling into Dynasty waters must dock there first; submit logs, file route declarations, and allow inspections. It’s bureaucratic, but necessary. The place hums with tension. The Concord’s coin keeps it running, but it belongs to the Dynasty.” His voice dipped slightly. “Expect to be watched.”

Solaris went on to explain that Port Arlith was populated mostly by dark elves and goblinoids of the Kryn Dynasty; soldiers, ambassadors, scribes - but there were also Concord citizens who lived and worked the docks: human quartermasters, halfling stevedores, and the occasional dwarven merchant. While the two nations maintained an uneasy peace, Port Arlith bore the scars of distrust and compromise. No one truly relaxed there. “Still,” Solaris added with a grin, “it’s a good place to stretch your legs before the real voyage begins. From there, the stops get smaller, the waters get colder, and the journey gets… stranger.” He estimated they would reach the island in three to four days, depending on the winds. “We’ll follow the warm current Southeast, and if the gods are kind, we’ll see Arlith’s glowing cliffs by the fourth sunset.” Malric nodded, absorbing the details with the quiet calculation he was known for. The presence of the Kryn Dynasty added another layer to the already-complicated tapestry of his mission. The route would not simply be long; it would be political, veiled in watchful eyes and delicate alliances.