Warden of Quoin
The party enters Checkov's Tavern in Quoin. The Warden, performing his dual role as bartender, stands behind the bar in ceremonial relic garb: flowing fabric, metallic trim, and insignia of an ancient order. He wipes spit from a mug in silence, watching the door.
As the party prepares to leave, the ground shakes. Villagers scream and scatter. The Micklebeast—primal, massive, rune-scarred—charges through the main gate.
Without a word, the Warden opens a trapdoor that glows with runes, behind the bar, fumbling with an oversized ceremonial key from his chain of office. He descends below.
The passage beneath is lit by torchlight. Heavy doors block the way, each sealed by puzzle-locks. Along the walls are etched murals—unmistakably the party—depicted wielding legendary arms, locked in battle with the Micklebeast. If spoken to, the Warden offers only dry remarks: “I rather figured you’d be taller.”
In the final chamber, the Plot Armor rests on ceremonial displays behind stone, steel bars, and glowing runes. The Warden raises both hands. The chamber dims.
Hundreds of silent spirits emerge—ancestors of the Warden. He speaks a single word: “Shibboleth.” The spirits surge into the armor, binding their souls to the ceremonial metal. Each suit reforms directly onto a party member, radiant and reshaped, while their previous equipment vanishes into inventory.
The party and Warden rise back through the trapdoor into the village square. The Micklebeast is chasing an ox-cart in tight circles around the well.
It spots the party. It hurls the ox-cart (and ox) into the tavern. The impact detonates ale kegs in a blast of fire, smoke, and flying ox meat.
Silence. Then, through the haze, the party steps forward. The battle begins.
The Micklebeast falls, crumbling into dust. The Plot Armor disintegrates skyward as the bound souls lift and vanish.
Later, someone asks the Warden what he’ll do now. He replies: “Bread, I think. I think I should like to bake bread.” He walks into the distance. No farewell. No fanfare.
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