ROTR Session 5

Rova 25th 4707 AR

Red-eye coffee and the dead

  The Rusty Dragon Inn buzzed with the soft murmur of early risers and the clatter of tankards meeting wooden tables. The scent of sizzling bacon mingled with the lingering aroma of last night’s ale, but none of it did anything to lift Rabie’s heavy eyelids.
"I haven't had a good night's sleep in a while," he groaned, rubbing at the dark circles beneath his eyes. His gaze fixated on his empty mug of red-eye coffee as he chewed absently on a piece of bread, for a moment he wished he has to power to refill the cup with a glance.
Jinx, ever alert for something to fix or to learn, perked up like a fox catching a scent. "What happened? Why couldn’t you sleep, my friend?"
Rabie hesitated for a second, lips pressing into a thin line. "I had a weird nightmare," he admitted at last. Jinx, having an aversion to omitted details needs to know more. "About what?" He does not see that Rabie is weighing the options on what personal information to divulge.
"It was long and weird, there is no other way to phrase it."
Is Rabie's calculated answer.
Jinx, undeterred, leaned in with a knowing grin. "Was it because of our boar hunt? Because you have to admit that in the end it went very well. We ate well yesterday."
The bacon reminded Vannrik of last night's bowl of Botan Nabe. "It tasted very well, too!" Vannrik chimes in.
Rabie exhaled through his nose. "No, it wasn’t that." He shifted in his seat, suddenly fidgety. His words stumbled over each other before he sighed, too tired to fight against the inevitable. "It was… my outburst last night. Maybe it triggered something in my dreams." "No, that was fine." Rabie mutters before he starts to trip over his own words. He sighs with frustration. Rabie isn't awake enough to put up a resistance and caves. "It's my outburst from last night may have triggered something in my dreams." He took a slow breath, reluctant to continue. "I was flying… and doing bad things to Lonjiku." An awkward silence stretched across the table. Then, before Rabie’s shame could fully settle in, Jinx pulls the group in with infectious eagerness. "Ah! We could look into that today! What happened with Ameiko and her half-brother?"
"I also want to do some shopping today." Vannrik says. "I require a shield."
And just like that, the morning’s exhaustion took a backseat to the promise of another day’s adventure.
  As the group leaves the Rusty Dragon they are met by strong, biting winds. While they secure their clothing against the weather they see a horse-drawn carriage pass. Aldern is seen peering out of the window in search of the Sandpoint sentinels. When he finally spots them he gives them a courtly nod before the carriage takes him over the bridge and south, to Magnimar.
Along its route, they pass the stablemaster and Bilivar Wheen, the wheelwright. They are securing wagons to horses. Pious can't help but show a pleased smile. "Good, everything is been taken care of." she says

The warmth in her voice dims, the weight of the day's events settling over her like a thin veil. "Later today, there is to be a funeral for the three Sandpoint residents who died that night," she says softly. "I helped the Father."
A somber pause lingers in the air, threatening to pull the group's spirits down with it. But Jinx, ever the beacon of optimism, refuses to let the mood sour. With a bright grin, he interjects, his voice full of cheer. "It is good to hear that you could help, and it is good to see you, my friend."
"Likewise. Did you have a good time chasing that boar?" Pious asks, shifting the conversation. For a moment, the group is transported back to the thrill of the hunt—,the rush of adrenaline, and the hard-won victory. Even Rabie, who had stared death in the face, can't deny that it had been a hunt worth remembering.
"Did you get to enjoy the boar as well?" Vannrik inquires, his curiosity genuine. Pious hesitates. She hadn't—her meal had been a quieter affair, taken at the cathedral alongside Father Zantus and the other clerics. But surely Ameiko had set aside a plate for her? She must have. The thought lingers just long enough before she shakes it off, focusing on the present.
"I heard you were going shield-shopping!" she says, the energy returning to her voice. "I will join you until the funeral starts." Vannrik's connection to Sandpoint reveals itself in his next words. "If nothing comes up, we should go to the funeral as well, if you all are up for it?" His gaze moves across the group, searching for any hesitation. There is none. The Sandpoint sentinels share a silent understanding—this is their town, their people. And they will honor the fallen.

 

Savah's Armory

Just southeast of the Cathedral, nestled on Tower Street, stands Savah's Armory. Its sturdy wooden frame bears the marks of history—most notably, the faint scars of the great Sandpoint Fire that once licked at its northeast corner. Yet, despite the past flames, the shop stands strong, much like its owner.
Savah Bevaniky is a woman of Mwangi descent, with the lean, powerful build of someone who doesn’t just sell weapons—she wields them. Every movement, from the way she adjusts a sword on display to the subtle ease of her stance, speaks of a warrior’s grace.
As the Sandpoint Sentinels step inside, the scent of oiled leather and polished steel fills the air. Savah greets them with a welcoming smile, her sharp eyes gleaming with a mix of business acumen and camaraderie. "Greetings, adventurers! Welcome to my armory. I'm happy that you guys are here!"
For all her skill in combat, Savah is a merchant at heart, and she knows the value of keeping a well-armed band of warriors as allies. With a flourish, she makes them an offer few could refuse. “For you, 20% off everything in stock.”
Jinx's eyes nearly pop out of his head. His mind races with the possibilities but first, he needs confirmation. "Is that forever or just for today?"
Caught momentarily off guard, Savah hesitates before offering a more measured response. "For as long as I can see into the future... Well, I do have to run a business. So, as long as the business can sustain it."
Jinx’s grin is instant and mischievous. "Did you just say, 'how far you can see into the future'? Because I can help you with that." Laughter erupts in the shop, warming the air despite the steel and stone surroundings. Savah shakes her head with a knowing smirk. "I know you could, Jinx." She gestures toward the displays. "Feel free to let me know what you're in the market for."
Vannrik, always the practical one, steps forward. "I'm looking for a simple wooden shield."
  Savah nods and leads him to a section of the shop where shields of all shapes and sizes adorn the wall. The craftsmanship is impeccable. She gestures to them proudly. "I have plenty. Round ones, in the style of the Linnorm Kings. Kite shields, like those favored in Taldor or Cheliax. Whatever suits your fancy."
As Vannrik inspects the shields, Pious wanders around the shop, rather aimlessly. She had just restocked on armor and weapons at the cathedral itself. Despite admiring the quality of the goods in Savah's Armory she couldn't help but see them as mundane. Rabie approaches Savah with an air of quiet sincerity. He lays a friendly hand on her armored shoulder, his voice warm but unexpectedly solemn. "Savah," he says, looking her in the eye. "You are a good person."
Then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he turns and strolls deeper into the shop, browsing the wares as if nothing happened.
Savah blinks, caught off guard. "Thank you very much... and so are you, Rabie," she replies, carefully enunciating his name, still uncertain if she got it right.
Straightening herself, she refocuses, her merchant instincts kicking back in. "Is there anything I can interest you in?" Then, as if recalling something, she adds, "I haven't seen you in your old guard gear for a while. Do you need a replacement in spears or chainmail?"
From deeper within the shop, Rabie’s voice drifts back, quiet but firm. "I'm fine." There’s a weight to his words, as if something unwelcome has surfaced. "My days as a guard are long behind me."
The finality in his tone gives Savah pause. She studies him for a brief moment but decides against pressing further. "Very well then. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Before Rabie can answer, Vannrik approaches, holding a sturdy, unpainted wooden shield. "I’ll take this one."
Pious steps closer, eyeing the shield with interest. "I could decorate it with Sarenrae’s symbol, if you want."
Vannrik shakes his head before she can finish. "While I do appreciate it, I prefer things simple."
Pious hesitates, then forces a small, polite smile through her disappointment. "Ah... that’s also a way to do it, I guess."
Sensing the shift in her mood, Vannrik feels the need to mend the moment. "But thanks—I really appreciate the offer."
That, at least, seems to smooth things over.

As Vannrik fastens his new shield onto his back, the soft clink of metal buckles barely has time to fade before Savah leans in slightly, her voice dipping heavily into the local dialect of Sandpoint, well suited for gossip.
"I heard from someone coming in earlier that, apparently, Shalelu is in town. Did you hear anything of this?"
Rabie and Jinx exchange surprised glances. They know the elf, and this is news to them.
Shalelu Andosana is an enigma—a blend of bounty hunter, survivalist, and mercenary, though she is fully none of these things. The elven woman moves like the wind through Sandpoint, appearing once or twice each season to resupply before vanishing back into the wilderness. She never lingers, never overstays, and never fails to lodge at the Rusty Dragon, where Ameiko grants her a room free of charge as a gesture of long-standing friendship. Before she leaves, there is always one final stop—the garrison—where she delivers a no-nonsense report to Sheriff Hemlock and Mayor Deverin in exchange for a pouch of gold. Her insights are worth every coin, offering a keen-eyed assessment of the state of the hinterlands and warning the town of any encroaching dangers.
But this visit? This visit is unexpected. She passed through only a month ago and wasn’t due back until the last week of autumn. Yet none of the Sentinels had spotted her at the Rusty Dragon, where she always made her presence known. Something wasn’t adding up.
Jinx, caught up in his own swirling thoughts, voices the question hanging in the air. His words stumble out, uncertain. "No, we haven't seen her. Why would she be in Sandpoint, now? It seems a bit odd in my opinion."
Pious and Vannrik may not know Shalelu personally, but the tone of the conversation makes it clear—her presence here matters.
Vannrik, however, finds his attention drifting elsewhere. Something glints under the warm lantern light, drawing his gaze to a glass display case.
"She normally takes care of the hinterlands," Savah muses, arms crossed as she considers the situation. "I thought that maybe it has something to do with the goblin attack."
Jinx nods. "We might have to look into that as well and see what she has to say. If she is willing to speak to us, of course. Perhaps we should go to the Garrison and talk to the Sheriff to see what he knows. If she talked to him, then he might want to inform us too."
"I heard that Sheriff Belor Hemlock is going to be at the funeral," Pious interjects. "He would be indisposed, but we could talk to him after."
Jinx agrees, but Vannrik is still transfixed by the object before him—Spellstopper. The finely crafted green-dyed leather armor is hauntingly beautiful, its surface adorned with tiny metal skulls. A small nameplate explains its properties: enchanted with both a potency rune and an antimagic ward. A rare find, and at the cost of over 6,000 goldpieces, an expensive one.
As the group settles on their next course of action, they step out of the shop, bound for Sandpoint’s Boneyard—where grief and duty await them in equal measure.

A funeral for thee, a funeral for three

The Sandpoint Boneyard is unusually crowded today. Those who could afford to step away from their daily duties have gathered to pay their respects, forming a somber assembly beneath the gray sky. The funerals for Terela Craci, Iozif Otvos, and his wife Ramona Otvos—victims of the goblin raid—are held in a shared ceremony, their losses intertwined in both tragedy and remembrance.
Among the mourners, the Sentinels recognize familiar faces. Mayor Kendra Deverin, ever the pillar of strength, stands near the front, her expression carefully composed. Sheriff Belor Hemlock watches over the crowd with his usual grim intensity, though his eyes flicker toward the Sentinels more than once. Father Zantus and the local clergy move with quiet purpose, their voices low and reverent as they prepare for the rites. Without hesitation, Pious steps away from her companions to join her fellow priests, The eulogies begin, a procession of voices honoring the dead—some trembling with grief, others steady and formal. The bereaved families speak first, their sorrow raw. Then the town officials take their turn, their words carefully chosen to acknowledge both the pain of loss and the resilience of Sandpoint.
As is custom among the Varisian people, singing becomes a central part of the funeral rites, voices rising in solemn harmony to guide the departed on their journey beyond. The mourners join in—a haunting, bittersweet melody that carries across the Boneyard, weaving sorrow and remembrance into a single, unbroken thread.
But amidst the words of mourning, an unspoken tension hums beneath the surface. Sheriff Belor keeps glancing at the Sentinels, his posture stiff, his gaze heavy with something unspoken. The Sentinels, in turn, steal wary glances toward him. The anticipation is palpable, an unspoken understanding that a conversation must happen—sooner rather than later.
The atmosphere is strange, a blend of sorrow and something else—something lighter, almost absurd. Time has softened the sharpest edges of grief, allowing memories of the raid to take on new shapes. Yes, there was bloodshed and tragedy, but there were also the bizarre antics of the goblins—their erratic tactics, their clumsy missteps, the moments where their own incompetence turned them into their own worst enemies. The absurdity of their behavior lingers in the town’s collective memory, tangled with the horror they inflicted.
Yet, for now, the Sentinels push those thoughts aside. Vannrik and Rabie keep their expressions measured, moving through the motions of the funeral with quiet respect. Meanwhile, Jinx steps forward, his hands dipping into his ever-present collection of herbs and powders. With a careful pinch of ginger powder, he sprinkles it over the fresh graves, whispering, “May the gods bless you.”
Finally, the moment arrives. A pause in the proceedings, a break in the flow of ceremony—an opportunity.
The Sentinels and Sheriff Hemlock step toward one another. It’s time to talk.

The funeral does little to soften the grimness in Belor's voice. As is his custom, the sheriff forgoes any pleasantries. His tone is as heavy as the damp earth covering the fresh graves. "There is some news that might be of interest to you. Shalelu has come back to town early."
He glances at Vannrik and realizes he needs to explain. "She is an elf who spends a lot of time in the Hinterlands. She helps us as an extra set of eyes and ears. She knows how to deal with goblins, knows the lay of the land. She wishes to speak to me and the mayor, and I think you should be there." The sheriff pauses, his gaze sweeping over the Sentinels. "If you have time to join me."
Even though the group is in agreement, Vannrik feels the need to clarify. "When do you want to have this conversation? Right now?"
"Right now would be best," Belor says shortly. "I heard of her arrival and her request to talk to us just before the funeral, and I couldn't fight the distractions during the proceedings. We need answers, and I hope she has some."

Grimm news from Mosswood

The meeting takes place in the Sandpoint Town Hall. The majority of the ground floor of this two-story building consists of a The meeting takes place in Sandpoint Town Hall, an unassuming yet sturdy structure that has long served as the heart of local governance. The ground floor houses a spacious meeting hall, large enough to accommodate most of Sandpoint’s adult population—though town gatherings rarely draw even half that number. Above, the second floor is lined with offices and storerooms, while the basement vault has functioned as the town’s makeshift bank for decades. Plans for a dedicated bank have been endlessly delayed, lost in the tide of more pressing concerns.
The Sentinels are led upstairs to Mayor Kendra Deverin’s office, where the mayor awaits alongside an elven woman with a sharp, pensive gaze. With crossed arms, she rhythmically taps the armor plate of boiled leather on her upper arm. The room is tidy but well-worn, with stacks of parchment hinting at the ceaseless responsibilities of governance.
Sheriff Hemlock wastes no time with formalities. "These are Pious, Jinx, Vannrik, and Rabie," he says, gesturing toward the group and beckoning them to sit. "They fought alongside us during the goblin raid. They call themselves the Sandpoint Sentinels."
Mayor Deverin inclines her head in greeting, her expression warm but measured. "I gratefully thank you for the help you provided my town during the raid. I have heard of your prowess, and as a token of our appreciation, I asked Hannah, our local healer, to prepare something for you."
She reaches for a thick satchel, its weighty presence betraying the bounty within. As she opens it, neatly organized healing supplies of fine quality come into view. Alongside them rest four glass vials, filled with a cloudy vermillion liquid—the unmistakable hue of healing potions. "It seems only fair that if you are willing to put yourselves in danger for us, we do what we can to keep you alive."
The Sentinels exchange glances, it is nice that the town's gratitude is expressed in something more tangible than kind words. Grateful smiles replace weary expressions as they accept the mayor’s gift, knowing all too well how precious such resources could be in the days to come.

Belor Hemlock then gestures toward the elven woman, who has remained standing throughout the exchange. "This is Shalelu Andosana, an unofficial member of the Sandpoint Guard. She’s been a thorn in the side of the local goblin tribes for years, and few in the region know more about them than she does."
Shalelu nods in acknowledgment as Mayor Deverin speaks. "From what little we’ve discussed, it’s clear that Sandpoint is not the only place suffering from goblin troubles."
As the mayor talks, Shalelu steps forward, clearing the table before laying out a map of the Sandpoint Hinterlands. "Has the activity increased recently?" Vannrik asks. Rather than answer immediately, Shalelu finishes unfolding the map, weighing down its corners with small stones.
"In short, yes," she replies. "There’s been a notable rise in goblin-related raids along the Lost Coast, particularly in the dale between Nettlewood and Mosswood. Just yesterday, a farm south of Mosswood was burned to the ground by a band of goblins."
Mayor Deverin interjects. "Fortunately, Shalelu was nearby. Though the farm was lost, she managed to rescue the family and drive off the goblins. The survivors are staying at a neighboring farm for now, but it’s clear this problem isn’t going away." Shalelu gives a small nod of acknowledgment but dismisses the praise. "Belor told me about your fight against the goblins—well done. I’ve spent years keeping them from causing too much trouble in these parts, but they’re tenacious, and they breed fast. Like weeds that bite."
She rests a hand on the map, fingers tracing key locations as she continues. "There are five major goblin tribes in the region. Normally, they keep each other in check with constant infighting. But from what I’ve gathered, members of all five tribes took part in the raid on Sandpoint. That’s unusual."
Shalelu’s expression darkens. "A fair number of the Mosswood goblins I fought yesterday were already injured, and they spoke a lot about ‘longshanks’—the ones who had cut them down in Sandpoint. Now that I’ve met you, it’s clear they were talking about you."
Shalelu gives the Sentinels a knowing look, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Seems like you’ve made an impression."   Her expression quickly hardens as she continues. "In any event, the fact that the five tribes are working together disturbs me. Goblin tribes don’t cooperate unless something—or someone—forces them to. Big plans require big bosses. I fear that someone has stepped in, organized them, and is steering them toward a purpose. And judging by these recent raids…" She exhales sharply. "That purpose spells trouble for all of us."
A brief silence follows, heavy with unspoken concerns. Then Vannrik speaks up, his tone thoughtful but firm. "During the raid, a human-sized creature broke into the cemetery alongside the goblins."
Shalelu’s sharp eyes snap to Belor. "The cemetery? Really?"
The sheriff nods grimly.
Vannrik presses on. "Yes. They stole the body of Father Tobyn—the old priest. We still have no idea why."
Shalelu’s brow furrows. "I was about to ask for theories, but that… that doesn’t fit goblin behavior at all." She leans back, arms crossed. "I just saw them terrorizing a farm, setting things on fire, killing livestock. That’s typical goblin chaos. But grave robbing? That’s deliberate. Purposeful. Someone is pulling their strings."

 

Breaking of the Fellowship

A flicker of frustration crosses her face, her black eyes dark with worry. "The situation is dire. I heard from the mayor that the attack on Sandpoint involved around three dozen goblins. But if the tribes really are uniting…" She hesitates, as if weighing the weight of her own words. "Then their numbers are in the hundreds. We are in real danger."
Belor places both hands on the table, steadying himself. His expression is grim, his next words spoken with the reluctance of a man who knows the weight of the risks ahead. "If Shalelu is right, then we don’t have enough guards to defend Sandpoint. Not even close." He exhales, already bracing for the battle beyond swords and shields—the battle of politics. "I will go to Magnimar and petition Lord-Mayor Haldmeer Grobaras for reinforcements. At least for the coming weeks, until we know what we’re dealing with."
He pauses, jaw tightening. "I don’t know how I’m going to convince him yet… but it’s the only course that makes sense."
Pious has been waiting for a sign, something to tip the scales between staying in Sandpoint and returning to fulfill her duties elsewhere. She had been holding on to her written goodbyes for days. Now, at last, she sees it.
"I haven’t seen much outside the convent," she admits, "but Magnimar is my home. And my father is an important man there. I think I can help."
Belor blinks, then releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "That would be… incredibly helpful." A weight visibly lifts from his shoulders, and the brief relief steels him to press forward.
He turns to Shalelu, his expression sharpening once more. "We also need eyes and ears on the ground." He gestures toward the map. "Shank’s Wood, Brinestump, Mosswood, Devil’s Platter—all the goblin dens. Can you keep watch?"
Shalelu meets his gaze, her answer swift and certain. "I can. And I will."
Mayor Kendra watches the exchange, her concern growing. Her captain of the guard, a champion of Sarenrae, and their most seasoned ranger—gone from Sandpoint when the town is still reeling from the attack. She opens her mouth to object, but Belor cuts her off with a raised hand.
Instead, he turns to Jinx, Rabie, and Vannrik, his tone firm but not commanding. "That leaves Sandpoint undefended. If you don’t mind, the people trust you. Seeing you in town will keep fear from spreading. Can I count on you to stay until I return?"
Rabie blinks, momentarily stunned by the Sheriff’s words. Praise isn’t something he’s accustomed to, and the unexpected recognition sends a swell of pride through him. He grins, unable to hide it. "Yes, of course!" he blurts out.
Vannrik crosses his arms, nodding. "It’s not like we can do anything else about the goblins at the moment."
Belor studies him for a moment, his normally stoic face softening just slightly. "I know, Vannrik. But you owe no allegiance to Sandpoint. I can only ask this of you, but if your path leads elsewhere, I’ll understand."
Vannrik shakes his head. "I don’t have anywhere else to go, to be honest. This place is good enough. I’ll fight."
Jinx, standing beside him, reaches up to clap a hand against Vannrik’s back—at least, as high as the gnome can reach. "He belongs in Sandpoint. He’s a man of honor, and he fought beside us with honor. We need him."
Vannrik exhales, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "It’s not in me to turn my back on people in distress. I’d rather stay."
Jinx turns to the Sheriff with a triumphant grin. "See?"
Belor’s mouth twitches, the hint of a smile escaping despite himself. He exhales, nodding in approval. "That’s good to know," he says, voice quieter now. "It’s always good to learn that about someone—that they are a good person."
He looks around the room, the weight of the moment settling over them. A plan is forming, his eyes darken with resolve. "The path is cut. Now we walk it." the Sheriff thinks to himself. He meets each of their gazes. "I believe we have a plan."
But first,Jinx wants to hammer out a couple more kinks in their strategy. "Would it not be better to attack, instead of defending?"
Belor turns to him, brow furrowing. "Attack where? Do you know where they are?"
Jinx shrugs, looking toward Shalelu. "You know their camps, don’t you?"
Shalelu leans over the map once more, her fingers skimming across the parchment. "There are many camps, and many places to hide. First, we need to know where their leader is. That’s what I don’t know—yet."
She straightens, her keen eyes sharp with determination. "It’ll take scouting. Many trails to follow, many places to check. But I can tell you what I do know about the goblins and their tribes."

 

Five tribes and a Bugbear

The room grows quiet as Shalelu begins mapping out the composition and locations of the various goblin tribes. As she speaks, she places arrowheads on the map, marking their known territories.
"The closest to Sandpoint are the Birdcruncher goblins, who live in caves along the western edge of the Devil's Platter. They are traditionally the least aggressive of the five."
Jinx’s ears perk up at that. "Least aggressive? Do you think we could speak to them?" he asks, suddenly seeing an opportunity for a diplomatic solution.
"Possibly. They don’t raid as often as the others. But there are more tribes in the hinterlands," Shalelu continues.
"To the south are the Licktoad goblins of Brinestump Marsh—pests who, believe it or not, are excellent swimmers."
She pauses. "There is something of a ‘hero’ among the Licktoads—Vorka, a notorious goblin cannibal who lives in the marsh. Although, it’s mostly goblins outside of her tribe who give her that moniker." Her finger taps the map again. "Their chieftain is Rendwattle Gutwad, an obese brute who, it is said, never leaves his throne."
Shalelu moves eastward on the map. "Then there are the Seven Tooth goblins of Shank’s Wood. They’ve secured their place by raiding Sandpoint’s junkyard, scavenging refuse to forge their own armor and weapons. Those are the ones you would find on the beach."
She adds another marker. "Koruvus was once their champion, known for his short temper and his prized possession—a magic longsword, human-sized, which he stubbornly claimed as his own despite it being too large for him to wield properly. He vanished months ago after supposedly discovering a ‘secret hideout’ in a cave along the cliffs. The Seven Tooth goblins still believe he’s out there—either as a ghost or something worse—waiting to slaughter any goblin who dares to uncover his lair."
She moves farther east. "The Mosswood goblins are likely the largest tribe, but constant feuds among their own families keep them from organizing effectively." She sighs as she realises that may no longer be the case. "At least, until recently."
Shalelu smirks slightly. "Big Gugmut is one of theirs—an unusually muscular goblin. According to legend, he had a hobgoblin for a mother and a wild boar for a father." Vannrik's face twists at the unpleasant thought. "That's disgusting."
Shalelu rolls her eyes. "At least, that’s what goblin folklore claims."
Finally, she taps a point on the Nettlewood coast. "And last, there are the Thistletop goblins. They live on a small island that some say resembles a decapitated head."
Her voice tightens slightly. "Ripnugget is their leader, and he controls what the other tribes agree is the best lair, even though they are not the largest."
She hesitates for a moment before continuing. "Besides the goblin tribes, there is something else—Bruthazmus."
Her tone turns cold as steel. "He’s an infamous bugbear ranger, living in northern Nettlewood. He often visits the goblin tribes, trading stolen goods for alcohol, news, or magic arrows. But more importantly, he has a particular hatred for elves."
Her hand clenches into a fist. "We have crossed paths in battle many times. We have our own private war. But I will not be the first to fall." Her expression hardens. "It will be him."
She exhales, then looks down at the map, now littered with arrowheads. "That is what I can tell you about the goblins of the Lost Coast. There are many tribes, and they have countless places to hide. Their leader—whoever it is—could be in any of them. I will do my best to scout and return with the most accurate information as soon as I can."
Belor speaks next, his voice steady. "In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you kept an eye on the town—until we have a heading from Shalelu’s reports or I return with reinforcements."
Vannrik, already thinking ahead, asks, "Do these goblin tribes trade among themselves?"
Shalelu folds her arms. "They aren’t completely isolated, but goblins are untrustworthy—even among their own kind. Trade happens, but it’s always paired with trickery, theft, and double-crossing."
Vannrik exhales, disappointed. "So if we wipe out one camp, the others might find out quickly."
Shalelu nods grimly. "I’m afraid so. And with only five of us, an assault could be difficult. We shouldn’t go in blind."
Vannrik sighs. "I was hoping to apply 'divide and conquer.' Attacking one camp might leave us too exposed." He looks at Shalelu. "You know goblins well. How would we best defend Sandpoint against them?"
Shalelu doesn’t hesitate. "Goblins don’t fight in the open. If they attack, it’ll be from the shadows. You need to find the sneakiest routes into town and ward them—alarms, traps, anything that can alert you. Posting extra guards at the gates won’t help; they won’t come that way. Look for places where goblins can hide, and be vigilant."
Vannrik considers the idea, already picturing defensive measures—perhaps bear traps in key locations.
Meanwhile, Jinx seeks clarification. "So you want us to scout around town and stay available to defend it?" Belor nods. "And be seen."
He exhales, his expression heavy. "The goblins aren’t the only threat—it’s the people, too. The town is still on edge. If I’m gone, even the slightest provocation could send them into a panic. Everyone in Sandpoint remembers what happened five years ago when danger came knocking. It was chaos. The town nearly tore itself apart."
His gaze sweeps across the room, settling on each of them in turn. "You can help best by being seen."

Jinx raises his hand, but he doesn’t need permission to speak here. "Is there something we should be wearing so people recognize us?"
Mayor Kendra Deverin lets out a warm laugh. "At this point, I think you’ve proven yourselves enough that everyone in Sandpoint already knows who you are. But if you want something official, I can give you my seal. It would grant you some moderate authority—proof that you’re acting on behalf of the town. If you think it would be useful, I’ll arrange it. But recognition, Jinx, is hardly an issue for you anymore."
The gnome beams, offering an exaggerated threefold thank-you. He knows full well the mayor isn’t exactly his biggest fan, but it seems his recent heroics have softened old grudges. He counts that as a win.
Across the room, Belor glances out the window, his expression tightening. "We’re burning daylight, and I don’t want to wait until morning to start my journey to Magnimar. Pious, you should get ready now."
As the others shift into motion, Jinx steps beside Pious. With a quick, unseen flick of his fingers, he tucks a Harrow card—The Juggler—into her belongings. A silent token. A bit of luck for the road ahead.
Mayor Kendra watches as the group begins to part ways. Near the doorway, she catches sight of Rabie and Pious exchanging quiet goodbyes. The champion of Sarenrae presses a pair of leather-bound religious texts into Rabie’s hands, along with a letter she’s been holding onto for days. Despite Sandpoint's vulnerabilities, there is hope.
A moment of unspoken understanding passes between them. Then, the road calls, and the next steps begin.

Enduring the Silence Before the Storm: I

As Pious and Belor set off for Magnimar, the rest of the Sentinels find themselves in an unfamiliar state—waiting. The urge to act lingers in their chests, but for now, there is little to do but bide their time. Sandpoint is quiet, yet the winds that howl in from the sea serve as a reminder that change is in the air. The Sentinels pull their cloaks tighter against the autumn chill, each seeking their own way to pass the day.

  Taking Sheriff Hemlock’s advice to heart—"Be visible."—Rabie makes his way to the White Deer Inn, where he is met with warm welcomes, particularly from Garridan Viskalai. The innkeeper, having witnessed Rabie’s eerie yet effective magic against the goblins, regards him with a newfound respect. Whatever unease his sorcery might have stirred is overshadowed by the gratitude of those he protected.
The evening finds Rabie swept up in a Sandpoint tradition: the Big Pork Pie eating contest. The challenge? Devour a pie meant for four in a single sitting. He joins in—not to win, but to entertain. Between bites, he spins tales of battle and bravery, captivating the patrons. Questions fly at him, eager voices asking about the fight, the dangers yet to come, and the Sentinels' next move. Rabie, is cautious in sharing details about the events, steering the townsfolk away from concerning tidbits and questions that are too personal to the witch.
For a moment, the troubles of Sandpoint seem far away. Even the absence of the Sheriff—Garridan’s estranged brother—is briefly forgotten in laughter and full stomachs. The pie, he admits, is rather good.
Later, Rabie seeks a quieter audience. He visits Naffer Hosk, the gravedigger, and Brother Walter, hoping to understand how they experience the faith of Sarenrae. Their conversations, though solemn, offer him new perspectives on devotion and duty.

  As Vannrik wanders the town, a peculiar absence catches his attention—Sandpoint lacks a proper well. A problem easily solved. He gathers barrels and strategically places them in Market Square and Cathedral Square, ensuring the townsfolk have an easier source of water. With his boundless connection to the Plane of Water, filling them is a mere flick of his power, but the simple act saves many from tiresome trips to the river.
His next endeavor, however, is far more ambitious. If they are to continue battling goblins, he must understand them—their language, their words. With Jinx’s help, he asks around and quickly learns that Daviren Hosk, the stablemaster, is perhaps the most knowledgeable about goblins, aside from the absent Shalelu.
Convincing Daviren to teach him will take some effort, but Vannrik knows just how to sway him. With the promise of more dead goblins. The lessons begin tomorrow.

  Jinx, ever the seeker of stories, turns his attention to the past. Though not a scholar by trade, he has long been fascinated by the lost empire of Thassilon. He knows much already, but knowledge is not a stagnant thing—it shifts, hidden in the folktales and whispers of the Varisian people.
His first stop is the home of Brodert Quink, Sandpoint’s resident sage. The gnome has spoken with him many times before, but today, he hopes to learn more.
Brodert welcomes Jinx eagerly, ushering him inside for tea. The sage, ever eager to share his vast knowledge, launches into lengthy tales of his discoveries. Jinx listens attentively, careful with his words—never positioning himself as an equal, but as a student. He offers his own theories with tact, ensuring Brodert remains the authority. The gnome endures the long-winded monologues, knowing that patience will be rewarded with knowledge.

Each Sentinel finds a way to pass the time, but beneath their actions, there is a shared unease. The waiting is the hardest part. The storm is coming.

Rova 26th 4707 AR

A warning from Riddleport

The 26th falls on a Fireday, Sandpoint’s second market day of the week. The air is crisp but pleasant, a welcome change from the recent bouts of chilly weather. The marketplace hums with life—merchants calling out their wares, townsfolk haggling over goods, and travelers weaving through the bustling square. While high-value items are rare here—most wares selling for no more than 500 silver pieces—there are still treasures to be found. Weapons, toys, fine clothing, jewelry, alchemical concoctions, potions, and the occasional rare magical trinket fill the stalls.
As the Sandpoint Sentinels pass through the marketplace, each en route to their own errands, an unusual sight catches their attention. A small group of children dashes between the stalls, their hair streaked with vibrant, unnatural colors. They wave excitedly to a young man seated behind an empty booth—a robed scholar, absorbed in his notebook, sketching intricate runes from memory.
Jinx, ever the inquisitive gnome, finds his curiosity piqued. After exchanging introductions—and inquiring about a particularly eye-catching robe—the scholar shares his story. His name is Fabrax Volso, a Cyphermage from Riddleport, a city notorious for its lawless docks and undercurrents of intrigue. Pirates, smugglers, and rogues of all kinds thrive there, but for scholars like Fabrax, the real draw is the Cyphergate—an enormous Thassilonian stone arch that looms over the harbor, etched with ancient runes whose secrets remain largely unknown.
Fabrax explains that the Cyphermages devote themselves to unraveling the mysteries of the Cyphergate, but their studies are constantly disrupted by the city’s criminal machinations. In fact, it’s those very dangers that have brought him to Sandpoint.
He carries a warning: pirates have begun specifically targeting scholars and allies of the Cyphermages. Any who approach Riddleport by sea do so at great risk. Though he doubts Brodert Quink—Sandpoint’s resident Thassilonian expert—has plans to visit Riddleport, he still feels it necessary to deliver the message.
Jinx listens intently, his mind already turning over the implications. When Fabrax mentions that he intends to visit Brodert personally, Jinx makes a decision—he will join them later. If there is knowledge to be shared, he will be there to hear it.

Enduring the Silence Before the Storm: II

After last night’s success at the White Deer, Rabie feels emboldened. A plan has taken shape in his mind—to make himself and the Sentinels more than just warriors in the eyes of Sandpoint’s people. Tonight, his path leads him to Risa’s Place.
Once the heart and soul of this tucked-away tavern, Risa Magravi has long since turned over its daily affairs to her three children—Besk, Lanalee, and Vodger. Yet even in her old age, nearly blind, she remains a presence, her voice weaving tales that have kept patrons coming back for decades. The tavern, known for its spiced potatoes, warm cider, and stories as rich as its ale, is a place for locals—far from the main roads, hidden from the eyes of strangers.
Tonight, Rabie finds himself listening rather than speaking. Risa’s voice, soft yet commanding, carries the weight of distant lands and forgotten myths. The gathered crowd, a mix of Sandpoint regulars and nomadic Varisians, listens in quiet awe. Vodger, tattooing a visiting nomad in the corner, barely looks up, but Rabie can see him tilting his head ever so slightly to catch every word.
He follows the stories well enough—his own knowledge of the occult filling in the gaps. When the conversation turns, he speaks, not just as an observer, but as one who understands. Here, in the glow of candlelight, among murmured legends and the scent of cider, Rabie is not an outsider.

Elsewhere, Vannrik finishes refilling what the town has come to call "Vannrik’s barrels" before making his way to the stables of Daviren Hosk. His goal is simple—to learn the language of goblins. What he does not expect is Daviren’s method.
"If you want to speak like a goblin, first you have to think like a goblin," the stablemaster tells him with a knowing smirk.
Goblin speech is chaos. It is instinct over structure, impulse over reason. It is not simply spoken—it is barked, shrieked, yapped in fragmented, fevered bursts.
To Vannrik’s initial confusion (and eventual amusement), the lesson does not begin with words but with movement.
He and Daviren spend the better part of the afternoon prancing around the stable, cackling and yipping like goblins. The lesson is absurd, but somewhere in the madness, something clicks. Understanding goblins is not about words—it is about being a goblin, if only for a moment.

Jinx, meanwhile, finds himself exactly where he needs to be. Seated at Brodert Quink’s table, across from Fabrax Volso, the visiting Cyphermage from Riddleport, he prepares to absorb as much as he can from two of the region’s foremost scholars on Thassilonian and runic magic.
At first, he merely listens. But he quickly realizes that the conversation—brilliant though it is—keeps veering off course. Fabrax and Brodert, both deep in their own expertise, spiral into tangents and scholarly debates, leaving the discussion fragmented.
Jinx leans in.
Carefully, subtly, he begins guiding the conversation. A well-placed question here, an insightful comment there. He feeds them threads of knowledge that steer them back to the heart of the matter. What began as an unstructured discussion becomes something far more focused, and by the end of the evening, Jinx knows one thing for certain—
He has learned much. Not just from their words, but from the way knowledge is exchanged between those who truly seek it.

  For now, the Sentinels wait. But waiting is not idle. In their own way, each of them prepares for what is to come.