ROTR Session 6

Monster in the closet

Alergast and Amele Barett are a typical Sandpoint family, with two children (little Aeren and baby Verah) and a loyal family dog named Petal. They were present at the Swallowtail Festival, where little Aeren saw a goblin light a cat on fire and then caper around the burning remains-the poor boy really hasn't been the same since.
Every night, his howls of terror send Petal into a barking fit, and when his parents investigate, Aeren claims a goblin came out of his closet. Alergast checked the closet dutifully but found nothing, and ever since, the kid's complaints about the "closet goblin" have grown more and more tiresome to his parents.
Yesterday, Alergast threatened to make Aeren sleep in the woodshed if he couldn't learn to "be a man" and sleep through an entire night without crying and telling stories.

Blood drips on the wooden planks of the Rusty Dragon's upper floor. Vannrik is diligently cleaning the horrendous bitemarks on young Aeren's arm. Rabie,is rubbing the sleep from out of his eyes. Jinx holds Amele's free hand in a comforting grip as the woman, clutching baby Verah close to her chest, continues to tell her story through weeping tears.
"Earlier tonight Alergast didn't go to soothe Aeren when he had his night terrors . But then, a few moments later, we heard poor Petal cry out in pain and Aeren's screams turned, different, more urgent. This time he wasn't just having nightmares." she pauses and turns her gaze to her wounded son. The mother convinces herself to be strong for her children, and she does, for a second. Then she burst into a sobbing fit.
For long moments, the hall is silent, save for the sounds of crying. Eventually, Amele finds herself. "My husband rushed in to save our boy. I tried to go in after him but then I saw Petal dead in the room. And the goblin, the goblin was trying to eat my boy. Alergast managed to hold the thing off long enough for Aeren to flee but, I don't know if he's still there, or what is going on. Please, I beg of you. Can you help my husband?"
Rabie jolts awake at the opportunity to do good. He straightens himself "Follow me." he says with eagerness.
Before they leave Jinx does feel the need to check with the family. "Is everything ok with you and your son? Will you be okay here, while we go?'"
Amele is so distraught that she has to gather her thoughts. "I think my boy needs some rest." She looks at Vannrik with eyes, reddened from crying. "Do you think he is going to be ok?"
Vannrik nods, reassuringly. "Yes. He will be fine. His condition is not critical, but, he will have some scars."
Amele sinks onto the cold stone steps, her arms locking tightly around her children as if sheer willpower could shield them from the world's dangers. Her voice is firm, but the tremor in it betrays her fear. “I have to stay with my kids. Please, find my husband. We live right next to the Feedbag—you can’t miss it.”

    Under the flickering glow of scattered streetlamps, the Sentinels bolt down Salmon Street. Vannrik barely hesitates—he’s already pushing forward, urgency overriding caution. His companions, Jinx and Rabie, trail behind with a bit more care, their footsteps echoing in the quiet night. Ahead, Vannrik spots the building. The door is slightly ajar.
  A sharp glance over his shoulder—Jinx and Rabie are still catching up. No time to wait. A swirl of water, snow, and ice coils around him as he grips the door and steps inside. The air is heavy with stillness. Unlit. Unsettlingly quiet. Nothing stirs in the shadowed living room, but a narrow hallway stretches ahead, pulling him deeper into the Barret home.
The boy’s bedroom. The thought strikes him like an instinct.
Vannrik doesn’t hesitate. He swings open the door to his left. An adult-sized bed looms in the darkness—empty. Turning swiftly, he pushes open the door to his right. A crib sits in eerie silence. No movement. No sound. His pulse quickens.
Further down the hall, the dim glow of dying embers flickers in the kitchen hearth. The scent of lingering smoke clings to the air, a ghost of recent warmth. Just one more door.
Behind him, he hears the muffled steps of Rabie and Jinx entering the house. But Vannrik doesn’t pause—he grips the final door handle and pushes forward.
Despite the dim glow of moonlight filtering weakly through the curtains, the signs of struggle in Aeren’s room are unmistakable. The child-sized bed has been hurled into a corner, its sheets tangled and torn. A dark pool of blood glistens on the wooden floor beside little Petal’s lifeless form, the faithful dog slain where it fell. A wicked blade remains buried in the poor creature’s skull, its steel catching the moonlight in a cruel shimmer.
In the far corner, the closet looms, its door slightly ajar. Before it kneels a man—Alergast. His posture is unnatural, stiff, as if frozen mid-action. Though he appears to be searching the closet, there is something wrong in his stillness, something that prickles at Vannrik’s instincts. From his angle, and in the near-darkness, the kineticist can't make out the full picture.
Steeling himself, Vannrik steps forward, his boots slicking through smeared blood as he crosses the room. The air is thick with the coppery scent of death. Already, he weaves the surrounding moisture into a delicate thread of healing energy, preparing to mend whatever wounds he may find.
He reaches Alergast and grips his shoulders, intending to pull him gently back—but the moment he does, a wave of horror crashes over him.
Alergast’s head lolls backward, and what remains of his face is a grotesque ruin. Flesh and sinew have been gnawed away, his features stripped to a gory lattice of exposed bone and ragged tendons. Blood, thick and black in the moonlight, clings to the tatters of skin still hanging from his skull. His body, limp and drained, topples onto the floor with a sickening thud.
Vannrik staggers back, breath quick, revulsion twisting in his gut. But his horror is not yet complete.
Beyond Alergast’s corpse, the closet gapes open. Its wooden bottom has been shattered, revealing a jagged hole that descends into the crawl space beneath the floorboards.
And from the abyssal dark below, two eyes stare back at him—feral, red with madness, brimming with an unsatisfied hunger.
The sudden thud and commotion coming from deeper within the house alerts Jinx who is still moving through the living room. "Vannrik! Everything ok, my friend?" the gnome yells, suddenly awash with worry.
But Vannrik doesn’t have time to answer.
From the darkness beneath the floorboards, a goblin slithers out on all fours—silent, predatory, like a cat stalking its prey. Moonlight glances off its sickly green skin, and in its clawed grip, it clutches a jagged shard of wood, its tip darkened with old blood. The creature’s lips peel back in a gruesome, toothy grin, its maw slick with something fresh, something red.
From under his breath it growls words that Vannrik has recently learned to understand. "You be food.. You be food."
It’s too fast. Too sudden. Vannrik barely has time to shift before the sharpened wood plunges into his lower leg. A sharp crack of pain explodes through him as the makeshift weapon sinks deep, nearly buckling him where he stands.
Eyes gleaming with hunger, the goblin seizes his chance. With a snarl, it grips Vannrik by the arm and leg, using its wiry strength to drag him toward the jagged hole in the closet—the gaping maw leading into the unseen dark below.
With a raw surge of will, Vannrik twists violently, breaking the goblin’s grip. He tumbles back, gasping, blood pooling beneath him. The goblin snarls, its red-stained grin never fading.
Through Dariven’s teachings, Vannrik knows one thing for certain—this goblin’s hunger is far from satiated. Jinx, hearing the struggle, calls for Rabie. By the time the gnome reaches the doorway, the scene before him is stark: Vannrik, bleeding but standing, his stance shaky yet unyielding. The goblin, its jagged weapon still slick with his blood, crouches low, angling for its next attack. The stars of the harrow grant guidance to the gnome's friend. "Vannrik! Get him!" Behind him, Rabie steps forward, his purplish eyes locking onto the goblin with a cold, piercing malice. His presence alone is enough to send a shiver through the small, feral creature. The remnants of Alergast's face turn in the goblin's stomach. "You are all alone here, and you will die in this room."
Through the sharp sting of his wound, Vannrik registers the arrival of his fellow Sentinels. But he cannot look away—not from the starving, snarling thing in front of him. Pain lances through his leg with every breath, but his mind flickers back to his lessons with the stablemaster. "Scriber" Vannrik grunts at the goblin. All goblins know that writing steals the words from your mind and soul and Vannrik's words are a horrendous insult to all goblin-kind. whose face twists from eager hunger to anger, and humiliation at this grave insult. The goblin’s expression twists, its eager hunger snapping into pure, seething rage. Its growl rises into a screeching snarl, muscles tensing to strike—
But Vannrik is faster.
With a surge of will, the air around him cracks with sudden, biting cold. An icy spear forms in an instant, its surface shimmering with deadly intent. With a flick of his hand, he hurls it forward—
The spear pierces the goblin’s open maw, silencing its scream in a spray of frost and blood. The creature is launched backward, its body twisting as it hurtles through the gaping hole in the floor—only to be impaled upon the jagged foundations below. A final, wet gurgle escapes its throat before it goes limp, its hunger forever unsatisfied.
Vannrik staggers, his breath ragged. Blood still trickles from his leg, but the threat is over. Heaving, he presses a hand to his wound, steadying himself as Jinx and Rabie step forward to take in the sight.
Jinx, ever quick to break tension, flips his Harrow deck out toward Rabie with a smirk.
"I think you may be the better fortune-teller."

 

Widows and wailing

Vannrik heals himself with his well practiced ability. Besides the kineticists heavy breaths, the eery stillness returns to the Barrett house. The Sentinels watch over the dark shapes of Aeren's bedroom. With a magical command Ghurab, the witches ever-present raven starts to glow with a clear light, illuminating the room, the corpses of petal, Alergast, the goblin, and the slowly melting spear that has pinned the creature to the foundations.
Jinx pauses to examine the gruesome remains of Alergast. From what he can tell, the unfortunate man was dragged into the hole and became stuck—an easy target for the goblin, which had begun feasting on his exposed flesh. Rabie stands frozen, horror-stricken as unwanted memories flood his mind.
"I think we should check the basement for more goblins," Vannrik says.
Jinx steps away from the mutilated corpse, grateful for the distraction. "Agreed," he replies. Moving to the corner of the room, he spots Aeren's overturned bed and picks up the child's small blanket—a final covering for Alergast.
"I can send Ghurab in," Rabie says, steadying himself, eager for a task to ground him.
At the mention of his name, Ghurab the raven tilts his head, studying the group. With a subtle nod from his master, he spreads his wings and descends into the hole—taking the light with him.
Meanwhile, Jinx sprints up Salmon Street. Within moments, he spots a town guard heading toward the Rusty Dragon after his patrol.
"I need you to come with me and guard a house. We’re with the mayor’s office," Jinx says, flashing the insignia granted to him by Kendra. His rushed explanation earns a puzzled look from the guard, though the urgency in the gnome’s voice is clear.
"Jinx, is there a problem?"
"Yes," Jinx replies. "Someone died in this house. We need someone to stand at the door to keep the family and onlookers out."
Though uncertain, the guard nods and agrees to follow the Sentinel.
Back at the Barret residence, Vannrik, regaining some strength in his legs, begins a careful search of the house. Determined not to be caught off guard again, he checks every nook and cranny—under beds, behind couches, inside cupboards. He even peers up the chimney, knowing goblins are foolish enough to hide in fireplaces. But there are no tracks, no signs of movement. It seems the creature was alone.
From Aeren’s closet, Ghurab hops out of the hole. Rabie watches his familiar closely and notes its calm demeanor—a reassuring sign that no immediate danger lurks below.
The guard follows Jinx into the house and into young Aeren’s room. Lifting the child’s blanket, he recoils, a wave of revulsion washing over him. "By Desna’s wings… Yes, we need to spare his wife from seeing this. I will guard the door," he says grimly.
Jinx nods in gratitude and thanks the man before stepping away. He then dares to stick his head down the hole. The earth is packed with signs of crawling and some eaten rat carcasses can be seen, but there are no further tracks or openings.
Vannrik notices cuts and stab marks surrounding the hole—evidence that someone broke through from above, not below. His gaze shifts to the remains of Petal, the poor dog, a blade still lodged in its skull. He shares his observations and emerging theory with the other Sentinels.
"He must have snuck in while the family was at the festival, dug his way into the floorboards, and emerged tonight to eat."
The group nods in acceptance, letting the weight of the revelation settle over them. For a few heartbeats, silence lingers. It is Jinx who finally breaks the spell.
"We got the story. Who's telling the mom?" He glances at his companions before adding, "Not me."
Vannrik bites his lip. "I'm not keen on that either, but I could do it if necessary."
"I'll try," Rabie says, though his voice lacks confidence. His willingness comes as a relief to the others. As they step out of the Barret house, they spot Yoska and Kennick already at the scene.
"Do you require anything of us?" Vannrik asks, unfamiliar with the town’s customs.
Yoska shakes his head. "No, we can put one and one together. It’s a tragedy, but it’s clear what happened. The goblin got him."

  Kennick walks with the Sentinels to the Rusty Dragon, where Amele Barret waits, her hopeful eyes locked onto them. She loosens her grip on her children slightly.
"Did you find him? Did you get that goblin bastard?" she asks.
Vannrik and Jinx both look at Rabie.
"We did," the witch stammers.
Amele’s voice wavers. "And my husband… is he at the healer?"
Rabie takes a deep breath before speaking.
"Amele, I need to talk to you in private."
"Oh no..." Amele murmurs repeatedly, clutching Verah tightly as Rabie gently leads her to a private booth in the Rusty Dragon. She manages only a few steps before her words dissolve into wailing. As Rabie closes the door behind them, he casts a glance at Ghurab, who remains with Aeren, trying to entertain the boy with playful avian antics under Vannrik’s watchful gaze.
Jinx, observing the scene, finds himself unable to abandon Rabie entirely to this difficult task.
By the time they sit down, Amele is beside herself with grief. "My Alergast," she mutters, her words barely audible between sobs and sniffles.
Rabie places a well-meaning hand on her shoulder as she rocks baby Verah in her arms. He takes a deep breath and begins to weave a story.
"Your husband fought bravely and died a hero," he says. He glances at Jinx and feels a flicker of relief when the gnome doesn’t correct him. "But the goblin was a vile and cowardly creature. Alergast fell prey to its trickery. There was nothing we could do for him."
Amele continues to rock her daughter, whispering tearful reassurances. "You hear that, Verah? Your father was a hero."
Watching the woman’s anguish, Rabie feels a hollow ache in his chest. But he clings to the belief that there is goodness in the world, something he can contribute to. "Amele, it is time for you to be the hero now." She halts her relentless motion for a moment and looks at Rabie, then at Jinx who gives a confirming nod and a tempred smile. She then continues to comfort her baby but as she keeps repeating the words "You hear that, Verah? Your father was a hero." a glimmer of determination replaces the grief in her eyes.

Kennick the guard seems to be equally amused by Ghurab's fluttering and bobbing as Aeren is. "You know, I'm sure that we can to Father Zantus and the priests of the cathedral so the family can stay there for a couple of days," he says as he keeps looking at the little raven. "So they don't have to return to that house." He adds.
"That would be best," Vannrik answers. "We double checked to see if there aren't any more goblins but the house needs some cleaning up before they return."
The guard nods. "Yes, I will see to it."
They both watch the boy, who while still looking pale, can't help but smile at the entertaining bird.

  Amele wipes her tears and holds Verah a little closer, her sorrow still heavy but now anchored by purpose. Jinx exhales, exchanging a glance with Rabie, who watches the grieving mother in quiet reflection.  
"Don't forget your other child," Jinx gently reminds her, his voice calm but sincere.
"I won’t," Amele replies, her grip on Verah tightening as she steadies herself. "Let's go see your brother."
Kennick departs to make arrangements, and Jinx finds two young good caretakers for the dolls he has bought, Outside of the Rusty Dragon inn, Sandpoint carries on, unaware that for one family, everything has changed.

Rova 27th 4707 AR

Enduring the Silence Before the Storm: III

The south is clear

As the Sentinels stir from a late and exhausting night, the warm glow of morning filters through the windows of the Rusty Dragon’s common room. The scent of fresh bread and brewing tea lingers in the air, but waiting for them—sharp-eyed and battle-ready—is Shalelu. She stands near their usual table, her posture taut with urgency, the weight of her scouting mission still evident in her stance.
"Good morning," she greets, her voice carrying the same focus and tension that had accompanied her through the Sandpoint Hinterlands.
"Good morning. You're back quickly," Jinx observes, tilting his head.
Shalelu nods as she unshoulders her pack. "I'm back to resupply. I’ve been sweeping through the lands to the south." With a swift, practiced motion, she pulls out a worn map of the Hinterlands and spreads it across the table. Her fingers trace over the sketched topography as she continues. "I checked Brinestump Marsh, and it looks like the Licktoad Tribe has thinned out, though there are still more than enough fighting males among them."
She pauses, scanning the faces around the table to ensure she still has their full attention, then presses on. "I also visited the western edge of Devil’s Platter, where the Birdcruncher tribe lives. That tribe has all but emptied—mostly scattered camps of women, children, and a lone warrior or two left behind to protect them. Most of their warriors have relocated."
Shalelu begins folding the map again, her movements precise and deliberate. "The good news is that we can be fairly certain they aren’t gathering in the south—there’s nothing between Sandpoint and Magnimar. The bad news is that they are gathering somewhere, and I have yet to find out where. My next stop will be east, to search Tickwood, Mosswood, Shank’s Wood, and Nettlewood. I need to pinpoint their location."
"All right. Thank you for this information," Vannrik says, his brow furrowed as he absorbs the news. "It's vital."
Shalelu nods, slinging her pack over her shoulder. "How have things been here?"
Vannrik’s expression darkens. "Apparently, there was a goblin left over from the attack—hiding beneath the floorboards of a house."
Shalelu exhales through her nose, shaking her head. "They are sneaky buggers. It makes sense, I suppose." She picks up on the tension in the room and straightens slightly. "You got him?"
Vannrik sighs. "Yes, but not before he managed to take the family’s pet dog—and the father."
The elf’s expression hardens, her jaw tightening. "There were kids involved?"
"The boy won’t be having peaceful dreams for the next few months," Rabie murmurs, his voice measured but heavy. "But he’ll live."
Shalelu’s eyes flicker with something unreadable—perhaps regret, perhaps grim acceptance—as she tightens the straps on her pack. "Then I guess he got lucky..." she says, almost to herself, before shifting her focus back to her preparations, the speed of her movements increasing.
"I’ll make haste," the elf states, stepping toward the door.
"Do you need any assistance from us?" Jinx asks, watching her carefully.
Shalelu halts mid-step, resting a hand against the wooden frame. "I think Hemlock’s plan was best. And I suppose you proved it last night. You’re needed here."
The gnome offers a knowing smile. "You’re correct. Best of luck on your journey." Shalelu exhales, glancing toward the road beyond. "I’ll try to be as fast as possible. I don’t know if I can cover all the woodlands before returning, but assume I’ll be back in two or three days. Hopefully, by then, the Sheriff will have returned." She hesitates, then adds, "With your friend."
The Sandpoint Sentinels exchange glances, each silently hoping the same.
To some surprise, Vannrik follows after her. "I need to do something, I will be back later today."  

Vannrik

Earlier that morning, Vannrik could still feel the ghost of pain where the goblin’s jagged wooden shard had pierced his leg. Though the wound had been sealed by magic, the memory of it lingered like an unwelcome echo. As he prepared for the day, his gaze fell upon the healer’s kit—a gift from the mayor, its contents carefully curated by Hannah, Sandpoint’s trusted healer. His fingers traced the edges of the worn leather case, and he found himself recalling his earlier mishap with an herbal remedy in the depths of Tickwood. A silent resolution formed: he would set aside his goblin language lessons with the stablemaster, at least for now.   Instead, he followed Shalelu eastward, crossing Turandarok Bridge as the morning sun cast golden light over the river below. In the quiet minutes they spent together, they spoke of the land—of the thickets and winding trails, the creatures that roamed unseen, and the plants that thrived in the cool shade of the forest.
Then, with a final exchange of words, Vannrik parted ways with the ranger and stepped into the solitude of the Sandpoint Hinterlands. Here, away from the town’s bustling heart, he wandered through rolling meadows and dense pockets of woodland, eyes keen for the herbs and alchemical ingredients hidden within nature’s embrace. Every leaf, every root, every delicate bloom was a lesson waiting to be learned.
Yet, beyond simple study, a deeper purpose drove him forward. He sought more than knowledge—he sought to prove himself. If he could master the art of healing, if he could wield nature’s remedies with skill rather than guesswork, perhaps then he would be worthy of becoming Hannah’s apprentice.
Upon returning to Sandpoint, Vannrik wastes no time making his way to Hannah’s shop on Hook Street, the scent of dried herbs and tinctures greeting him as he steps inside. The healer listens intently as he shares his findings, her sharp eyes flicking over the samples he presents. With measured precision, she examines each leaf and root, nodding in approval at his accuracy.
It’s clear that Hannah recognizes his growing skill, but she remains reserved. While her demeanor is not unkind, there is a quiet distance in the way she speaks—a barrier that does not easily fall for newcomers. Vannrik senses that earning her trust will take more than knowledge; it will take time, patience, and perhaps something more personal.
Still, as he leaves, his confidence in his craft has grown. He may not have won her over yet, but the path to proving himself is clearer than ever.  

Jinx

Later that day Jinx and Brodert summarize among themselves what they have learned yesterday from Fabrax. One part of their discussion was regarding the resolute nature of most Thassilonian monuments and structures. The Cyphergate in Riddleport, The Skull's Crossing dam close to Turtleback Ferry and the Storval Stairs show hardly any sign of erosion or decay. This is remarkable since their creation must have occured between 10.000 and 5.000 years ago. The leading theory is that the intrinsic runes carved into the surviving structures have preserved them. "The old light" has not withstood the test of time. Perhaps engravings of runes can be found among the rubble. The site has mostly been picked clean but with newfound inspiration perhaps Jinx and the old Sage can recover something of value to study.
Jinx carefully guides the elderly Brodert to the ruins of the Old Light, the towering remnants of an age long past. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and damp stone as they step among the weathered debris. Brodert adjusts his spectacles, his sharp eyes scanning the loose stones with the meticulous patience of a man who has spent a lifetime unraveling history’s secrets.   Jinx, however, takes a different approach. He tilts his head back, studying the immense sea-facing wall that still looms hundreds of feet above them, a battered but enduring relic of a forgotten empire. He recalls Fabrax’s insights from the day before, calculating the most promising areas among the rubble where hidden truths might lie. Trusting his knowledge of the monument’s ancient design, the gnome begins shifting through the wreckage, pulling free chunks of debris and stonework to examine later.
Their search stretches on, the hours slipping past unnoticed. The sound of crumbling rock and the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs accompany their efforts. Shadows grow long, and eventually, the sun sinks behind the ruined wall, setting the sea ablaze with fiery hues. Still, they search, determined to unearth whatever secrets time has yet to claim.

The Hagfish and its challenges

One of Sandpoint’s most beloved taverns—especially among fishers and gamblers—the Hagfish is also the town’s top spot for a classic seafood meal. Owned by the charismatic, one-legged Jargie Quinn, the tavern takes its name from the large glass aquarium behind the bar, home to a repulsive Varisian hagfish Jargie fondly calls Norah. Though “Norah” has been replaced dozens of times (since hagfish don’t last long in Quinn’s tank), the tradition remains.
Beside the tank hangs a bulging leather pouch filled with coins—the reward for anyone brave enough to drink a full tankard of water scooped straight from Norah’s home. The challenge costs a single silver coin, but the catch? The water is thick, slimy, and revoltingly foul. Few can endure it, but those who do claim the accumulated prize money and earn the honor of carving their name into the ceiling beam above the bar. After nearly a decade in business, only 28 names mark that beam—a testament to just how difficult the challenge truly is.
Rabie, Jinx, and Vannrik find themselves at the Hagfish that night, the tavern alive with the scent of salt, ale, and laughter. Vannrik had been eager to take on the infamous challenge ever since hearing rumors of it on the road. As they step inside, Jargie Quinn hobbles over on his peg leg, greeting them with a broad, knowing grin. The tavernkeeper catches Vannrik's lingering gaze on the murky fish tank and crosses his arms before chuckling.
“Are you here to take on the challenge?”
The room quiets, then a wave of murmurs and excited glances ripple through the crowd. All eyes turn toward the newcomers.
Without hesitation, Vannrik flips a silver coin to Jargie. The room erupts in cheers as the barkeep moves behind the counter, grabbing a large wooden tankard. He scoops it deep into Norah’s tank, the water sloshing as he fills the vessel to the brim with its infamous foulness.
“You have to drink it all and keep it down.”
Vannrik takes the tankard in both hands, staring into the swirling, brackish depths. He exhales sharply and glances at his fellow Sentinels with a wry, almost disbelieving smile. He can't believe he's about to do this.
Before he can raise it to his lips, Jinx places a firm hand on his arm. “Wait, my friend. I will help you.” With a smirk, the gnome offers him a small piece of raw ginger.
Vannrik eyes Jinx, noting the mischief dancing behind his eyes. He suspects magical assistance but shakes his head. “I’d prefer not to cheat,” he whispers, lowering his gaze back to the murky liquid. “And if I fail, I don’t really care. I just want the experience of having tried it.”
From across the room, a patron hollers, “It’ll be quite an experience, all right! Jargie, should I get the bucket?”
Laughter erupts as the man vanishes to retrieve it, leaving Vannrik to face his fate.
Vannrik decides to wait until the bucket arrives, gripping the tankard tightly as he makes the mistake of staring too long into its depths. The water is thick, murky, and full of unsettling gradations between liquid and solid, floating ominously within the vessel.
A loud THUMP startles him back to reality as the bucket is placed before him.
“Thank you. I’m probably going to need it,” he admits, exhaling sharply as he steels himself. He takes a final breath, bracing for the ordeal ahead. “Well, down the hatch.”
Raising the tankard to his lips, the stench of its contents assaults him before the liquid even touches his tongue. His face contorts in disgust as the first slimy mouthful slides past his lips. The texture is wrong—thick, clinging, and far too alive for comfort. He swallows, feeling the viscous water slither down his throat like something that shouldn’t be consumed.
He presses on, forcing a second gulp. The taste has already embedded itself in the back of his throat, an inescapable blend of salt, rot, and something unnameable. His stomach twists in protest. The tankard is somehow too large, every gulp a battle.
Then it hits him—like a stone dropping into his gut. His body recoils, his stomach rebelling against this crime against nature. There’s not much left to go, but every fiber of his being screams to expel the foulness.
Somehow, through sheer will—or madness—he barrels through. With a final desperate gulp, he slams the empty tankard onto the table. A deafening roar erupts from the tavern patrons. But Jargie leans in, watching closely. He knows the real challenge is only beginning.
Vannrik offers a weak, triumphant smile—then his stomach lurches.
It’s coming.
His body demands release. A horrendous burp escapes his lips, a warning of what’s to come. The foul liquid surges up his throat, and for a terrifying moment, he teeters on the edge of failure. His entire being revolts, but he clenches his jaw, swallows hard—swallows it again.
The tavern holds its breath. Ten seconds stretch into an eternity.
Jargie scans the room, letting the suspense linger. Then, with a knowing grin, he claps his hands. The silence shatters as the crowd erupts in cheers.
There is now a 29th victor of the Hagfish Challenge.
Vannrik joins in the cheering, but carefully enough as to not upset his stomach more. Jargie hands him the leather pouch "You're completely insane, but that's what we love here."
The victor orders a shot of Jargie's reserve for all that are present, desperate for something strong to cleanse his pallette. Amidst the revelry Jinx climbs upon the bar, grabs Vannrik's hand and raises it. "He's a real member of Sandpoint now!"
And the people of Sandpoint found it hard to deny that fact.
 

Rabie

There’s much more to the Hagfish than just Norah. Jargie’s game tables are always packed, offering everything from cards and checkers to dice and darts. Storytelling is a favorite pastime here, with a popular game called “yarning,” where locals compete to spin the longest impromptu tale without contradicting themselves. The most common subject of these wild stories is Old Murdermaw, a legendary giant red snapper said to lurk in the depths of the Varisian Gulf—though whether the beast truly exists is up for debate. Jargie himself is a master of the game, and his favorite yarn always begins the same way: with a new and ever-changing version of how he lost his leg.
Rabie wishes to amplify the Sentinel's standing in town even further, perhaps lacking the fortitude for the Hagfish challenge tries to impress upon the crowd through tavern's tradition of Yarning. The tavern gathers around and Rabie falls into a long story:
So there they were, 2 people, a woman and a man, desperate for a child. A child that would give them happiness, a sign of their eternal love for each other. Alas, it was not ment to be. They tried and tried but nothing with work. They attempted every single varisian trick known to every Varisian. She jumped over a broom, like all varisian do, but she did not receive the witch's blessing. The ancient ritual with the crushing of ginger and putting it under the tongue during intercourse was attempted without succes. So they, desperate in their search for offspring, went deep into the woods in search for something they actually could never be real. They walked and walked, through bushes and swamps. Avoiding angry boars, angry goblins, and most of all, vile black cats.
After 3 months, 3 weeks and 3 days of searching, they found an abandoned hut. At least, they thought it abandoned. There she stood. An old figure, a woman, as ancient as the trees around it. "I know what you want" the old hag yelled at them. The couple, fearing for their life, fell to their knees, begging for their life. The hag shook her head, the warts on her face shaking along with it. She looked at them and told them if they wanted a child, there was only one thing the couple should do. They needed to go home and buy a pumpkin. The pumpkin needed to be cut open, then placed under the bed and slept over for a whole night. Then they should pour milk into it and drink from the pumpkin cup. The woman would give birth to a beautiful baby boy. Alas, the newfound mother died shortly after the birth of her son.
The boy that was born, was me. And as a coming of age, I traveled the land. Like my parents, I walked for 3 months, 3 weeks and 3 days and came onto a large, sprawling city. A city that shined in the sun, like a city of gold. The city was run by a rich king. A king with a golden throne, with a beautiful daughter, with golden curls. When he entered the city and came upon the golden square, he heard the king declare that he would marry his daughter to the first man who does something the world has never seen before. I decided I would make an instrument, with sounds unknown to the world of Golarion.
After days of trying, and many failed attempts, I went to the king and asked if anything would be good enough for his daughter. The king, offended by this, threw me in his dungeon. It was there that Maghd, one of the eldest divine fey demigods, appeared to me in a bright light and gave me a box and a rod. I needed to pluck some hairs from her head and string them over the box and the rod. Then she told me I should bow the hairs of the box with the hairs of the rod, playing this new instrument I called the violin. I played my newfound violin and Maghd cried into the intrument, granting it the ability to make people happy or sad, whatever the tunes played. I demonstrated this artistic skill to the king, who was overjoyed with the sound that came out of this heavenly device and granted me the hand of his daughter in marriage. I respectfully declined, stating that Sandpoint was my one and only love, and that I would go back to it now, knowing I had completed my rite of adulthood. The king thanked me, the princess kissed me, and I went back, walking for 3 months, 3 weeks and 3 days back to Sandpoint. And here I am telling this story."
Rabie, relying on his knowledge of Varisian legend instead of the arts of deception, actually manages to get quite far in the game before Jargie manages to catch him on some technicality.

With the tavern still buzzing from the night's excitement, Vannrik climbs onto a stool and carves his name into the beam above the bar, his mark forever joining the short list of victors. Meanwhile, Rabie is met with hearty claps on the back and words of praise for his masterful storytelling during the Yarning challenge, his tale having held the Hagfish patrons spellbound. As the night winds down, the three Sentinels step out into the cool air, their laughter lingering as they make their way back to the Rusty Dragon. The golden glow of the harvest moon bathes Sandpoint in warm light, casting soft, swaying shadows across the quiet streets.

Rova 28th 4707 AR

Enduring the Silence Before the Storm: IV

Jinx

Jinx spends the day with Brodert Quink, meticulously examining the rubble and stone fragments they collected. In the dim glow of the scholar’s study, they cross-reference the faint, timeworn runes against stacks of ancient tomes and wood-cut prints, struggling to distinguish true inscriptions from the mere cracks of age. Every discovery sparks a flurry of debate, with Brodert grumbling over lost meanings while Jinx employs charcoal rubbings and careful deductions to unearth patterns. The work is painstaking—each symbol a potential key to the past, each dead end a reminder of time’s relentless erosion.
Hours pass in ink-stained diligence until, at last, a breakthrough—a single rune matches a lesser-known Thassilonian script recorded in Janderhoff. Though only a fragment of a greater mystery, it is enough to rekindle their resolve. As candlelight flickers over scattered notes and weary hands, Brodert leans back with a satisfied sigh, declaring, "This is how true knowledge is uncovered—one painstaking step at a time." Jinx, though exhausted, feels the thrill of discovery surge through him. Today, they have chipped away at history’s veil, revealing just a sliver of what once was.
Some of the runes they uncover hint at something far more potent than the usual protective enchantments found in most Thassilonian ruins. These symbols do not ward against the elements or reinforce structure—they suggest the containment and harnessing of raw energy. Jinx and Brodert pore over their notes, cross-referencing each rune with historical records, and the implications grow more compelling. If their interpretation is correct, this could lend significant credence to their long-standing theory: the Old Light was not merely a lighthouse or a crumbled monument of a bygone era, but something far more formidable.

A weapon.

The notion sends a shiver down Jinx’s spine as he traces the faint etchings with careful fingers. Could this towering ruin have once channeled devastating power, unleashed in the days of ancient Thassilon? Brodert mutters excitedly, pulling another tome from his ever-growing pile, his mind alight with the possibilities. If they could uncover more evidence—perhaps a direct reference in a surviving text or another section of carved stone—it could change everything scholars believed about the Old Light. For now, though, all they have is a tantalizing glimpse into a past where this ruin was not simply a relic—but a remnant of destruction itself.

Vannrik

Vannrik wanders through Sandpoint beneath a sky heavy with clouds, his thoughts circling the quiet distance between himself and Hannah. She had been polite—pleasant, even—but something in their interactions felt off. There wasn’t enough familiarity, enough trust, to ask for an apprenticeship just yet. The uncertainty gnawed at him, mirroring his lack of understanding about the healer herself. He needed to learn more.
As he crosses Cathedral Square, his gaze lingers on the place where he and his... colleagues? Friends?—had fought off the goblins. The memory stirs a thought. Perhaps he didn’t have to navigate this challenge alone. With that in mind, his steps eventually lead him back to the Rusty Dragon.
At the Rusty Dragon, Vannrik strikes up conversation with Ameiko, Bethana, and a few of the regulars, hoping to learn more about Sandpoint’s elusive healer. He discovers that while Father Abstalar Zantus does his best to care for the truly sick and needy, he cannot tend to everyone. For minor ailments, injuries, and everyday illnesses, most of Sandpoint’s citizens turn to Hannah Velerin.
She spends her mornings in the wilds, gathering herbs and embracing Gozreh’s bounty, returning in the afternoons to prepare medicines and treat patients. But her role in the town extends beyond simple healing—she is also a midwife and a quiet source of aid for those facing difficult choices. Though she encourages carrying pregnancies to term and readily shares knowledge of pinberry extract as a preventive measure, she offers her other services with discretion and without judgment.
That might be it. The deeply private nature of her work could explain why she keeps others at arm’s length, why she remains reserved around strangers.

Rabie

Rabie ventures to a new destination in his ongoing effort to strengthen the bond between the Sentinels and the townsfolk. Cracktooth’s Tavern, a favorite haunt of Sandpoint Theater patrons, is always lively after a performance. Its grand stage welcomes actors, musicians, poets, and aspiring entertainers eager for their moment in the spotlight. Twice a week, on Moondays and Oathdays, the tavern hosts themed performance competitions where participants must improvise acts based on a randomly drawn topic—anything from aristocrats to goblins, or even a wildcard challenge set by the tavern’s sharp-witted owner, Jesk “Cracktooth” Berinni. The prize? A generous 20 silver piece bar tab for the week. Despite his grizzled appearance, Cracktooth is well-read and renowned for his biting political satire, making his own performances a major attraction.
Though Rabie had found success in storytelling during last night’s "Yarning" at the Hagfish, he doesn’t feel the need to press his luck with another performance. Fortunately, the patrons of Cracktooth’s Tavern take an immediate interest in the Varisian, and conversation flows easily. However, as the night progresses, his lowborn roots begin to show. He misses subtle political jabs, stumbles over references to famous plays, and unintentionally commits a few social missteps. Though his status as a hero remains intact, by the time the evening winds down, he realizes he’s made little headway in solidifying the Sentinels’ connection with the regulars at Cracktooth’s.

Rova 29th 4707 AR

Enduring the Silence Before the Storm: V

Vannrik

After much reflection, Vannrik realizes that sometimes, the simplest approach is the best. Given the nature of her work, Hannah has to be cautious about whom she trusts. Rather than trying to win her over through subtlety, he decides to be direct and transparent about his intentions.
He waits patiently for her return from her morning route, allowing her time to settle in and tend to her first patient. Once the shop is momentarily quiet, he greets Hannah properly, introducing himself with the respect due to a seasoned healer. He speaks plainly, explaining his long-held ambition to master the healing arts—an essential skill in his perilous homeland of Irrisen. He acknowledges the breadth of her work, making it clear that he understands both the public and discreet aspects of her role. Most importantly, he assures her that his only interest is in learning, that he will ask no questions beyond what serves to deepen his understanding of herbalism and medicine.
Hannah listens in silence, her expression unreadable as she considers his words. Then, with a slow nod, she finally speaks. "If you’re serious about this, I’ll take you on as an apprentice. But understand this—I have no time for half-hearted students. You’ll work hard, and you’ll earn my trust through action, not words."
Stepping out of Hannah’s shop, Vannrik feels a quiet sense of accomplishment settle over him. He had expected resistance, but instead, he had found a path forward. The real work, starts now.

Jinx

After a quick stroll to his hut to resupply on his ample ginger, Jinx can once again be found at Brodert's house. Brodert and Jinx continue your delve into the secrets of Ancient Thassilon. They decide that discerning the Old Light's exact location within the various kingdoms of Thassilon may reveal hints of the structure's original purose. This requires a visit to 'The way North'.
As with several other buildings in the vicinity, this one‑story structure was recently renovated after the Sandpoint Fire. Previously a stable, the building has been converted by its new owner, an aged but spry gnome named Veznutt Parooh, into a cramped and cluttered library housing his tremendous collection of maps and nautical charts. Maps of local regions, from the immediate vicinity up to the whole of Varisia and the Storval Plateau, can be purchased from him for various prices.
Veznutt adores treasure maps, and sells what he calls “novelty treasure maps” as art objects. He’s the cartographer for all of these maps and is completely up front and honest about them being false—they’re intended only for entertainment value, and any shenanigans a customer might get up to by passing one off on a friend as a prank is really none of Veznutt’s business. When not here crafting copies of old maps, Veznutt can usually be found arguing over history with his best friend Ilsoari at Turandarok Academy.
While discussing the map Brodert falls into a lengthy lecture about the political structures of Thassilon and it's various kingdoms. A treasure trove of information if one can follow it and mentally sketch the borders and lines of succession.
At the end of the day both gnomes can conclude that they have learned much.

Rabie

Rabie had been savoring a quiet evening at the Rusty Dragon, nursing his drink and letting the warmth of the hearth chase away the night’s chill, when a shadow fell over his table. Looking up, he found himself face-to-face with Jubrayl Vhiski, the ever-smirking ringleader of the Bunyip Club. The man’s lanky frame was draped in a well-worn but surprisingly fine coat, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he pulled out a chair uninvited. “Word is, you’ve been making the rounds, Rabie,” Jubrayl drawled, his voice as smooth as aged brandy but with an unmistakable edge. “Would be a shame if your little tour of Sandpoint’s watering holes overlooked the Fatman’s Feedbag. We do so love meeting new friends.”
The words were casual, but Rabie could feel the weight behind them—a request that was no request at all. The Feedbag was more than just a tavern; it was a den of thieves, a place where debts were settled with bruises or worse, and where the sheriff’s patience was tested weekly. Declining the invitation outright would be unwise, but accepting meant stepping into a world where every favor had a price. Jubrayl watched him expectantly, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, as if already knowing Rabie’s answer before he even spoke.
Rabie keeps his expression neutral, though his mind races. He studies Jubrayl, weighing the man’s smooth words against all he knows of him. In the past few weeks, he had grown closer to Sandpoint’s people, nearly died twice, and seen a man’s face eaten by a goblin. How bad could a conversation be?
Rabie straightens himself and directly meets Jubrayl's gaze. He is well aware of Jubrayl's reputation and his Sczarni ties. "I accept your invitation." he answers. As he does, the fragile control that Rabie has maintained wavers for a moment. The white of his eyes turn a sickly shade of purple. The ever-present smirk on Jubrayl's face does not fade.
A tense silence stretches between them as they make their way through the darkened streets. Sandpoint lies bathed in the cold light of a waning moon, its glow thin and distant. For now, the night keeps Jubrayl’s true intentions in shadow.
Seated at a well-worn table in Fatman’s Feedbag, Rabie quickly realizes that the reputations hold true. The feedbag isn’t just a tavern—it’s Jubrayl Vhiski’s domain. The place hums with a rowdy but carefully controlled energy, every patron either part of the Bunyip Club or wise enough not to cross them. Foamer’s Gulp sloshes in oversized mugs, the frothy ale loosening tongues and lowering guards. Jubrayl, completely at ease, watches Rabie with a knowing smirk, his words smooth but pointed. He asks about Rabie’s future, his desires in the present, as if trying to take the measure of the man before him. Then, with a note of something almost like regret, he mentions that this isn’t the first time he’s reached out.
According to Jubrayl, he and his people had tried to pull Rabie into the fold before, but at the time, Rabie had been lost in a fugue state, unresponsive, barely even aware of those around him. The implication is clear—Jubrayl had extended a hand, but Rabie hadn’t even been capable of grasping it.
“Maybe I should’ve pushed harder,” Jubrayl muses, swirling his ale. “Maybe I should’ve made sure you heard me.” His dark eyes flick up, pinning Rabie in place. “I won’t make that mistake again. Some people, when the world turns its back on them, find themselves alone. Others? They realize they never had to be alone in the first place.” The words hang heavy in the air—an invitation, a warning, or maybe both.
The Sczarni lets Rabie digest the words before giving the man a warning. "Just know Rabie, that when the fame fades, which it always does, the Shoanti sheriffs and the Tian innkeepers, will leave you to rot in your hovel for another five years. But your blood will be there for you, if you let them, this time. I wouldn't want to lose another brother to the likes of Ameiko Kaijitsu."
Within Rabie, the reputation of Jubrayl clashes with the vague half-formed memories of the man's offer of help. The words struck a cord within the witch. Who was there for him when he was lost to himself? For a moment, all Rabie wants is clarity. "What are you talking about?"
Whether sincere or calculated, the tension releases in Jubrayl's shoulders. "You are one of us Rabie, and I know you couldn't keep your eyes open for the last five years and before you had noble goals of joining the town guard. But the truth is, the world is against us. Family is all that we have. And you are without a family, there is no caravan that calls you home, you are lost to a tiny room somewhere on Chopper's Alley. But you have brothers waiting for you. It is us against the world, Rabie. And I get it. It feels nice that everybody likes you now. But that is not to last, one day or another, the world will treat people like us like trash. And I want you to know that when that happens. You still have brothers."
Rabie’s mind clears. So that’s it, then. He straightens, his voice steady.
“You speak of family,” he says, rising from his barstool. This time, it’s Jubrayl who waits, uncertain of what will come next.
Rabie meets his gaze. “Sandpoint is my family.”
For the first time, he realizes he is looking down at the Sczarni instead of the other way around. And with that, he understands something else—how much he hates being looked down upon. The fire of resentment smolders in his chest, but this time, it does not control him.
Almost to his surprise, no one stops him as he strides toward the door. He catches Jubrayl’s reflection in the dirt-streaked window—his expression unreadable, the usual smirk absent. Not angry. Just watching.
Rabie steps into the cool night air, leaving the Feedbag—and its promises—behind.

Rova 30th 4707 AR

The first rumbles

Bethana struggles to keep her focus on her duties, but worry gnaws at her. Her lips press into a thin line as she skims the ledger of reservations, her vision unfocused—not from age, but from distraction. Her fingers brush against the crumpled note in her pocket. Still there. Still real.
Then, finally, she sees them.
Rabie, Vannrik, and Jinx descend the stairs, each ready to continue their endeavors—digging into Sandpoint’s past, refining herbalism skills, strengthening relationships. But their morning momentum comes to an abrupt halt as Bethana hurries toward them, her steps quick and shuffling.
She stops in front of Jinx, eyes wide with distress. "Excuse me, do you have time to talk?"
Jinx straightens. "Yes, of course. In private?"
"Yes. With all of you, please." Bethana glances over her shoulder. The early risers in the tavern are too absorbed in their meals to take notice. That’s good. But this conversation is too important to risk being overheard. She leads them to a quiet booth.
Jinx tries to hide his disappointment.
Bethana doesn’t wait for them to settle before blurting out, "I was getting things ready for the day when I realized something—Ameiko hadn’t started breakfast yet. She always does. It felt... wrong." She takes a breath, clutching the note in her pocket. "I knocked on her door. No answer. And I wouldn’t normally do this—I respect her privacy—but something told me to check. Her bed was empty. It hasn’t been slept in."
Her voice wavers as she pulls out the crumpled letter. "I found this in the corner of her room. It was written in Minkai, but I translated it before you woke up."
She presses it into Jinx’s hand. He unfolds the letter, his brow furrowing as he reads aloud:

"Hello, sis!
I hope this letter finds you well, and with some free time on your hands, because we've got something of a problem. It's to do with Father. Seems that he might have had something to do with Sandpoint's recent troubles with the goblins, and I didn't want to bring the matter to the authorities because we both know he'd just weasel his way out of it. You've got some pull here in town, though. If you can meet me at the Glassworks at midnight tonight, maybe we can figure out how to make sure he faces the punishment he deserves. Knock twice and then three times more and then once more at the delivery entrance and I'll let you in.
In any case, I don't have to impress upon you the delicate nature of this request. If news got out, you know these local rubes would assume that you and I were in on the whole thing too, don't you? They've got no honour at all around these parts. I still don't understand how you can stand to stay here.
Anyway, don't tell anyone about this. There are other complications as well, ones I'd rather talk to you in person about tonight.
Don't be late.
Tsuto"