Session 10
At first light, three days after setting sail from Fjall, the frostbitten wind carried the scent of pine and sea as the towering palisades of Urskaard finally came into view. The de facto capital of the Skeggs—home of the Cave Bear Clan—lay draped in mist at the mouth of the mighty Bjarnflod River, its ancient stone docks slick with hoarfrost. Smoke from a hundred hearths curled into the pale morning sky, and the Fianna’s Favor arrived at her initial destination.
There, on the creaking deck of the ship, the party exchanged bittersweet goodbyes with Guildcaptain Eamon Hackett and, more importantly, the ever-beloved Gilly. Hackett offered a parting word, his tone gruff but sincere: they were welcome to sail back with him in a few days (25 Harvestfall)—or when the ship returned again in several weeks (40 Harvestfall). Gilly gave them each a warm hug and a stuffed cloth bundle of travel snacks before heading back to her kitchen.
Gale, ever the curious traveler, asked where best to avoid in town. He was told to steer clear of the Ropery, a large building by the docks where a frost-resistant rope was made but was also rumored to be haunted, and to mind his steps should they venture beyond the city—tensions between the Skeggish humans and the moon elves, Kaldor’s people, were on the rise.
Their destination was Bedd’s Breakfast & Inn, a cozy and bustling establishment promising warmth, rooms, and a decent meal. The inn’s overworked owner, a halfling woman named Hilda Bedd, bustled through the crowded taproom. While waiting for service, Pharox leapt behind the bar with casual irreverence and mixed up a round of mimosas for the party.
It was during this moment that Pharox admitted he had come to Urskaard to reunite with his lover, Lyra—a dryad with wild beauty, sultry golden hair, and a habit of turning every conversation into a double entendre. The party, intrigued and sympathetic, agreed to help track her down.
When Hilda finally arrived at their table, she appreciated Pharox saving her some work and confirmed Lyra had rented the inn’s luxurious king suite for another two weeks, but that she hadn't recalled seeing Lyra in the past week. Hilda assured Pharox that everything was "probably fine"—though she did note she'd recently sent Lyra to the Norskaard Market for furs, remarking, "the lass was so scantily clad I thought I was gunna get frostbit just lookin at her." She suggested a local fur trader might know more.
Much to Gale’s dismay—and Pharox’s delight—the king suite was still reserved under Lyra’s name. Gale, deprived of luxury, was relegated to a perfectly respectable room with a queen bed and private water closet—but no tub. The rest of the party squeezed into a modest quad room with two bunk beds and a tiny wood stove to beat back the northern chill.
With lodging secured, the party took advantage of Urskaard’s markets. Gale stocked up on healing potions. Pharox, clearly enjoying the lingering effects of his favorite herb of tranquility, bought a sword he might not strictly need. Meanwhile, Maylin asked about a field guide to the Skeggs' unique flora and fauna and was directed to the caretaker of the Mothers' Grove, the city’s local druid Eldrin.
As night fell and the city came to life, the group ventured to Jandr’s Alehouse, Urskaard’s rowdiest tavern. The place buzzed with music, laughter, and clanking tankards. Gale, ever the showman, took the stage and silenced the crowd with a haunting original piece:
The Ballad of Skeggs
Verse 1
Far past where the sea winds howl,
Where the ice cliffs rise and the shadows prowl,
Lie the isles that none have named,
Shrouded cold and ever claimed.
Chorus
Oh, the cold, the northern tide,
Where the ghosts of Skeggs abide,
Stone and snow, the ancient shore,
Islands lost forevermore.
Verse 2
Fires there will never warm,
And stars retreat from gathering storm,
Whispers ride on bitter breath,
Calling sailors down to death.
Verse 3
A ship lies deep with shattered mast,
Her captain bound to ages past,
A compass wrought in mystic gold,
Steers the storms, both fierce and bold.
Chorus
Oh, the cold, the northern tide,
Where the ghosts of Skeggs abide,
Stone and snow, the ancient shore,
Islands lost forevermore.
Outro (softly)
So heed the wind, and steer thee clear,
Of Skeggs and all you hold dear.
For once you hear the siren’s song…
You won’t be homeward long.
The bar roared with applause. Gale earned twenty gold from delighted patrons, and the barkeep, impressed by the crowd’s thirst, offered him a goodberry-based cocktail on the house.
Pharox and Gale toasted to their success with another round, their spirits lifted—but their balance slightly off, as the drinks gave them disadvantage on Dexterity-based tasks for the rest of the night
Spotting a loud, boastful local dominating the axe-throwing range, the group challenged her to a contest. Kaldor stepped up and, with calm precision, soundly defeated her. The purse of thirty gold jingled in his hand—but ever the stoic, he handed out a single gold coin to each of his companions before pocketing the rest.
Outside, snowflakes drifted in lazy spirals as the tavern windows glowed with firelight and laughter echoed through the streets of Urskaard. For the first time in days, the party had warmth, gold in their pockets, and a mystery to unravel.
But Lyra was still missing. And the Ropery waited in silence.
Session 11
The warmth of ale still clung to their cheeks as the party stepped out into the crisp Urskaard night, the snow whispering down in lazy spirals. Cloaked in the confidence of their "alcohol coats," they ambled through the lantern-lit streets, the laughter from Jandr’s Alehouse still echoing behind them.
As they passed the vine-draped entrance to the Mothers' Grove, Maylin glanced toward the ancient trees and decided—despite the hour nearing three in the morning—that it was a fine time to try and procure a book from a stranger. She approached the grove's caretaker, a serene moon elf named Eldrin, rousing him from his meditative slumber. Ever gracious, he offered no harsh words, only a gentle reminder that morning would be a better time to discuss literature. "I do have something in mind," he murmured, stifling a yawn. "But for now... I'd rather finish my dreams."
With a polite bow and a slight blush, the party exited the grove and made their way toward the silhouette of the Ropery, its long structure quiet but for the occasional flicker of movement behind shuttered windows.
Gale, never one to waste a moment—or a strange herb—fished out the Angel’s Trumpet flower he had discovered aboard Fianna’s Favor. He handed it to Pharox with a mischievous grin and a wink. Pharox, ever obliging, rolled it into a tight joint and sparked it. The smoke swirled with a faint iridescence, and as Gale inhaled, his eyes widened. The flower’s magic allowed him fleeting glimpses of the spectral world—perfect for a little late-night ghost hunting.
But it wasn’t spirits he found. Peering through a crack in the Ropery’s office window, Gale spotted several shadowy figures moving through the space—not ghosts, but men. Very much alive.
Still riding the high of arcane smoke and emboldened by liquor, Gale strode to the front door and, with a flourish, cast Knock. A resounding boom echoed across the dockside, rattling doors and surely waking nearby sleepers. The lock gave way, and the door creaked open.
Immediately, a dart whistled past Gale’s ear. From the darkness inside, a crossbow bolt clattered off the doorframe. Drunken luck or pure instinct, he was unharmed. As the door swung wide, more armed figures emerged from the shadows—crossbowmen ready to fight.
Steel flashed in the dim light as a brief but fierce skirmish erupted inside the Ropery. Gale ducked behind crates while spells and blades flew through the air. Though slightly disappointed by the lack of ghosts, his vision did grant him a surreal boon: he spoke with two fresh spirits as their former bodies fell to the ground. When asked what was happening in the Ropery, one ghost gave a cryptic answer—hinting that while the building was supposed to be a ropeworks, it functioned more like a warehouse. A warehouse that seemed very busy... in the middle of the night.
Before Gale could press further, a man burst in through the front door, claiming to be the Ropery’s owner. He wore a strained smile and spoke with forced calm, insisting that the armed men were simply his employees. Though the party couldn’t quite pin him as a liar outright, it was clear something wasn’t right.
Their suspicions were confirmed when the man whistled, and more armed brutes stepped from the shadows. Outnumbered, and with tensions rising, the party wisely chose retreat over escalation.
As they made their exit, Gale couldn’t help but snag a quick glance inside one of the nearby crates. Nestled within, he saw massive glass bottles labeled in a childlike scrawl: "mead."
Exhausted but buzzing with questions, the party returned to Bedd’s Breakfast & Inn, the warmth of the taproom now just a memory. One by one, they slipped into their rooms—except Gale, who with exaggerated sighs and melodramatic guilt, convinced Pharox to let him share the king suite for the night. Pharox relented with a groan and a warning: "If Lyra comes back, you’re on the floor."
To Pharox’s mounting anxiety—and Gale’s smug satisfaction—Lyra did not return that night.
