Solo Episode - Shadowborne

General Summary

The Prologue

The year was 1361 DR. Nestled deep within the secluded hills and farmlands of the Dessarin Valley, the quiet and peaceful hamlet of Verland was where Aren found himself. North of Kheldell, at the edge of the Kryptgarden Forest, the hamlet provided solitude in exchange for hard work. Aren had settled down after a few lucky years of prosperous adventuring, giving up sword and shield in exchange for an honest craft. Some might call it a boring life, but Aren was eager to leave behind the turmoil of adventuring, of plundering dungeons, and thwarting evil plots. Aren had lost allies during his adventures, some of them good friends but he had gained a small fortune in a short amount of time, he did not gain much fame. Regardless, many in the village had heard rumor of his deeds, they knew as well his life story, and almost all regarded him as the most able-bodied and experienced combatant among them. When livestock went missing or when children did not come home when true night fell, Aren was the first that worried villagers called upon for aid.
It is the first week of Hammer as the winter was showing itself in the form of a glistening white frost, which coated wooden porches and thatched rooftops throughout the village, Tymora paid Aren a visit. The gods, and the adventuring life that Aren had long thought left behind, were not done with him yet.
The fire crackled and spit in the stone hearth before Aren. He eased back into his seat, a padded chair facing the fireplace in the common room of the Crossed Staves Inn. The inn was the only two-story building in the village of Verland, and a veritable ghost town on most nights. That night, the first night of winter, many of the villagers had gathered together to raise tankards of ale and offer prayers to Auril for a mild season. The high-backed chair was comforting after his hard day of labor. He looked down at his hands, rubbing his callused palms. A small dot of sap marred the otherwise clean surface. The sting of a new splinter in his finger caused him to wince. He reminded himself that he'd have to dig that out later.
Aren, the hardly skilled logger, cranked his neck as hazy pipe smoke filled the common room. The warmth emanating from the stone hearth was pleasant, and kept the cold of winter at bay. A chill breeze swept through the room whenever the main doors of the establishment were opened, causing all within to shiver and Aren was thankful they'd remained mostly closed that evening.
"...and that’s why Pharin always said, ‘Never turn your back on a spurned woman’. He learned his lesson, I suppose. Hey, have you been listening to anything that I’ve been saying?" The question caught Aren off guard. He turn to answer the halfling sitting in the chair next to him.
Davian Stoutheart was his closest friend in Verland, even if he hadn't given Aren a choice in the matter. Short and wiry, Davian had unkempt brown hair and thick sideburns that ended at his jaw. He was always eager to crack a joke and tell Aren a story about his family history, or his past romantic ventures. Davian seemed to be stocked full of wild tales, many of which Aren believed to be completely fabricated. Still, it was nice to have some company, even if the tales Davian spun were wild and exaggerated.
After an apology Davian responded "No worries, I know how you get in the winter. I was uh… just trying to lighten the mood. Because, you know..." The halfling trailed off, looking into the fire.
After a light and polite shrug Davian took a final swig of his ale and smacked his lips. "I think it’s time for another round. What are you drinking tonight?"
"Dragonfire Red."
With a clap on the back, Aren's halfling friend rose from his chair near the hearth, and sauntered off toward the bar. Aren looked back into the flames. The fire burned low, charring the logs black. The orange embers began to glow brightly, then fade. The memories of his adventuring days returned to him, one haunting image in particular: his comrade, Serius Valsorum, burning to ash.
All conversation abruptly stopped as the door to the inn crashed open. A cloaked figure staggered into the room, falling to his knees. The stranger looked human, though his cowl was pulled low, hiding his features from sight. His clothes were covered in frost and fresh snow.
“P-please… h-help… m-me...,” his strangled voice plead from under his hood.
Pain and desperation were evident in the man’s voice. The stranger reached out a hand towards those gathered in the common room. Toward Aren and it became obvious that he was smeared with dried blood. Before Aren could even act, the stranger fell face down onto the floorboards and ceased to move.
"Stay back," Aren called, "I'll sort this through."
Aren warily approached the unconscious figure on the floor of the common room, raising his fists to defend himself should he need to do just that. The figure didn't move, he seemed likely dead.
"Well… w-who is he?" Davian’s voice carried across the common room, breaking the silence.
Aren looked over his shoulder and saw the halfling’s eyes peeking out from behind the far end of the bar.
"Could be from Westbridge or Red Larch, I suppose," one of the villagers remarked. "Got lost off the road?"
The burly half-orc barkeep, Rholsk, stomped forward, shouldering past the circle of stunned villagers that had started to form around the unconscious stranger.
"Not likely," he grunted.
Rholsk stood a head taller than the rest of the villagers. He bore a nasty scar that ran down the side of his face from a bar brawl gone wrong. Rholsk had told Aren the story once and he shuttered to see the other guy. The half-orc’s dark hair was pulled back into a top-knot, his sleeveless gray tunic was stained with ale but he seemed sure of himself.
"There," Rholsk pointed to the clasp on the man’s cloak. The cloak was twisted, the clasp barely visible. "That is the symbol of Cyri-"
A raspy voice interrupted the barkeep, making the hair on Aren neck stand on end. “Must… feed….” The voice whispered.
The stranger’s voice was different then, evil. In a blur of motion, the stranger was on his feet and roaring. The guttural roar was inhuman, bestial. The man’s hood fell back, revealing a pair of solid black eyes. His pale skin was covered in dark splotches. A single gray stone was embedded in his forehead, radiating with twisting tendrils of shadow energy. A long, forked tongue hung from the man’s mouth past rows of sharp teeth. Dark saliva dripped down his chin. Aren couldn't help but think that the stranger resembled a ghoul, a creature he'd fought as a Shield of Yartar.
The creature threw back it’s head and let out a loud howl. The swirling tendrils of shadow energy emanating from the rune imbedded in the beast’s forehead flared to life. A wave of arcane energy suddenly blasted into Aren, knocking him to the floor. Aren hit the floor of the common room and rolled with the impact of the magical blast, avoiding any serious harm from the attack. The locals around him were thrown from their feet, their bodies crashing backwards into tables and chairs, splitting the wooden furniture to pieces.
Shouts and cries of dismay erupted throughout the common room as the man, whose hands ended in vicious, elongated claws, roared and whirled among the crowd, cutting down the locals of Verland where they stood. Adrenaline coursed through Aren's veins as he knew he was all that could save the locals. The beast charged Aren with its jaw's wide open but Aren punched it away. In fluid action, Aren broke away from the half-ghoul and made his way around a sitting chair to the fireplace. Grabbing the sword hung above the mantle, Aren prepared himself for battle. Unsure of how to wield the blade, having never done so, Aren made clumsy work of swatting away the half-ghoul's claws as it charged and swatted at him. Never the less, Aren defended himself and delivered a blow of his own as he wrapped both of his hands around the grip of the sword.
Blood littered the floor of the inn as Aren opened up the creature's chest. It snapped at him and in retort he clobbered it across the jaw with the blade he found. As blood and teeth crossed the inn's warm air, the inn's half-orc owner readied a mug containing only the bottom of an ale. Rholsk tightened his bicep, bent his elbow, and then hurled the cup at the half-ghoul's head. As the mug bounced off its skull, the creature's knees crumbled beneath it.
An eerie, guttural voice emanates from the creature’s cracked and bleeding lips. "Your realm will fall."
Aren then lifted his boot and stomped. The head of the creature made a sickening crunch as his boot crushed down upon it. The body of the half-ghoul twitched a few times, then ceased to move. The rune imbedded in the creature’s forehead dissolved instantly, crumbling to dust. A bloody indentation resided where the rune once rested.
"Well, that’s one way to do it," a familiar voice declared from the doorway of the inn as another gust of cold washed in.
Aren spun around twirling his weapon by his elbow, though nearly losing it in the flourish. Standing before him was a man he thought to be long dead. The man held his hands up, "easy, friend. It’s been a long time."
Aren's old comrade, Vattar Kasari, stood before him. A dark cloak was draped over his shoulders, the hood thrown back to reveal his half-elven features. Stubble littered his lower jaw, and his shoulder-length brown hair glistened with melting snowflakes. The long locks hid his elven heritage well. Vattar's gloved hands rested on the weapons sheathed at his waist, a shortsword and dagger; upon his back was slung a crossbow.
"I thought you were dead," Aren remarked.
Vattar shrugged, "I needed to throw off a few... less than reputable individuals. What better way to avoid a real death than by faking your own, eh?"
Aren let out a sigh and shook his head. Some things never change, and Vattar was always a mannerless rogue. never the less suspicion crept across Aren's face and then he asked, "This is anything if not unusual and certainly suspiciously fortuitous."
"Fortuitous indeed," Vattar replied. "You’re lucky that I found you first. But you’re right. I need your help with something and I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say."
Vattar Kasari raised an eyebrow and walks into the ruined common room. The locals made way, whispering amongst themselves as Aren's old friend stepped across the threshold and picked his way through the debris. "You always could hold your own in a fight," Vattar affirmed.
It was then that Rholsk stepped forward, blocking Vattar’s path before he could reach the mutilated corpse of the half-ghoul. "We’re closed," the half-orc grunted, arms crossed over his chest.
"His suspicion is well placed Vattar," Aren started, "what is it you want?"
"I just want your help, old friend,” Vattar said. “Believe me, you are going to want to hear what I have to say. Come, let us discuss this outside."
Aren stepped outside as the people of Verland began to clean up the ruined common room. Thankfully none of the locals lost their lives, though many bore nasty cuts and slashes across their bodies. The fight with the undead horror was threatening and Aren knew that the inn was going to need a hard scrubbing to remove the stains of battle from the floorboards.
"Just let me know if you you need somethin’," Rholsk called after Aren.
The half-orc then took charge, moving among the wounded and assisting with bandages and stitches. Aren remembered Rholsk mentioned that he used to be a soldier but the two never reminisced about their battles. Other locals limped about the building, clearing the debris and broken furniture from the inn, offering to help in whatever way they could. Some mumbled and stared silently into the shadows, still in shock from the battle that erupted in their quiet and secluded hamlet. None of the locals were eager to go near the corpse of the half-ghoul. The locals then bagan to glance in Aren's direction, leaning close and whispering to one another.
Aren couldn't be sure if the villagers were blaming him or thanking Tymora that he was present to help defeat the undead creature. Either way, hearsay wass the least of Aren's concerns at that moment. The air was cold as he made his way outside. A light dusting of snow covered the ground, glistening in the moonlight. The homes nearby ware dark and quiet.
"You’re not going to like this," Vattar stated outright, leaning against the railing of the covered porch that surrounded the inn.
Shadows fell across his face. "Malisar is alive."
Aren's stomach suddenly dropped, his blood chilled in his very veins. Malisar, the name still made him shudder. The human Malisar was a powerful enemy he and his fellow adventurers had defeated before he settled down in Verland. Aren could still remember Vattar’s blade slicing off Malisar's arm and the kick that sent his foe plummeting into darkness. And the dark magic that was cast after...
"I watched Malisar die, it was the moment I gave up chasing her. I won't soon forget it." Aren responded.
"Did we, though?" Vattar questioned grimly. "We all watched him fall. We didn’t see his body after that. Isn’t it possible that he could have survived, that he has been healing and regaining his strength all this time?"
Vattar then shrugged and stated, "Or maybe he’s just risen from the dead."
Vattar shook his head as if doubting his very words and stated, "I wouldn't believe it either but I’ve seen him with my own eyes. He’s alive and he’s here. Malisar hasn't stopped searching for a way to heal his affliction."
The half-elf rubbed at his face. “It gets worse.” His hands dropped to his sides, and he stared at the ground for a moment before continuing, “Malisar is working with the Zhentarim."
Vattar then looked Aren right in his eyes, knowing his history with that group, "they’re using those things, creatures like the one that you just killed. Every time we defeat one of them, we make the enemy stronger. Every death bolsters their ranks. They have some kind of wizard helping them. Some necromancer from Thay."
"Where are they," Aren questioned through a calm anger.
"Last I saw, Malisar and the Zhentarim were scouting out some ruins deep within Kryptgarden Forest. I couldn’t get too close without being spotted. I’m not entirely sure what they’re doing, but it can’t be good if our old enemy is involved."
"But you have fought them, or rather, you've fought these creatures."
"Yes, but I didn't do so alone."
"Then who with?" Aren wondered aloud.
Vattar threw his cloak over his shoulder, revealing a silver brooch pinned on the chest of his blackened leather armor. Inscribed on the pin’s surface was a crescent moon and harp. "I work for the Harpers now, and for the moment, our goals align. We have to stop Malisar, but we need your help especially if Thayans are involved as well."
After being asked about the Thayans Vattar responded, "to be honest, I don’t know much about the one we've heard about. We learned about the her, this Blood Witch, during our interrogation of a captured Zhent agent."
Noticing Aren's surprised expression he laughed and exclaimed, "I know, ‘Blood Witch’. That’s not creepy in the least. Thayans are known for their cruelty, demonology, and powerful magics. I would hope we'd never have to cross her. Unfortunately, in order to stop these creatures, we’re going to have to."
"You need to gather your gear, and you need to come with me,” Vattar nearly demanded with a desperation in his eyes. “We will make our way into Kryptgarden Forest and from there I can lead you to the ruins where Malisar is hiding. Help me get close enough and we can end this.”
"I've had my fill of adventuring Vattar," Aren replied somberly. "I only ever started because of her. But I wont sit by an let Malisar rise and you know well that I'd happily kill every last morsel of Zhent filth if I could. If nothing else I must do this for my parents."
"We'll leave at first light,” Vattar informed. "Gather your belongings and meet me here at the inn. It is little more than a day’s ride to the ruins where I last saw Malisar and his band of Zhentarim"
The half-elf began to turn away and then stopped. "And when we find him," he remarked coldly, "I’ll be the one to kill him, for good this time, and for our friend Serius."
Aren's throat got scratchy and began to burn as he replied, "for Serius."
After Aren returned the inn's longsword he retired to his home. His sleep was restless. His dreams were filled with nightmares and images of the creature he had defeated in the common room of the Crossed Staves Inn. In his nightmares, it wasn't a cloaked stranger that turned into the half-ghoul, it was Davian. Then it was Rholsk. Then it was him. With that, Aren awoke the next morning with a jolt. The sun was just beginning to peek above the treetops, painting the sky with an orange glow. Aren could hear chickens clucking outside his window as the town came to life. Frost was clinging to the edges of his window pane as Aren arose. He quickly donned his clothing before washing the sleep from his eyes using the washbasin in his room. The water was cold and refreshing and tore the exhaustion of the prior day's logging from his aching body. Sadly, Aren knew his aches and pains would get worse on the coming days, as he set out on a journey.
Aren knew that Vattar needed his help and the realm would not be safe until Malisar was defeated. Aren didn't like leaving his home again but knew that he was one of the only people that understood the problem and could help the Harper agent. Aren had fought Malisar before and that, he figured, gave him an advantage.
After donning his armor and picking up his daggers once more, Aren threw his leathers over his shoulders and strapped on his backpack. With a quickness to his step, he made his way down into the cold cellar that he constructed beneath his home. The cellar was dark and shadowed and cobwebs clung to the corners and ceiling of the underground chamber. A rack of weapons stood against one wall, covered in a dusty white sheet. Two barrels stood in one corner next to a seldom-used workbench. A heavy, iron-bound wooden door rested ominously at the far end of the room. Aren took out a key from a leather pouch at his waist. The runes on the key began to glow as he approached the massive door. He had hoped that he would never have to open it again, but he didn’t have much of a choice as he stood before the door once more. Aren knew he was going to need all the help he could get. While the underground cellar and the magical wards that sealed his private room away were costly to build, the items that he had stored within the chamber were priceless. He slide the key into the lock and whispered the passphrase, Kalanna Reinar the woman he once loved.
As he spoke the passphrase, magical runes began to flare across the door’s surface. He turned the key in the lock and heard a loud click. The door shifted slightly and began to swing open. The door opened no more than a crack before stopping. The crack was large enough to fit his arm through but no more. Dust fell from the ceiling and a stale breeze billowed past him as he pulled on the handle but found the door would not budge.
He took a moment to search the massive, iron-bound door. He traced him hand along the edges of the doorframe. Suddenly his fingers caught on something solid. He tried to pull his hand away, but to no avail. He hand was truly stuck! As he tried to twist and pull his hand back, all of his fingers become attached to a sticky substance on the far side of the door. With one last tug, Aren manage to wrench his hand free, and a strip of white webbing came with it. He hold his hand up to examine the silver strands attached to his fingers, immediately he realized that the strands were actually the tangled fibers from a giant spider’s web and fear poured through him.
Paniced, Aren drew one of his daggers for the first time in quite a long time and watched as the blade quivered in his hand. He tried to calm himself but when that failed he, as carefully as he could, reached behind the door and into the shadows. In the shadows beyond he sliced through the strands of webbing holding the barricade in place. The process to free the door from the viscid substance took a few minutes but he soon had the door free of obstructions. With a triumphant creak, the door began to swing open on rusted hinges.
With the door open he saw a short hallway stretching out ahead of him. The hallway opened into a dark chamber beyond. Thick spiderwebs covered the walls, floor, and ceiling of the passage. That was assuridly not how he had left his storeroom two years ago. A low chittering noise echoed off the stone walls catching his attention. The chittering grew louder as two large spiders crawled into view at the far end of the tunnel. Both creatures hissed menacingly when they saw Aren before them.
One of the spiders then skittered toward Aren but as it approached he slashed at its face with his dagger and stopped the beast's charge. Jumping away from the creature, Aren scurried over to and then clattered against his weapon rack. Aren grabbed the spear he carried in the service of Yartar and retreated to a defaceable position by the stairs. With one hand free Aren called upon his pact magic and bore a Witch Bolt toward the first creature to charge him but it ran along the wall with mighty fury. Aren then kept the next spider at distance with his spear but its kindred was soon upon him. Bashing the spider away with his fist as it leapt at him, Aren screamed with fear and stabbed into as it rested upon the wall beside him. Kicking the one still on the ground, the one he stabbed leaped over Aren's head and rested beside of him. It was then that Aren stabbed it again and watched it curl up before him. The living spider took the opportunity to bite Aren's leg to his great fear and peril as the mild poison coursed though his veins. In anger and fear Aren forced his spear tip upon the last remaining spider but slid it across the floor instead. Desperation in his eyes, Aren kicked the spider away before critically stabbing it all the way though. The creature coiled up upon his spear and with a massive shiver, he stomped it off.
The thick, yellow blood of the beasts pooled upon the floor as Aren made his way cautiously down the shadowed hallway and into the chamber beyond. He breathed a sigh of relief having finally gained access to his warded storeroom. His heart dropped however as he took a moment to examine the current state of the room. A large table rested nearby, charred and burnt when it hadn't been previously. The remnants of translucent webs dangled from the wooden surface. The walls and floor around the table were similarly covered. Lying on the dirt floor next to the table was a burnt corpse. Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust coated the banners and flags lining the stone walls of the chamber. A suit of dented splint mail stood on display in the far corner of the room, seemingly undisturbed. One of the walls of the storeroom had collapsed, revealing a cramped and shadowed tunnel beyond. Rubble and dirt had spilled into the room. Sitting on top of the rubble were three giant spider eggs, resting gently in a net of webbing. The eggs were yellow, and semi-transparent. Aren could see a mass of writhing, blurry shapes moving within the eggs.
Aren made his way over to the table. He used his hand to wipe away the ash and debris from the table. Scorched parchments and burnt artifacts had been reduced to charcoal and gray ash. His hand stopped as he brushed against something solid, something not completely consumed by the inferno that engulfed this corner of the room at some point. As he pulled the item free and began to dust it off, a familiar chittering noise caught his attention. Turning, he instinctively pulled the item forth. It was a tattered and wrinkled scroll, bound with a gold string. He wiped the item clean of ash and loose cobwebs. He noticed that the scroll seemed to be largely intact. He couldn't keep his as from it as he stole a brief moment to examine the item before he would have to face the source of the muffled chittering noise. He tries to think hard, letting his knowledge of the arcane guide him. The incessant chittering breaks his concentration he neither remembers the scroll or ascertains its purpose.
His muscles tensed as a familiar chittering sound echoed off the stone walls of the storeroom. Dark shadows began to climb out of the suit of armor, emerging from the gaps between the overlapping plates of splint mail. The shapes rushed toward him, darting across the floor and stone walls. The chittering grew louder as the creatures drew nearer, and he could see that the beasts were tiny relatives to the giant spiders he had just defeated. The spiders were no bigger than a cat, but much more deadly.
As spiders burst from the eggs, Aren stabbed the lead one and the next jumped up and bite him in the arm as it bounced off of him. Aren then cast Green Flame upon his spear as a swarm descended upon him and stabbed one spider and watched the next burst into flames before he fled from the room. The horde followed but Aren was faster and in the cellar he turned and hurled his spear at them but it clattered off of the door and never made it into the hallway. As the swarm grew closer @Aren hurled a dagger at them and watched it clatter off the floor as he drew his next. He became surrounded on the stairway and stabbed one spider as it charged him and watched as another leapt onto a wall nearby him. As the remaining two spiders climbed onto Aren he lit Green Flame upon his dagger and stabbed the spider on the wall, then one of the spiders on his chest burst into flame as he twisted down the stairs. Finally, Aren stabbed the last spider off of his chest and flung it onto the ground.
Taking a moment, Aren grabbed a cloth, cleaned the guts off of himself, his spear as he gathered it, and then his hands before he collected his thrown dagger and returned to his store room. All of Aren's senses were on high alert despite the fact that he appeared to be safe for the moment. Calming himself, Aren took a few moments to catch his breath while glancing around the room. The stench emanating from the shattered spider eggs stung his nostrils. Many years had passed since he was last in the storeroom but he knew he definitely hadn't invited spiders, of which he was terrified. He knew that he'd left the place in a cleanly state. So, Aren assumed that at some point, the spiders must have burrowed in from beyond the collapsed wall and built a nest. The burnt corpse of a humanoid told the tale of another who had been a little too curious about Aren's locked treasures. On the far side of the room, past the pile of rubble and the remnants of giant spider eggs, a shadowed tunnel descended into darkness. The table that used to hold the majority of his gear was somehow blackened and burnt and next to it was that charred corpse, motionless on the floor. The splint mail that was once on display then fell to the floor, another lovely token from the spiders.
Aren walked back over to the table and picked up the scroll he'd dropped on the floor. He sat it back down and, though the table and this corner of the room were scorched and warped from fire, he was able to sift through the ash and recover one item that may prove useful on his journey. As he opened the box it seemed that Tymora had not completely abandoned him yet. Aren's old Cloak of Protection was there to be salvaged and he did so. As Aren put the cloak on him the scrolls use flooded back into his mind, it was a Scroll of Protection. Making his way over to the armor, Aren realized that the dented splint mail had seen better days, more specifically when he was a member of the Shields of Yartar. As he leaned down and picked up the the chest guard he saw that the interior padding of the armor was coated with cobwebs. Rust had started to spread across the overlapping plates of mail as well. All in all, the armor needed more repairs then Aren could give.
On the hunt once more, Aren kneeled down beside the burnt corpse. Most of the flesh was blackened and charred. The tattered remains of a tunic and leather armor still clung to the body. The face has completely melted away. Other than the body appearing fairly old, nothing of interest jumped out at him as he investigate the burnt corpse.
At the shadowy recesses at last, Aren proceeded nervously. He carefully picked his way through the rubble of the collapsed wall. The ichor leaked from the eggs had diluted the adhesive of the webbing, making his ascent up the pile of loose stones easier than it could have been. The soles of his boots and the palms of hid hands still clung for a moment to the fibrous strands but he managed to clamber up to the mouth of the shadowed tunnel without too much of a struggle. The tunnel was small and cramped and was comprised of loose dirt and dangling roots. The tunnel extended a short distance into the earth before sloping upward and turning sharply to the right. Aren realized that he would be able to crawl through the tunnel, but he really didn't want to and he was unsure where the passage might lead.
Knowing he needed to secure his home, Aren pressed on. He crawled into the tunnel, pushing himself through the cramped passage. He navigated past loose rocks and tangled roots that protruded from the cavern walls. After following the tunnel to the right, Aren saw that the passage continued another thirty feet before opening up into a small cavern. Continuing forward, he eventually reached the lip of a tunnel overlooking the cavern. Slivers of sunlight filtered down from a narrow opening fifty feet above. He could see the swaying limbs of treetops through the sunlit opening below. A frayed rope dangled twenty feet from the narrow opening overhead. Wind whistles into the cavern and water trickled down the chamber’s nearly vertical stone walls. The makeshift tunnel that he crawled through stood nearly twenty feet above the cavern floor. A similarly frayed rope, identical to the one dangling overhead, was laying coiled on the stone floor below. A pickaxe and shovel rested next to a mound of loose dirt and broken rocks below.
Aren took a moment to wait quietly, he crouched in the tunnel overlooking the dark cavern and waited. He turned his head, trying to listen through the wind as it whistled past his ears and he waited for any suspicious sounds emanating from within the cavern below. The howling wind and a steady trickle of water dripping down the stone walls was all that he could hear as he waited. No other sound caught his attention at that time. As his eyes surveyed the darkness of the cave, he did notice however that the corner of a dusty leather bag was poking out from behind a mound of dirt on the cavern floor.
In the end, Aren couldn't convince himself to go any further and he returned to his storeroom and then his cellar. Inside Aren grabbed his bedroll, a blanket, his crowbar, a healer's kit, some rope, a tinderbox, three torches, and his old waterskin. Taking a seat up stairs, Aren took a moment to wrap and salve his spider bites before he stood once again.

Rewards Granted

400xp

Missions/Quests Completed

Quest Shadowborne Started.

Notes

Notable Party Damage:

• Aren has a swollen bite from a giant spider on his right shin and a small bite from one of its offspring on his right arm that are wrapped in bandages and slathered with salve.
  Noted Effects: None

Report Date

23 Nov 2020

Primary Location

Faerûn