Durdindale: Davan I

Davan surveyed the growing crowd. The bar was quickly running out of elbow room and guests continued to pass through the stone archway. The bartender wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with his apron rag, picking up his pace.
Word must be spreading about Rydan’s performances. A gifted lad, even I must attest.
Along the far wall, the dragonborn brothers sat quietly at the end of the long table. Parathrax had finally dragged Vorothruun out of his library, though not without a book tucked under his arm. Parathrax nursed his regular brew, while Vorothruun sipped absentmindedly on the elvish wine he’d requested imported from Avraathe. Davan studied Vorothruun for a moment, sensing the familiar, indiscernible aura of purpose that seemed to hang in the air around him.
Ragnalla’s Chosen. What an interesting divergence. I wonder—
Davan’s thoughts were interrupted by a looming silhouette in the doorway. Even among the pressing crowd, it was not difficult to notice Second as he ducked to step into the Stoneway Inn. The construct’s formidable appearance couldn’t be in further contrast to his demeanor. He thanked each stranger enthusiastically as the crowd parted before the towering construct.
You know, maybe I shouldn’t have gotten so involved, but he really could be a fine leader.
Second moved directly towards the dragonborn brothers, drawing a piece of parchment from the magical vault constructed into his chest. Intrigued, Davan moved within earshot.
“Friends! My fellow Chosen, I am pleased as always to be once more in your presence. I come with a message on behalf of our mutual friend Tristain, who is both alive and well. In fact, he recently saved me from being abducted by a gith assassin and used in some dark ritual that would have severed my constructed form from the magic necessary for my life-adjacent functions. He found me on an earthmote full of undead pirates and—”
“Do you actually have a message for us, Second?” Vorothruun interrupted, thumbing the pages of his book.
“Ah, yes. Before leaving for the distant land of Chult, he requested I bring the two of you this document.” Second said, unfurling the parchment and passing it to Parathrax.
The dragonborn scanned the page, his expression tightening as his brows furrowed. He passed the document to his brother, who rolled his eyes at his brother’s response.
“Did Tristain say anything about what this is supposed to mean? Do we have any other intel on this Draxhar?”
Draxhar? The demon? Well, it isn’t as if we hadn’t seen this coming.
“He said that this ‘Draxhar’ is likely planning something nefarious, if his plans aren’t already in motion, and that he is a devoted Cyricist. Tristain hoped that you, and the rest of adventurers in Durindale, could keep an eye on things in his absence.”
As the three continued their discussion, Rydan — Nightinggale, Davan reminded himself — finished tuning his harp and plucked the first few chords of a popular tavern song. The current name escaped the barkeep, he’d known it under a dozen different titles over the years.
As the music picked up, Davan nudged his way closer to the end of the table, apron rag in hand. He used a telekinetic push to send an abandoned, half-empty mug tumbling to the floor. The clatter cleared a space in the crowd just behind Vorothruun. Davan closed the distance, muttering curses about the mess. Under the guise of cleaning, the barkeep stole a glance over the dragonborn’s shoulder, scanning the document.
If Tristain had this, it means Cyric let him find it. He’s finally ready to make his play, huh? Should be entertaining. How lucky of me to have the best seat in the house.