Ruins of Timberport

The Rest of Your Life

Of course, your little excursion from Tucker’s farm was hardly the only trouble you managed to get into, but after you became apprentices, you became very busy and saw little of each other—in part to keep you out of trouble, in part because of your immense natural talents. Timberport being a reasonable place, by hook or by crook or by charitable donation, you have all the tools of your trades in hand at your adulthood ceremony.

You also have certain knowledge of what the matrons have planned for you, and while there’s a certain comfort in knowing what lies ahead, and generally with whom, you tell yourself it’s only trepidation at suddenly being really, finally, and ultimately responsible for it all that makes you scared – and not fear of losing … your freedom? After all, nobody can tell you what to do now. They do anyway, and are usually right, but it’s not about obedience – and since you’ve got a little saved up, maybe a few weeks going to all those places you weren’t supposed to go when you were a child would get it out of your system – yeah, one last hurrah for the gang – and your thoughts are interrupted by the storm that’s been building since morning finally breaking. Thankfully, the priestesses abbreviate their blessings; the wives of the town quickly move the food into the lopsided halls under the stadium’s seats. At the party, you almost make some gamblers a ton of money by asking permission to drink, but at the last second sputter out a request for a recommendation, instead. Watching the rain, you reconnect with the gang and drink your fill.

You are thus at your ease when an Eladrin sprints into the stadium, almost missing the turn under the seats in her haste. As you struggle to your feet, alcoholic haze evaporating, dozens of angry fishmen waving tridents round the corner after her. She weaves among the tables, then falls to the ground, overbalanced by her pack. She can’t spare the breath to ask for help, but even her mute appeal is obvious. The captain of the guard, unsurprisingly, reacts first, standing and shouting: “Militia to arms! We’ll hold them here!” The townsfolk bolt, and you, already at arms, rush forward. And roll initiative.


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