Session 1

The city streets bustled with life as merchants called out their wares, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the salty air of the docks. Among the crowd moved Kira Rune, a warrior whose great hammer could shatter bones; Delphine Rowanberry, a spellcaster whose magic could both reveal secrets and dissolve foes; D’Artagnan, a cunning rogue with a sharp eye for deception; and Benard Williams, a healer whose hands mended wounds and shielded others from harm.

Their path led them to Lord Aric Thorne, an advisor of the Vanguard. He provided them with a symbol, a mark that would signal him in times of need. More urgently, he warned them of an impending attack in the market the next day.

The group took positions among the bustling vendors, eyes scanning for any signs of danger. Then—just as the sun reached its peak—they saw them. Hooded figures, slipping between stalls like shadows in the sunlight.

Before they could act, explosions tore through the market. Stalls splintered, debris flew, and smoke billowed as chaos erupted. Screams filled the air, civilians fled in terror, and the attackers emerged from the destruction.

Kira surged forward, swinging her great hammer into the first cultist, sending him crashing into a pile of rubble. Delphine raised a hand, muttering an incantation—acid splashed across another attacker’s chest, their robes dissolving as they collapsed with a gurgling scream. D’Artagnan loosed arrows from the smoke, striking true. Benard moved among the chaos, conjuring shimmering shields to protect those caught in the devastation.

In moments, three cultists fell where they stood. The last one, wounded and gasping, was shackled in manacles before he could escape.

The cultist spoke in an unknown language, his words harsh and guttural. After Intense Interrogation it was understood the cultist would not be of any use. Upon the arrival of the guards they searched him, revealing a note written in the same script.

Delphine traced symbols in the air, murmuring an incantation. The magic settled over her, revealing the note’s contents— A Time and a Location.

Following the only lead they had, the party took refuge inside the tavern linked to the attack. For hours, they observed, watching the flow of patrons and keeping their ears open for any whispers of the cult.

D’Artagnan approached the barkeep, feigning casual conversation. Through well-placed words and subtle deception, he extracted vital information—there was something happening that night.

And it would not be taking place in the main room.

The meeting entrance was around the back of the tavern, leading down into the basement.

This was where he needed to be.

Alone, D’Artagnan slipped through the back entrance, stepping into the dimly lit underground chamber.

He was not alone.

Two dozen figures, cloaked and faceless, stood in eerie silence. Near the stage, four masked individuals loomed, their presence heavy with authority. The air was thick with tension. The sound of whispers and murmured devotions echoed in the stone chamber.

Then, a figure emerged onto the stage. Their cloak rippled, their voice cut through the murmurs.

A leader. A speaker. A fanatic.

The words they spoke roused the crowd, filled with promises of revolution and sacrifice. But then—they paused.

A traitor had been uncovered.

Two cultists dragged forth the barkeep.

D’Artagnan’s breath caught in his throat. He had spoken to this man, had drawn him into this web.

A blade gleamed in the torchlight.

His pulse pounded. His fingers twitched toward his bow. He couldn’t let this happen.

The arrow loosed before his mind could catch up. It struck the executioner’s arm, sending the blade clattering to the floor. Gasps rippled through the crowd, then silence.

Then—chaos.

D’Artagnan turned for the exit, but hands grabbed him before he could move. Dozens of figures surged toward him, gripping his arms, his shoulders, his cloak.

There were no weapons drawn. They didn't need them.

They overpowered him effortlessly, shoving him forward and dragging him onto the stage.

Upstairs, the rest of the party heard D’Artagnan’s voice from below and knew he was in trouble. Without hesitation, they moved.

They stormed down the stairs—but they were too late.

D’Artagnan was on his knees, his arms wrenched behind him, held firm by unseen hands. The executioner raised their blade once more.

And then—an arrow struck true.

From the shadows, the Vanguard emerged.

The masked executioner crumpled, an arrow embedded in their skull. The cultists barely had time to react before the Vanguard moved in, corralling them with precision.

In the chaos, the masked figures disappeared, vanishing into the shadows before anyone could notice.

By the time the city guard arrived, the remaining cultists had been rounded up, forced to their knees, and secured for questioning.

The battle was over.

But for D’Artagnan, the cost had already been paid.

As soon as the fight ended, D’Artagnan rushed to the barkeep’s body, his hands pressing against the lifeless form, eyes wild with desperate hope.

"Benard—fix this!"

But some wounds do not heal. Some fates cannot be rewritten.

The barkeep was gone.

D’Artagnan cradled the body, his hands shaking. Benard knelt beside him, knowing there was nothing he could do. No magic, no prayer, could undo what had been done.

Kira, silent, lifted D’Artagnan away, strong arms carrying him from the bloodstained floor.

His fingers tightened, refusing to let go—until at last, the lifeless body slipped from his grasp.

Behind them, Thalindra Stormblade, a Vanguard commander, turned to Benard. “Aric will want to speak with you.”

The moment Kira set him down outside, he bolted—back into the tavern, up the stairs, into a room that suddenly felt too small.

His fingers trembled as he carved the symbol of Aric Thorne into the door.

He would not run from this. He would not be powerless again.

And D’Artagnan would be waiting.

Waiting for vengeance.