Waukeen

Village Stethlan, Ches 1st (The Claw of the Sunsets), 1372 DR (The Year of Wild Magic)

The two stone towers guarding the bridge that crossed the Hazur River and led into the Village Stethlan were just visible on the horizon a half mile away to the south. The quintet had put about the same distance between themselves and the small port of Bixburg where the fishing boat had dropped them off an hour or so earlier. They had spent some time browsing the small market for native trinkets and fruits while Krell attempted to replenish the contents of his stomach that he’d lost into the River during the latter part of their trip.

“I will ne’er understand human’s fascination with creatures of the sea!” he complained, dismayed by the limited options offered by the lone fry shack – fresh fish and chips fried in boar’s fat – settling for two orders of raw chips and a mug of warm Stethlan Pale Ale. “At least they know how to craft a hearty brew.”

It was the first thing all five had agreed on and they’d joined Krell in a friendly round before setting out on the road south.

The loftily-named Hazur Promenade was a packed dirt highway that served as the primary trading route for the nomadic humans that lived on and worked the farmlands and light forests of central Tashalar, and supplied the small villages and ports along the River with everything from food and drink to timber and furs. They’d passed two caravans already, both heading north back to Bixburg, neither with any news of interest on the road to Stethlan.

The woodline had been cleared fifty yards from the road on their right, the angry river flowed freely on their left and the only shadows cast were their own which grew longer by the minute as the sun was well on its way to disappearing into the west. Though it offered relatively safe passage, the potential yuan-ti raid or griffon ambush caused them to pick up their pace a bit, wanting to make the village ahead of nightfall.

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An hour south of Tashluta, the Hazur river had begun to narrow somewhat to no more than 30 yards at its widest point. Indo Skulldark sat at the rear of the small fishing boat warily eyeing the ragged banks that rose steeply on either side making them easy prey for bandit archers or griffons looking to feast on a horse or two. Shann stood near the front of the boat talking with the captain who was expertly directing his small crew down the unusually choppy river, while Corin and Krell sat at the middle, both seemingly lost in thought, and Aladren paced to and fro.

Indo’s cowl was pulled down over his eyes to shield him from the bright midday sun. He’d been on the surface for less than a year and was still extremely sensitive to daylight. He blinked as someone crossed in front of him, blocking the sun, and looked up to see Aladren, the jovial little hin, staring at him.

“There must be quite a story that goes with one such as yourself,” Aladren smiled. “Not many Duergar in these parts. Not on the surface, at least.”

“What do you know of the Duergar, little one?”

Indo was tall for a dwarf, nearly a foot taller than Aladren when standing. Seated, they were face to face. Aladren smirked at the response.

“I know evil rests in yer hearts, for one thing!”

Both men turned to Krell, the brown-skinned dwarf, both hands gripping the bench he rested on hard enough to turn his fingertips white. He’d barely spoken a word since Lord Belgeon had gathered the quintet together hours earlier and his outburst caught them all by surprise.

“You’d do well to keep your opinions to yourself, cousin,” Indo snarled. “Especially ignorant ones born from myth and stereotype. You know nothing about my people.”

Krell’s nostrils flared but his grip on the bench never lessened. A man of the mountains, he could climb the most treacherous of inclines without a second thought. Traveling by water, however, had his ample stomach twisted in knots and his brain floating queasily in his head.

“Well,” Aladren cut in between the two, “I know some interesting myths about the dwarves of the Great Rift, too, my seasick friend, but I’ve chosen not to judge you on them. I prefer more specific tales, individual stories. Especially of those who attempt to overcome the stereotypes that dog their every step. The story of a certain dark elf comes to mind…”

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Belgeon Urthadar absently rubbed at the scar on his forearm as Shann Tharden outlined the impending mission to the Village Stethlan, an outpost farming village on the Hazur River, near the northern edge of the Hazur Mountains that lay southwest of Tashluta. The village’s prosperous brewery, famous throughout the region for its potent Stethlan Stout, had recently been targeted by the Rundeen Consortium, a powerful organization of Tashlutan merchants that controlled much of the trade, legal and illegal, throughout the Tashalar and most of the Chultan peninsula.

The Rundeen, Shann explained, operated on two levels. On the surface was a legitimate concern that monitored trade, mediated disputes and provided security on the docks and along the various trade routes, land and sea, in and out of Tashluta. The Consortium’s directors were comprised of representatives from the major merchant families in Tashluta, effectively mirroring the majority of the membership of the Merchant’s Council that governed the city. While these positions were permanent, a single slot was given to a selected representative of the numerous smaller merchant families, typically one more interested in currying individual favors than in fairly representing their fellow merchants, which rotated annually amongst the various lesser industries.

Beneath the surface, however, lie the true power of the Consortium, a shadowy network of despots, rogues and pirates that controlled everything from inventories and distribution to prices and profits through extortion, vandalism and assassination.

Both levels claimed fealty to Waukeen.

Shann’s voice rose a bit at this, speaking with the fervor of the recently converted, her passion for the Reform Church’s mission of fair trade and prosperity for all an infectious thing.

Assassination, Belgeon remembered, was exactly how he’d unexpectedly found himself the leader of the Church two years prior, barely a year after his own conversion. His mentor, Davgretor Swordhand, had established the reform sect seven years ago, shortly after the end of the Interdeium of Waukeen when she had inexplicably disappeared for more than ten years, a result of the traumatic Time of Troubles that saw the gods banished to the mortal world and Waukeen secretly imprisoned by the demon lord Graz’zt. Formerly a prominent and trusted advisor to the Urthadar family, his decision had opened Belgeon’s eyes wide to the realities of life in Tashluta, the hypocrisy of his own family and what responsibilities and self-interest they had in preserving the status quo.

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The smell of charred wood and flesh had reached his nostrils a full mile before he’d reached its source – each step closer making it impossible to not assume the worst.

Corin knew the tangled, unmarked paths of the Black Jungles like he knew his own name – intimately and without effort, moving swiftly towards his worst fears realized. He’d spent most of his one hundred and sixteen years exploring the jungles, hunting them and protecting them, from human exploitation and yuan-ti desecration alike. The jungle was his home, where he felt the most comfortable and the most needed. Over the last twenty years, however, he’d discovered an unnerving longing for a different life eating away at him from the inside.

Tashluta, the human merchant city on the coast of the northern sea beckoned him, tantalizing him with its exorbitant riches, decadent culture and civilized lifestyle.

He’d first visited twenty-five years ago, the youngest of three representing his tribe on a fact-finding mission to identify the supporters of a band of yuan-ti raiders that were destroying crops and livestock in the northern section of the jungle, a fertile valley sitting in the middle of the Hazur Mountain range long contested by the two races. Their actions were nothing remarkable, a regular tactic in their perpetual war against the elves; rather, it was their equipment, finely crafted steel weapons and wands capable of spitting balls of fire, which had suddenly appeared in the hands of the raiding parties, tipping the scales in battle. Such equipment was beyond known yuan-ti capabilities, suggesting an allegiance of disturbing intent.

The elven trio was warmly welcomed in Tashluta, a cosmopolitan port city that was home to peoples of many of the civilized cultures of Faerûn. A representative of the Merchant Council heard the details of their quest and put them up for the evening at the Tashluta Terrace, one of the City’s finest inns owned by the Urthadar family, where they rested luxuriantly from their half-a-tenday-long trek. The ornately carved furniture, the cushioned beds and silk sheets, the gluttonous meal and intoxicating wine – luxuries Corin had never dreamed of but reveled in. He was left awestruck by the view from their room on the fourth floor of gleaming towers and bustling streets; by the tall ships in the harbor and the hectic pace of the docks; by the diversity of the people and their relative wealth. It didn’t leave an impression as much as it carved a permanent place in his brain…and in his heart.

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Tashluta, Ches 1st (The Claw of the Sunsets), 1372 DR (The Year of Wild Magic)

Turtle Harbor lazily slapped against the Tashlutan docks, raising a welcome mist that splashed across Shann Tharden’s tan, unlined face. Standing in front of a small warehouse building at the end of the docks, she turned east to look towards the city’s skyline with its gaudy towers – impressive monuments to the various merchant families that had long ago established Tashluta as the major trading port on the Shining Sea’s southern coast, as well as the nominal capital of the Tashalar. Her gaze was gradually drawn north and west, past the market district and the city center and the Hazur River that separated them from the residential districts, across Turtle Harbor to the lone tower jutting up from the city’s northwestern peninsula that was home to the Urthadar family, the infamous spice merchants who wielded an inordinate amount of power on the Tashlutan Merchant’s Council, the city’s ruling body.

The tower, an impossibly straight column ten stories high, was made of the finest Duergar Marble from the Hazur Mountains and polished to an almost supernatural sheen that reflected both sun and moonlight, serving as a beacon for ships coming to port. There were numerous rumors of its origin as well as of what resided in its upper floors – an evil wizard ancestor of the Urthadars, imprisoned fey creatures whose magic kept the tower shining, a black sheep relative whose secrets threatened the family’s grip on power.

The latter was the most unlikely, she thought as, if there were such a relative it would be the man walking down the boardwalk towards her leading the oddest assortment of men she’d ever seen.

Lord Belgeon Urthadar was most definitely the black sheep of his family and, as much as some of his relatives might have liked to lock him away in their tower, since his ascension to High Cleric of the Tashlutan Reform Church of Waukeen, he’d become a virtually untouchable thorn in their side. He walked with the confidence of someone that was in fact untouchable, as if Waukeen herself were there by his side guarding his every step. His thick dark hair was locked and pulled back exposing a high forehead and prominent cheekbones. His eyes were nearly gray and a perfectly manicured goatee, which was beginning to sprout some gray of its own, surrounded his full lips. That he was relatively young for his lofty position in the fledgling church at 39 years old, not to mention extremely handsome yet unmarried, belied the depth of his devotion to his deity (and hers to him) and often led to his enemies underestimating his capabilities.

The assassins from two tendays prior had found that out rather painfully, returning to their unknown employers to report their failed mission, each with a prominent and permanent limp, one no longer possessing the ability to procreate. Belgeon had not escaped unscathed, though, proudly sporting a thick, ragged scar across his left forearm which he took as a sign of the righteousness of his chosen path.

He was tall, even for a human, but seemed a giant in the company of those trailing behind him – an elf, a Halfling and two dwarves.

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