Part 1: Well Met at Brookhaven

The sun was low and blood-red over the Shard Peaks when five strangers came to Brookhaven. The trade road bent southward, crossing the SilverStream River by way of an old stone bridge—arched, moss-grown, and slick with the spray of evening mist. Beyond it lay the village: a scatter of timbered cottages, the scent of peat smoke in the air, and the quiet hum of hearths settling into twilight.

Brookhaven lay cradled between the rugged heights of the Peaks and the dark wall of the Bramble Deep Forest—a place where the mountains bled into wilderness, and civilization clung to the edge by grit and faith.

From every road they came: wanderers, outcasts, dreamers—each following their own quiet purpose.

Eric, a gnome sorcerer of uncertain reputation, small in stature but with eyes that glimmered like polished obsidian.
Isledie, a halfling rogue whose laughter could be as sharp as her daggers.
William Shepherd, a human cleric in travel-stained robes, the sunburst of his order tarnished but still bright enough to mark him as a man of faith.
Alder, a wood-elf bard whose soft voice and keen eyes hid centuries of old songs and older regrets.
And Farden, a human barbarian with the look of someone who had wrestled beasts and won—though not without cost.

They met, as so many destinies do, at the Silver Stream Inn, where Mira Holtsong’s stew filled the air with herbs and promise. The common room fell quiet when they entered, the silence stretching long enough for a log to snap in the fire. Then came the low murmur again, and the laughter resumed, though now a little forced.

Jacque, the inn’s grey-eyed steward, greeted them with the diplomacy of a man used to trouble. He led the newcomers to a shadowed corner, a table set apart near the warmth of the hearth. “You look like folk who’ve walked far,” he said softly. “Best sit where the light’s kind and the walls don’t listen.”

They ordered food and ale. Isledie was delighted to discover Pulsh Brown, the local halfling brew, nutty and strong. For a brief moment, the talk was simple—tales of roads traveled and storms survived.

Then the door burst inward.

A man filled the threshold—a brute of a figure, hair wild, face smudged with soot, eyes blazing with desperation. The air reeked of sulphur and forge-fire.
“Ignal Ironeater,” Jacque muttered, blanching.

The blacksmith staggered forward. “They’ve got her!” he roared, voice cracking. “Dira—my girl—they’ve taken her! Those cursed goblins snatched her from right under my nose!”

The room froze.

Eric’s eyes flicked to the others. Isledie set down her tankard. Farden flexed his hands on the haft of his axe.

After a brief, tense discussion of “expenses” and the mayor’s standing bounty—twenty-five gold for every pair of goblin ears—the five strangers found themselves united by purpose, if not yet friendship.

“Show us where,” William said simply.

Ignal led them west, toward the dying sun.

---

The smithy stood on the edge of the village, the air heavy with the tang of iron and ash. The light was failing fast. “They went that way,” Ignal said, pointing toward a line of trees. “Crow Fen Grove. Beasts dwell there—boar big as wagons. You’ll be needing steel and sense both.”

The trail was faint but clear to practiced eyes. Broken brush, smeared footprints, the stink of goblin musk. The party pressed on.

Within the hour, the forest swallowed them—branches thick as prison bars, the earth soft beneath their boots. Then, movement ahead: two hulking shapes, tusked and bristling, emerging from the shadows.

Boar.

“Breakfast,” Farden muttered, and charged with a roar that made the birds flee the trees.

The fight was savage. Isledie darted through the fray like a shadow, blades flashing, until a boar’s tusk caught her side and sent her tumbling. William knelt over her, calling on his god’s grace as blood soaked into the moss. Light poured from his hands, and the wound closed, leaving her pale but breathing.

When the beasts lay dead, Farden insisted on butchering them. “No sense wasting good meat,” he said, hanging the carcasses high from a branch for later.

Night claimed the forest. They made camp—fire crackling, mugs steaming with herb-tea and something stronger passed around. Tales were told; laughter came easier now. Alder took the watch, his eyes reflecting starlight.

The dawn was cold but clear. Within minutes, the trail was found again, leading westward.

By mid-morning they reached open ground, and from a low hill saw two goblins in the distance, their crude armor flashing in the light. The party shadowed them until the creatures vanished over the ridge—and there, hidden beneath the hill, lay a dark maw in the earth: the Goblin Lair.

---

They crept forward, silent as ghosts. Or nearly.

Alder’s boot cracked a dead branch.

The sound was like thunder in the still air. Goblin sentries shrieked and loosed their barbed arrows. Alder hissed a word of power—sleep washed over the creatures like mist, and they slumped to the dirt.

Knives flashed. Ears were taken. The bounty would be paid.

Down they went into the lair, through a narrow passage that stank of filth and fear. At the base of the steps stood a pair of rough doors. Isledie checked them for traps; finding none, he nodded.

They burst through.

Chaos. Fire. The gnome’s flask of oil shattered across the hearth, flames blooming like flowers of death. The doors slammed shut as the chamber filled with smoke and screams. When they opened again, goblins still stood—coughing, snarling, arrowstrings taut. Alder sang another spell, and three dropped instantly, eyes fluttering shut.

The rest fell to blade and flame, though not without misfortune: Eric’s bolt went astray and struck Farden squarely in the chest. The barbarian grunted, singed and furious, but kept swinging until the last goblin fell.

Then—chanting.

A deep, rhythmic call echoed through a door to the west.

They paused only long enough to bind their wounds and take stock. In the flickering light of the goblin brazier, Alder traced carvings on the wall: a company of knights battling a host of monsters beneath the inscription—

“I pledge to fight the chaos of the world, in all its forms, and to uphold the vows of the Order. By the honour of my word, I pledge this.”

The words hung in the air like a memory.

Farden, ever impatient, led the way down the next passage, half-listening, half-dreaming of roast boar. His reverie ended with a snap as his foot struck a hidden plate. Blades, four of them, swung from the ceiling with a shriek of metal. They struck sparks from his pack but left him standing, swearing mightily.

“Leave the sneaking to the rogue,” Isledie sighed, shaking her head.

Beyond the trapped hall, the chanting grew louder—frenzied now, desperate. They drew weapons, muttered prayers, and flung open the final doors.

---

The Hall of the Oathkeeper.

Smoke and incense wreathed the chamber. A massive statue of a knight loomed over a crude altar where a young girl wept in chains. Before her stood a goblin shaman, dagger raised high.

And from the shadows lumbered something worse.

A bugbear, hulking and fur-clad, its eyes gleaming red beneath its brow.

“They’ve brought a bugbear!” Eric gasped.

The monster swung its morning star and Falden bravely traded blows swinging his giant axe as if his life depended on it. Eric’s fingers danced through sigils, and a spectral hand shimmered into being. Blocking out the chaos around him, Eric focussed and kept the hand in place, in front of the Bugbears eyes, putting it at a big disadvantage. Alder and Isledie used every last ounce of concentration to fire into the swirling melee, some of their arrows came very close to fitting Farden but somehow they found their mark in the bugbears hide.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the statue another desperate encounter was playing out as William went toe to toe with the Goblin shaman. For a while it looked like William had the upper hand, landing some telling blows with his quarterstaff. A moment of distraction, a guard dropped and the Goblin found an opening how his cruel dagger. William dropped to the floor, unconscious and losing blood.

The fight was brutal and short. Steel met flesh, spells flared, and rage filled the air like thunder. When it was over, the bugbear and the shaman lay dead, their bodies twisted in the incense haze. Friends rushed to Will’s assistance, minding his wounds and providing rough and ready battlefield first aid. After agonisingly long minutes, Will’s eyes opened. “Have we won?”.

Dira was freed, though her sobs could not be calmed. “I could silence her,” Eric offered, waggling his fingers. “Another ‘Mage Hand’—over the mouth.” The others glared. He shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Searching the room, they found two vials containing a viscous blue liquid… healing potions, gold, gems, and—at the altar’s base—an inscription:

“If you are to keep this, you must first give it to me.”

They puzzled over it until Farden, wiping blood from his axe, grunted, “My word. I give my word.”

As the last syllable left his lips, stone grated against stone.

A secret door slid open.

Cold air spilled from the darkness beyond.

The adventurers exchanged looks—equal parts weariness and wonder.

The road to glory, it seemed, had only just begun.

To be continued…