Our heroes
met in a tavern called The Rusty Spoon located on the outskirts of Neverwinter,
on a dark, brooding night veiled in rain.
They made for an odd dinner party: adventurers
Varien Aether and Xylon Nightshade (who was having trouble holding his liquor),
and traveling Monk Theryn Hellvalor, who had arranged to meet with a Dragonborn
"antiquities expert" who called himself Clockscrew to talk about a
draconic artifact. Clockscrew, dressed in fancy evening wear, was in a
celebratory mood, claiming that he was celebrating the hatching of his brood,
and ordered round after round of drinks for the group, running up quite a tab.
The Rusty Spoon did a brisk business in wine,
women and song, but the table chosen by the party was in a secluded spot, with
only one other nearby patron, a distinguished-looking martial sort, giving them
the occasional appraising glance.
Clockscrew made a few furtive glances out the
tavern windows into the rainy night, and soon saw a group of menacing-looking
men approaching the Rusty Spoon.
Meanwhile, Xylon decided to check out the
gentleman in the corner of the room who had been checking them out, with his
dutiful colleague Varien tagging along. Clockscrew convinced the tipsy Xylon
that the man in question was looking for personal companionship and was just
his type (perhaps he was a supporter of fey marriage).
The man, fit and trim though well into middle
age, introduced himself as Sildar Hallwinter, and indicated that he was indeed
looking them over (but not for the reason Xylon thought). He was in fact
looking for a group of sturdy individuals to help guard a caravan of goods
leaving town later that night. If they were interested in having some gold in
their pockets, there might be an opening…
Theryn took this opportunity to walk to the
tavern's bar, surveying the rowdy group of tavern patrons hunched over wooden
tables, enjoying drink and the occasional drinking song. He noted a group of
well-dressed nobles who were clearly slumming it, as well as a mountain of a
man seated with a pair of ne'er-do-wells.
Clockscrew took another glance out the tavern
window. Sure enough, the approaching goons had the look of well-paid thuggery
about them, with fancy shoulder pauldrons and fitted chain mail shirts. Their
helms and tabard bore the insignia of Zapford Clockdrive, a prominent tinkerer
and inventor in Neverwinter, and Clockscrew had a good idea of why they were on
The Rusty Spoon's doorstep.
Theryn was making his way
through the tavern’s main room when the doors burst open, and in marched four
mercenaries. Their leader, whose helmet was buffed to a shine, and his
lieutenant were armed with thick clubs, and were being backed up by two thugs
wielding crossbows fitted with curious gear-driven loaders.
“Where’s that thieving snake?” the mercenary leader
asked the tavern’s proprietress. “We saw him slither his way in here.” He and
his lackey marched right past Theryn without a second glance as the Monk leaned
up against a post, checking the back room to see if Clockscrew was reacting to
the mercenary’s rather specific turns of phrase.
The sound of
crashing doors got Varien, Xylon, and Clockscrew’s attention. They moved to the
edge of the main hall to see what was what, though Clockscrew was already planning
his exit strategy.
“That scaly
shoplifter stole from Zapford Clockdrive, and Mr. Clockdrive wants his property
back, with interest!” the lead thug shouted.
A few steps
behind Varien and Xylon, Clockscrew pulled out a pair of fancy goggles from inside
his surcoat and attempted to slip it onto Varien’s head and then barreled
towards the nearest window, shattering it in a kaleidoscopic welter of glass
shards as he jumped through.
The sound of
Clockscrew’s defenestration attracted the attention of the mercenaries at the
door. The leader saw Varien holding the pair of goggles and shouted “There!
Don’t anybody move!”
A mercenary
sidled past Theryn, who attempted to surreptitiously trip the man as he walked
by. The tactic failed, but raised the ire of one of the crossbow-wielding
henchmen.
Thinking
quickly, Xylon cast mage hand and lifted the strange goggles from Varien,
attempting to get them as far away from the pair as possible. The spectral hand
floated the goggles over near the table of well-dressed nobles.
“Oi, what are
you playing at?” The crossbowman snarled at Theryn and attempted to give him a
kick, which missed.
The
club-wielding mercenary made his way through the crowd, intent on grabbing the goggles
from the mage hand.
“What’s this all about?” Varien asked in his most authoritative paladin’s
voice.
“This is
about Zapford Clockdrive’s stolen property!” the lead mercenary shouted back.
“Nobody steals from Zapford Clockdrive and gets away with it!”
Outside the
tavern, the Dragonborn formerly known as Clockscrew was shrugging out of his
fancy evening wear and breaking out his disguise kit, intent on colouring his
bronze scales blue as he sneaked along the building’s outer wall. He needed
those goggles back.
As the
mercenary began reaching from the goggles, Xylon let loose his magic missile
spell, sending three bolts of glowing force arcing through the air to strike
the back of the man’s chainmail shirt. The missiles scored deep hits and rocked
the mercenary.
This action
escalated the tension in the crowded tavern greatly, with patrons suddenly
shouting and attempting to get out of the line of fire.
Sighing at
his partner’s impertinence, Varien interposed himself between the wizard and
the seething mercenary leader. He asked the man to stand down.
The
crossbow-wielding thug’s boot finally made contact with Theryn’s backside.
“Nobody takes
a shot at one of my men and gets away with it!” The mercenary leader hefted his
club and charged towards Varien, who was blocking the thug's way. He swung his club, and the paladin effortlessly parried the inexpert blow.
With no small
sense of regret at not being able to resolve things peacefully, Varien twisted his halberd and impaled the mercenary leader as he rushed forward, stopping him
in his tracks. The mercenary died of surprise (and impalement) and dropped to
the floor.
A woman
screamed so loudly she dislodged some of the shingles on the tavern’s roof.
The thug
nearest the goggles, roils of smoke still curling up from his wounds, let out a
battle cry and charged at the Wizard, club raised.
The paladin
flicked his halberd sideways and its blade took a sizable chunk out of the
man’s neck. The dead thug sprawled into a bloody heap at the wizard’s feet.
The screams
of the tavern patrons continued apace.
Theryn
attempted to engage the two thugs nearest him, but succeeded only in giving the
crowd a vigorous demonstration of energetic shadowboxing, his quarterstaff, fists and feet catching nothing but air.
Outside the
bar, the Dragonborn strapped on his armor and hefted his twin knives. A blue
flash of light from within the Rusty Spoon let him know that magic had been
called into play. He moved to a new position and put the finishing touches on
his disguise, careful not to get any blue paint on his favourite gear.
One of the
crossbowmen fired a shot at Theryn, who ducked easily. The crossbow bolt did
succeed in striking the neck of a seated patron directly behind the Monk. The man
had the good manners to die quietly, unlike his dining companions who began
screaming bloody murder.
Theryn’s fist
managed to connect with the chin of the second crossbowmen, rocking the man
back a few steps.
Xylon stepped
out from behind Varien’s protection and let loose another magic missile,
sending bolts at both crossbowmen.
Theryn felt a
cold ripple as the magic missile flew past him to strike the crossbowman dead,
leaving him a smoking corpse on the sawdust-covered floor. His companion shouted in pain as he took a pair of bolts to the chest, but remained standing.
There was a
terrific crash as the Dragonborn Rogue blasted through another window, charging
directly into the centre of the room. He threw one of his knives at the last crossbowman, and it sailed over his head to embed itself in a post.
“Look at me!”
the rogue shouted, somewhat triumphantly.
From behind,
the unlocked frame of the window he had just broken through creaked open, bits
of glass still tinkling from it.
Thrown off by
the Dragonborn’s blue-tinted disguise, Varien took a threatening step towards
the last crossbowman and ordered him to stand down. The sneering thug responded
by firing a bolt from his crossbow, but it struck the floor inches from the
Paladin’s boot. The man chose to flee after that, but not before the Dragonborn
could tackle him and frogmarch him to a nearby chair, disarming him.
As the last
of the patrons fled through every open door available, Sildar Hallwinter walked
in from the dining room, clapping his hands slowly.
“Well done,”
he said. “Our caravan leaves from the Drover’s Gate at midnight. Since it now
looks like you have a need to get out of town in a hurry, you might want to
join us there.”
As the
Paladin took a knee to utter a quick prayer of thanks to his god, the Rogue
knelt to loot the bodies of the dead.