Previously… The road does not announce itself all at once. Sometimes it begins with a burial. Sometimes with a drink. Sometimes with a rumor whispered over ale that sounds like opportunity and smells like trouble.

The road always asks the same question in the end: Are you willing to leave what you know behind?

For the party, that answer came in Daggerford.

A Farewell, Set in Stone

The session opened not with movement, but with stillness.

At the Temple of Lathander, beneath pale morning light filtering through stained glass, the party laid their fallen companion, Zarkoth, to rest. The priest Luke spoke gently of dawn and renewal—of endings that make room for beginnings—but his words did little to ease the weight pressing down on those who listened.

Stone remembers the names laid upon it.

Some bowed their heads. Some stood rigid and silent. One lingered a moment longer than the others, eyes tracing the warm glow of the altar as if daring it to mean something more.

Grief has a way of slowing time, even when the world insists on moving forward.

Eventually, the party did what adventurers always do.

They stepped back into the day.

The Lizard’s Gizzard

If the temple marked an ending, the Lizard’s Gizzard offered the illusion of a beginning.

The tavern was loud and warm, thick with laughter and the clatter of mugs—the sort of place where tomorrow feels optional and the road seems far away. It was here that the party encountered Fenwick, an old acquaintance with a knack for finding opportunity where others found trouble.

Over drinks and lowered voices, Fenwick spoke of Waterdeep. Of work. Of coin. Of a name worth remembering: Davil Starsong, waiting at the Yawning Portal. The city was painted in broad strokes—towering walls, sharper ambitions, and dangers that rarely bothered to hide.

Fenwick did not linger on the risks.

By the time the mugs were empty, the decision had already been made.

Last Preparations

Before leaving Daggerford behind, there were practical matters to attend to.

Armor was checked. Packs were weighed. Coin changed hands beneath the watchful eyes of shopkeepers who had seen more adventurers pass through than they could count.

In one such shop, Doc paused before a greatsword hanging just out of reach—well-balanced, well-forged, and well beyond what his purse could afford.

He asked the price.

Then, after a pause, he asked for credit.

By late afternoon, the Trade Way stretched open to the north.

Daggerford fell behind them.

The First Night on the Road

The first night passed quietly.

They made camp beside the road, the distant creak of wagons and the steady chorus of insects filling the dark. Watches were kept. The fire burned low.

Nothing came.

In hindsight, it felt like the road being kind.

The Second Night’s Plea

The second night was not so gentle.

As the party prepared to settle in, a lone figure emerged from the darkness—a young man named Thomas, breathless and wide-eyed with panic. His sister, Lyra, was in labor. Something had gone wrong. He had nowhere else to turn.

Without hesitation, the party followed him off the Trade Way to a nearby barn, its lantern light flickering weakly against the night. Inside, Lyra labored in pain and fear, her world narrowed to breath and endurance. The smell of hay and blood hung thick in the air.

Some offered steady hands. Others murmured reassurance. For a brief, fragile moment, the road and the city beyond it ceased to matter.

Then the chanting began.

Blood on the Threshold

Robed figures stepped from the shadows, their voices cold and certain. They spoke of destiny. Of sacrifice. Of a child claimed by Bhaal before drawing its first breath.

One of the cultists raised a hand and spoke a final, hateful word.

Lightning erupted from their outstretched fingers, tearing through the barn in a blinding line of force. The bolt struck Lyra squarely, the thunderclap shaking the beams as scorched wood and burning straw exploded outward.

The spell hit at the exact moment of birth.

Lyra was hurled back, her cry cut short even as the newborn’s wail split the air—alive and furious, born into violence that should have claimed them both.

For a breathless instant, everything froze.

Lyra lay still.

Then Keylith moved.

Dropping to her side without hesitation, he pressed a steady hand to her chest and spoke words not meant for glory or battle, but for endings delayed. Spare the Dying carried no flash or thunder—only refusal. A quiet, stubborn denial of what the world had just tried to take.

Lyra gasped.

The cultists faltered. Some screamed in rage. Others fled. Their certainty shattered as surely as their spell had failed.

They did not escape.

Fire and ice tore through the night. Steel rang against stone and wood. Fluffy hurled themself into the fray with feral devotion, teeth and claws finding purchase where words could not.

One by one, the cultists were driven back into silence.

Born Under Omen

When the last of the cultists lay still, the barn grew quiet once more.

Lyra lived—barely. The child lived, loudly.

As the party gathered close, they saw what the lightning had left behind.

A crescent mark, scarred as if by the storm itself, traced the newborn’s skin. Not a wound, but a sign—already healed, already part of them. Some looked away. Others could not. No one spoke.

Not a wound, but a sign.

The night offered no answers.

And the Road Waits

Just beyond the barn, the Trade Way stretched north toward Waterdeep, unchanged by what had happened only a few hundred feet from its stones.

The party had not yet reached the city.

But the city, it seemed, had already begun to reach for them.

Next time: the road continues—and the echoes of this night travel with them.