In the shadowy depths of a cavernous expanse, an eerie silence pervaded, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing off the cold, damp walls. This was the realm of the unknown, a place where light scarcely dared to tread, and it was here that Bara Nume and his companions found themselves, their breaths visible in the chill air, their steps cautious on the uneven ground.

As they ventured deeper, the dim light from their torches revealed an unsettling sight: a dead body lay sprawled on the cavern floor, its presence an ominous sign of the dangers that lurked within these ancient depths. Bara, ever the strategist, conjured an illusion, a spectral figure that approached the corpse in their stead. The cave remained still, the body untouched by the ghostly apparition’s presence.

With the illusion proving the path safe, Bara and Kiertan, a figure cloaked in the shadows of his own mystery, approached the body. Upon closer inspection, a pouch was discovered at the corpse’s side, its contents unknown, inviting yet foreboding.

Bara, driven by curiosity and the allure of potential treasure, reached for the pouch. But as his fingers brushed against the leather, the supposed corpse stirred, revealing itself to be a zombie, its hand shooting out to grasp Bara’s arm with a grip cold as death itself. Startled, Bara stumbled back, attempting to use his crossbow as a makeshift weapon, swinging the butt end towards the creature’s head. His attempt, however, was met with nothing but air.

The zombie, undeterred, swiped at Bara with a growl of hunger, its fingers clawing the air mere inches from his flesh. Its eyes, devoid of life, fixated on him with a hunger that was palpable.

In that moment of chaos, Kiertan leaped forward, his daggers a blur as they aimed for the zombie’s head. Yet, the undead’s unnatural resilience deflected the blows, leaving Kiertan momentarily stunned.

Anrin, the stout-hearted dwarf cleric of the group, charged with a battle cry, his hammer raised high. The swing, powerful yet imprecise, clipped the zombie’s head, causing it to stagger but not fall.

Realizing the gravity of their plight, Bara’s resolve hardened. No longer startled but filled with a grim determination, he took advantage of the zombie’s momentary imbalance. With a grunt of effort, he brought the butt of his crossbow crashing down upon the creature’s face with all the force he could muster.

The impact was sickening. The zombie’s skull collapsed under the blow, the butt of the crossbow sinking deep into what remained of its head, the lifeless body crumpling to the ground in a heap.

Breathing heavily, Bara wrenched his weapon free from the destroyed skull, his gaze then falling to the pouch he had sought. With a swift motion, he opened it, only to find it filled with small rocks, worthless in their eyes. With a mix of frustration and relief, he tossed the pouch aside, the sound of it hitting the ground echoing through the cave as a grim reminder of the dangers that awaited them in the darkness.

The encounter, though brief, had left its mark on the adventurers, a stark reminder of the perils that lay hidden in the forgotten corners of the world. With wary steps, they pressed on, the depths of the cave beckoning them further into its shadowy embrace.

The night at the Swinging Sword in Red Larch was alive with the clamor of conversation, the clinking of mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter. The inn, a beacon of warmth and light, played host to a variety of souls, but none as notable as Bara’s Marauders. The group, led by a male halfling named Bara, had made themselves comfortable at one of the larger tables, their voices weaving through the air like threads of an intricate tapestry.

At the bar, leaning into the shadows with a mug in hand, was Iraun Thelder. His presence was almost a fixture, as much a part of the inn as the aged wood and the flickering candles. Though his gaze seemed lost in the depths of his drink, his attention was far from the amber liquid it contained.

As the night wore on, Iraun’s consumption did little to muddle his senses but rather sharpened his focus on the Marauders’ conversation. Perhaps it was the ale that loosened his tongue, or maybe the solitude that comes with knowing too much, but Iraun found himself calling out to Bara, the words slipping from his lips with a mixture of mirth and recklessness. “Oi, Halfling!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the din. The words that followed danced on the edge of coherence, a jumble of sounds and laughter that filled the space between them.

Bara, taken aback by the sudden attention, approached Iraun with a proposition to join as a follower, and presented an offer for him to join their ranks. Iraun’s response was a laugh, rich and booming, that seemed to echo off the walls. “I serve a god, and it howls,” he proclaimed, the statement hanging in the air like a challenge.

The atmosphere tightened, charged with an unspoken tension that threaded its way through the patrons. Yet, Iraun remained as still as the stone, his demeanor unchanging, a passive observer to the storm he had stirred.

It was then, with a casualness that belied the keenness of his observation, that Iraun dropped a piece of information that caught the Marauders off guard. “You want to buy a donkey you ask? Need one for the long walk to Lance Rock,? I will sell you one, for 52 gold pieces and 70 silver?” His voice, tinged with amusement, suggested a familiarity with their plans that none could account for.

The revelation brought a hush to the table, the Marauders exchanging glances, their minds racing to piece together the extent of Iraun’s knowledge. The implication was clear: he had been listening, not as a drunkard lost in his cups, but with a purpose that remained veiled behind his one-eyed gaze.

Bara, recognizing the depth of Iraun’s awareness, chose to laugh, a sound that cut through the tension with the ease of a well-honed blade. Speaking slowly, Bara says ” Well, Iraun Thelder, it seems you’ve got ears as sharp as your god’s howls.”

The moment passed, leaving behind a thread of intrigue woven into the tapestry of the night. Iraun returned to his drink, his role as an observer resumed, his secrets and the reasons for his attentiveness buried deep within the confines of his silent watch.

And as the Marauders returned to their plans, the air filled once again with conversation and laughter, but the shadow of Iraun’s words lingered, a reminder that in the world of adventurers and quests, nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.