It started at the tavern.

It isn't always a tavern, you know, despite what you must've heard.

It can start in a festival, an inn, on a dark and misty street. It can start in a garden or a guild house, a square or a smithy.  

The point is, it doesn't matter where you are or what you're doing–adventure always seems to find a way, for those who can recognize it.

Admittedly, though, it does seem to favor taverns. Maybe because they attract those with little left to lose. 

The inside of the establishment in question was cool and dark, contrasting sharply with the hot, bright noon that simmered beyond its heavy stone walls, now bouncing with raucous laughter in the native dialects of a diverse array of patrons.

The door opened, and three guests, apparently misjudging the width of the doorway, collided together as they all tried to enter first.

“Ah,” said one—a tiefling in religious robes—“My apologies. After you.” He gave a slight bow, while gesturing to the other two.

Another of the three guests—evidently strangers to each other—glanced at the first through slitted eyes, assessing him. She was a tall, blue dragonborn, adorned with leather pouches and belts, holding all kinds of tools for outdoor use. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, the third guest spoke up.

“Thanks!” He chirped happily as he pushed his way into the tavern. Standing at only three feet tall, the halfling had some struggle getting into the bustling establishment. Once inside, he paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Once he did, however, he saw that every corner of the room was taken, as the tiefling from the door claimed the last vacant seat at a table, already having slipped past him and engaging in conversation with the other members of the table. Well, no matter. The halfling had already seen a troupe of brightly-clad musicians in a corner by the fireplace, and immediately gravitated toward them, pulling his own lute off his back as he went.

On the other side of the fireplace, the dragonborn took a seat on a pile of pillows, her eyes never leaving the tiefling, who was listening politely to the boisterous conversation of the other members of the table over some kind of board game.

“Another round of ciders, Prunella!” One of the players—a large bronze dragonborn—shouted out. “The Lady of Devonshire's paying tonight!”

“Didn't take the Lady of Devonshire for the generous sort, Deruque,” a black lizardfolk man with one eye cackled. “What with how her citizens have been paying for her fancy wardrobes.”

“Her ladyship's generosity is the sort that she's not aware of,” the bronze dragonborn snickered confidentially while tossing a fat bag made of red velvet onto the game board, clinking musically.

The tiefling's eyes widened at the bag, and turned to look around the rest of the inn for another seat—he wasn't sure he wanted to be caught keeping this kind of company.

As he started to rise from his chair, however, a stout waitress with a face like a craggy mountainside appeared with the ciders, clearing her throat with a loud "EEUGHK!" 

“And what can I get you, hon?” She croaked in a voice that must have bathed in smoke for five decades at least.

“Ah...” the tiefling said, lowering himself back into the seat. “Um, the stew of the day?”

“Wouldn't do that if I was you,” Deruque muttered humorously into his drink. “Ordered that two days ago and just got out of the loo this morning.”

“Hey,” Prunella glowered. “We had a deal.”

“But...” the tiefling objected as the waitress left. “But that was two days ago—surely there's a different stew today...?”

Deruque only laughed and downed another cider. “Probably smells different today than two days ago, but–" he and the rest of the table cut off the statement with a round of laughter. "Not been in town long, have you? What's your name, by the way?”

“Malakos,” the tiefling answered stiffly. Across the room, the blue dragonborn perked up. “And no, I'm just passing through. I'm a cleric—a traveling cleric. I do what I can to bring healing to those who are ill.”

Apparently summoned by the word 'ill,' Prunella arrived with the stew and placed it in front of Malakos, who eyed the greasy concoction warily. He glanced back after the waitress to ask something, but she had disappeared again.

“Are you going to eat that?”

“What?” Malakos turned back to his food, where the halfling from earlier now stood, looking at him expectantly.

“Ah, wait--”

It was too late—the small bard was already downing the entire bowl. Malakos watched nervously, preparing a healing spell just in case, but the bard seemed unfazed.

“That hit the spot,” he grinned. “Got a little too into the piece I was playing with the guys back there, and accidentally worked up an appetite. Oh! I'm Bardy, by the way.” He held out his hand to shake.

Malakos reached forward tentatively and shook the tiny proffered hand with his forefinger and thumb. “Malakos,” he answered.

On the pile of cushions, the blue dragonborn was drinking a smoothie that she'd ordered. Malakos. So she hadn't misheard the first time. She moved to join them but just then, a cloaked figure crossed the threshold and approached the bar. Most of the patrons ignored it—cloaked figures came and went on the daily, it seemed—but Malakos's ears perked and he followed it with his eyes. The figure approached a group of hyena-men—mercenaries, by the looks of them—and spoke in hushed tones.

The mercenaries didn't share the figure's need for secrecy, and laughed loudly, shaking their heads.

“Naw, naw,” the foremost among them said. “We're not taking any new jobs. Booked up for the season, we are.”

“Please,” begged the figure—male human, by the sound of him. “Please, I can pay! I'm desperate! Please help me!”

Something in his tone pricked at Malakos's conscience. He'd been taught for half of his childhood to help those in need in any way he could, and though this figure apparently needed muscle more than medicine, perhaps there was something he could do. For now, though, he had to get closer for more information—he didn't want the embarrassment of offering help he couldn't provide, after all.

Deftly, he plucked the lute off of Bardy's back as the halfling finished off the bowl of stew and Deruque stood to leave the tavern. Strumming gently, he blended himself with some of the other musicians who were now moving around the room with their instruments, looking for tips. He moved closer to the hooded figure.

“Please, please! My daughter! I must find her!”

“Look, buddy, I already told you—we ain't takin' new jobs. Other folks got problems too, and they hired us first. Look somewhere else!”

“I have! I've been turned away left and right! Where will I go now?”

“Not our problem, old man!”

The old man's shoulders slumped and he turned out the door. Malakos, forgetting the 'borrowed' lute in his hands, followed after. Bardy, discovering the 'borrowed' lute no longer on his back, raced after him, with the blue dragonborn hot on his heels.

“Excuse me,” Malakos tapped the figure just as Bardy caught up and reclaimed his lute, protesting loudly. “I happened to overhear you back there. Your daughter is missing?”

The man startled, and then looked furtively around him. “What's that matter to you?” He asked.

Malakos considered explaining that, as a disciple of [Ascended One] of the school of life, his purpose was to preserve life, restore loss, and reduce pain—but he'd found that even normal folk found altruism, even systemic altruism, to be highly suspicious. A mysterious cloaked figure encountered in an underground tavern was likely to be even more skittish.

And my other objective is even less trustworthy, Malakos thought to himself. “The real question here,” he deflected, “is what does it matter to you? It sounds as though you're short of options, and we're offering our services.”

“'We'?!” Bardy said, looking up from where he had been gently comforting his lute after its kidnapping ordeal.

“I assumed you had followed me out here to join me on this endeavor,” Malakos shrugged.

“I followed you out here because you stole my lute!”

“You stole my stew.”

“Those are not the same thing—my lute is worth more than my life and...”

“So are you coming, or not?”

Bardy grumbled, before brightening up. “Is it a paid endeavor?”

“Y-yes, there would be a reward,” the old man said, still apparently unsure about hiring them.

“Then let's go!” The halfling cried.

The old man still looked unsure, but he motioned them to follow him.

As they turned the corner behind the tavern, they were greeted by the gentle sounds of a stream gushing forth against rocks.

Ruby, the blue dragonborn, narrowed her gaze for a moment—she was a ranger. If there had been any streams nearby here, cutting through the middle of town, she should have known about it...

Suddenly, Malakos, who had turned the corner before the rest of the party visibly startled, turned his head in the other direction, and threw up a hand to shield his eyes. The cloaked figure did the same, followed by Bardy. Ruby soon saw the explanation for the behavior and also the mysterious river noises: about fifteen feet away, stood Deruque—the bronze dragonborn from the inn—'returning' about six ciders' worth of fluid to the back wall of the establishment.

“(Ahem)” The hooded figure cleared his throat as they tried to find somewhere else to look. Failing to find some way to naturally block out the display, he and Malakos continued their conversation with hands hovering awkwardly in their peripherals.

“So you see, my—my daughter—she has been kidnapped by a group of thugs calling themselves the Red Cloaks–they have been threatening my family over our business for quite some time, now.” He paused for a second before choking out, “I-it was her wedding day. I was t-to see her happily married that morning, when they...they came out of nowhere and just...they just seized her and disappeared without a trace.”

“I see,” Malakos said. A kidnapping—one by an organized crime syndicate–that would be a bit more complicated than a simple runaway case.

By now, Deruque had completed his business and, spotting the group, joined the party.

“No ransom? No contact from the kidnappers?” Malakos was asking.

“None,” the man said, his voice shuddering from suppressed sobs.

“May we investigate the scene of the crime?”

“Yes, of course. This way, please—I have a carriage waiting.”

They were delayed in reaching the carriage—Deruque had attempted to seize Bardy's lute, having overheard him say that it was worth more than his life. Bardy, however, was not allowing this second lute-napping go without a fight, and scrambled up Deruque's side to reach the instrument. Startled by the unexpected grapple, Deruque threw the lute into a nearby tree. Ruby, seeing an opportunity to climb a tree, raced up and plucked it down for the grateful halfling.

Finally, they piled into the carriage. With everyone seated, the figure tapped for the driver, and the carriage started up the road.

They rode in silence, each member processing their own thoughts.

Malakos had been casting furtive glances at their employer. The man had taken his hood down, but was surprisingly normal-looking: a human with a graying head of hair and a face full of worry lines. Still, the cleric couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen him somewhere before.

Malakos wasn't the only one focused on the man—but where he was doing his best to be subtle, Deruque had been glaring so intently at their benefactor that he had hardly blinked for the entire trip. He had never seen the man before in his life, that much he was sure of or he would have remembered his scent, but something about him had the bronze ranger's alarms blaring.

Ruby, on the other hand, was focused on someone else. The tiefling crammed on the other side of Deruque—she'd been trying since she first saw him in the streets that morning to corner him alone, but he'd been as slippery as an eel. She'd thought she finally had him with the debacle in the tavern doorway, but he'd slipped in just after the halfling and gotten away again. 

Well, he couldn't run forever. 

She was a ranger—she'd find him again no matter what. They were going to have words, one way or the other.

Bardy was just enjoying the view from the carriage window.

And that's why he was the one to first see their destination come into view: atop a large hill surrounded by trees, rose a gleaming palace. He cried out with excitement, and the rest of the party followed his gaze. Realization struck them, and they turned to face their benefactor.

The old man reached inside his cloak and pulled out a gleaming crown, placing it on his head. “I suppose introductions are in order,” he chuckled. “I am the King of Whispenshire. Thank you for answering my call.”