Shadow of the Iron Tyrant

The morning sun cast long, golden shafts of light through the leaded glass windows of the Dragon's Roost Inn, warming the weary bones of the heroes who had but recently delivered the forlorn souls of Laurendale from destruction. For the first time in many a moon, they awoke not to a cramped and tilted tent on a rocky mountain, but to the gentle aroma of toasted rye and spiced ale. The heavy burden of their trek to Goodfalls slipped from their shoulders, if only for the briefest of moments, as they broke bread in the quiet sanctuary of the common room. Each adventurer harbored private dreams of the day ahead, counting the glinting coin in their purses and imagining the finely wrought steel they might acquire from Marta, the town's renowned weaponsmith.

Yet, beneath this veneer of well-earned peace, a shadow of urgency weighed heavily upon their minds. The respite they enjoyed was but a fleeting luxury, for the dire intelligence they carried concerning the grand armies of Ironhold could not wait. Even as they debated which shops to frequent and admired the craftsmanship of local wares, their thoughts strayed constantly to the road west toward Hartford. They knew right well that the high lords must be warned of the gathering storm in the north, lest the entire realm fall unprepared before the invader's march.

Fortune is a fickle mistress, and the designs of mortals are often rewritten by fate's unseen hand. Goodfalls to Hartford is four days' travel—and with rumors of gnoll bandits in the area, an uneventful trek seems unlikely.