Fortune's Favored of Alderra

Seven suns have set and risen upon the weary march of the fellowship, their boots caked in the mire of the long road from Hartford. As they crest the final ridge, the scent of damp earth and churning currents rises to meet them, for the Blithewater River sprawl before them like a serpent of grey glass. The prisoner Vondal, whose heavy chains bite deep into his bruised wrists, stumbles as he gazes upon the expanse. He dares not utter a sound, but his eyes reflect the grim realization that his captors have indeed delivered him to the very maw of his kin’s reckoning.

There, in the midst of the river, sits Fortune’s Crossing. The island city looks small and fragile against the vast, roiling waters, a bastion of civilization clinging to hope in the deepening twilight. Yet, it is the far bank that freezes the blood of the travelers. Dozens of pinprick lights flicker in the gloom, a constellation of malevolence where the Ironhold army gathers. The air carries the faint, acrid tang of roasting meat and the distant, rhythmic clang of iron against iron, signaling the preparations for a siege that promises only ash and ruin for those upon the isle.

The adventurers watch from the shadows of the treeline, their minds heavy with the weight of their burden. One among them grips the hilt of a blade, her knuckles white, thinking that crossing to the island in the dark is risky at best. Another gazes at the prisoner, pondering whether the duergar is truly a key to salvation or merely a herald of further catastrophe. Truly, the river flows wide and cold, and they must determine if they shall cast their lot with the besieged or find another path through the valley of shadow, for the hour of decision is nigh, and the gods offer no guidance to those who stand upon the precipice of war.