Cobblecrest Chronicles

  Path of Gnashing Teeth   The mist clung to Cobblecrest like a shroud that morning, muffling the usual sounds of the Gilded Lily’s pre-dawn preparations. Inside, the common room was warm, smelling of pipeweed, old ale, and the lingering comfort of last night’s fire. Korrin Dovell, hunched over a brittle map under the low glow of a shielded candle, traced a route west with a careful finger. Opposite him, Revna Emberroot sharpened her greataxe with rhythmic, grating strokes, the sound a counterpoint to the soft crackle of the hearth. Marinell Seldryn hummed a tune just below hearing, her fingers idly plucking silent chords on her lute, while Thazrin Velkas, his bronze scales catching the firelight, murmured a quiet prayer to Bahamut, his hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. Their relative peace was interrupted by the hurried entry of Gregor Daleson, his usual merchant’s composure frayed. His coat was damp, his face drawn. "Adventurers," he began, his voice tight, ...

  Whispers at the Standing Stones Chapter 1: A Plea in the Damp The fire in the hearth of the Gilded Lily tavern crackled with a cheerfulness entirely at odds with the mood of its patrons. Rain drizzled outside, slicking the cobblestones of Cobblecrest and drawing a veil of grey mist over the surrounding hills. Inside, villagers nursed their ales with hunched shoulders, their low murmurs weaving a tapestry of unease. Even Miranda Fairweather, the usually jovial innkeeper, moved with a clipped efficiency, her smile conspicuously absent. At a sturdy table near the fire sat four figures, a study in contrasts drawn together by the uncertain threads of fate and fortune. Nalara Evenshade, the High Elf wizard, traced patterns in the condensation on her mug, her violet eyes distant, lost in the intricate calculations that occupied her scholarly mind. Beside her, Revka Bronzegrit, the mountain dwarf fighter, meticulously sharpened the edge of her battleaxe, the rhythmic scrape of whetstone ...

  Chapter 1: The Anvil's Anxiety The morning sun, rising in the east, cast long, cool shadows across the cobblestones of Cobblecrest as it crept over the rooftops and past the distant silhouette of the Maerthwatch Mountains. The village was already alive with the rhythms of a new day: the rumble of wagon wheels carrying Briar Thistlenook's subtly enhanced produce towards the market square, the distant shouts of fishermen down by Misty Pond, the cheerful greetings exchanged between neighbors. But near the heart of the village, one familiar sound was muted, almost hesitant – the usually boisterous clang of hammer on steel from Ironhand's Anvil. Outside the renowned blacksmith shop, Balin Ironhand, a dwarf whose gruff demeanor was as solid as the metal he worked, paced with an agitation that seemed foreign to his stout frame. His thick, soot-stained arms, usually confidently swinging a hammer or steadying a pair of tongs, were crossed tightly over his leather apron. His grizzl...