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- [00:00]
Billy Hindle
Hi everyone, it's Billy Hindle here. Today we are sharing the first two episodes from one of our brilliant RQ Network podcasts, Myth and Moon that was recently launched on the RQ Network. Myth and Moon is a solo played D and D podcast featuring two storytellers sharing one world. Follow the show's hosts, Cooper and James as they work in tandem to unveil mystery, intrigue and conflict. James episodes portray the story from the hero's perspective, a struggle of courage, redemption and hope, whilst Cooper stirs the pot from the shadows as the villain embroiled in devious schemes, treachery and a lust for power. Every decision echoes every dice roll. Matters and character choices shape whose destiny prevails. Find other brilliant episodes in this series by searching for Myth and Moon wherever you listen to podcasts, clicking the link in the show notes or on rustyquill.com and enjoy the episode.
- [01:02]
Cooper
Before the stars had names, the two sisters shaped the void Selune, a light in the dark and sharp the shadow it cast. But envy took root in Shar. A city rose skyward in dark rebellion. At its heart, the Mythalar, an engine powered by creation itself. Yet it fell, shattered its fragments but lost to time until now. So begins the age of ruin and reckoning, where lost kingdoms rise again and champions battle in a game of fate. This is myth and mo.
- [02:01]
James
Chaos and bedlam surrounded Dinmore Aventide as he weaved between the black and gray stone columns inside the temple. A rumbling boom echoed through the interior of the Thane of Shar, Goddess of Night, causing the confused citizens to stumble and crash into each other, almost knocking over the child at their knees. As Dinmore dodged the adults toppling over him, he scanned the crowd for the face of his mother. He saw her kneeling down next to an older woman and holding her frail body up as the whole temple listed to his side. He ran to them and shouted in panic, mama. Mama.
- [02:41]
Cooper
What's happening?
- [02:43]
James
His mother put a finger up to her lips as the older woman finished finished her prayer and we ask for our enemies to be swallowed by your cloak of shadow, as sure as night will fall. Mistress Shah. Oh, thank you for staying with me. Belazar Dinmoor's mother nodded at the elder as another, louder boom rocked the temple. Belazar waved over a temple acolyte and ushered the older woman to their aid. She took Dinmor by a small hand and the pair ran toward the temple entrance. Seeing deep fissures appear in the dark stone archway above their heads, Dinmore scrambled to keep up with his mother, tripping over loosened cobblestone in the street outside the temple, and landing on his knees, his mother bent down, her face wreathed in a soft vignette of shadow beneath a silken charcoal cowl. She spoke softly but firmly. Din, now we must keep our heads and feet about us. He looked up to see the other resplendent buildings of Tuttenvar, the Shadow enclave toppling over from the quakes beneath their feet. He swallowed a lump in his throat, jumped to his feet, and took her hand again. Dinmore drew in a sharp breath, the sensation of falling jarring him awake from the dream. After 14 years, the memory of his last day on the floating shadow enclave still haunted his sleep. Thin shafts of sunlight lit portions of the interior, driving the Shadow to the furthest corners of the small room. Save two beds, a dining table, and stacks of worn books and parchment at the foot of the bed, the small hut was barren and its stagnant air smelled of decay. Dinmore's attention immediately turned to the figure occupying the other small bed in the dark corner. His mother, Belazar. She drew in ragged breaths, her chest barely rising and falling. Dinmore rolled off of his sheets and hurried to her side, seeing her open eyes, once sharp, now clouded with age and exhaustion. The solid ringed black halo above her head flickered and grew wispy, like the last puff from a pipe's bowl. He stroked her hand softly as she spoke, her voice little more than a rasp. Dinmore, it is time. The absence of Shadow has bathed me in the virulent light of this material plane. I am diminished and done what I could to keep you safe, son. Dynmore's eyes grew misty as he squeezed his mother's hand. Do not wait for me, son. As a Shadow Var, I am destined to return to Shaw's palace in the Shadowfell, but you. You have greater work to accomplish. Belazair coughed hard, black Sodom covering her mouth as she struggled through the words. The Netherese. Our kingdom. Your destiny. Her body was quivering. Heed my training and leave here. This city cannot, will not hold you. You were meant. You were meant for more. Our kind are hated, so whoever you meet, believe few and trust fewer. The enemies of Shaw are everywhere. Dinmor nodded intently. I will, Mother. I promise. Her hand weakly motioned to a small weathered chest by the bedside. Take what little I have, she said, and brought a thin hand up to her neck, removing a smooth black stone from underneath her collar and pressing it into Dinmor's hand. This pendant. Use it wisely. It is a trial and a burden. And remember, the power you hold in you is a tool, not a master. I love you, son. Dinmore fought back tears as he saw the flickering halo above her head break apart as she lapsed into silence, the room in an eerie stillness. The half elf Dinmoor clasped her hand a final time, a different kind of coldness washing over the flesh, the final chill of death. Her body began to fade from existence as her shadow dispersed over the sides of the bed, leaving nothing but empty robes on the sheets. Dinmor pulled his holy symbol from his robe, a glass disk stained with a black center and purple border. He offered a solemn prayer to Shar, Mistress of the Night, asking for Belazar to be cloaked in her embrace. Shar's will be done, as sure as night will fall. I love you too, Mother. Dinmoor dried his eyes and reached over to open the small chest with care, its hinges creaking. Inside, he finds the modest possessions Belazar had saved, five additional gold pieces and a faded map of the surrounding Sword coast region marked with several points of interest, including trails leading eastward. There was a circle around one point in a river fork with a hand scribbled note that read Refuge for the First Kingdom. Dinmore rubbed the pendant, feeling strangely cold to the touch as a faint tingle ran through his fingertips. A trial and a burden, he repeated in his mind. He held it tightly, finding resonance within it as the last memory of his mentor, friend, and mother. Dinmore threw the haversack over his shoulder and shut the door of the small hut behind him, locking it. He stepped into the lively streets of Daggerford, bustling with the noise of merchants hawking wares and travelers sharing tales of distant lands. Despite its modest size and somewhat inflated sense of importance, Daggerford is a resilient haven for our starting PC. It was something of a relic, this town from an old kingdom too stubborn to fall even when a series of wars, crusades, and other conflicts threatened the entirety of the sword coast. For 14 years this modest city has been Dinmor and Belazar's refuge, offering a modicum of stability. The refugees, the memories of Tutenthar's fall are faint to Dinmor, buried under layers of time, but perhaps the shadow of that loss is shaping his every step. The young half elf was transported away from the Falling sky city when he was 5 years old by the Tutenthar noble and mage Belazar. As a practiced sorceress, Belazar had maintained an illusory guise of a peasant woman to hide her shadowy nature, a result of her time spent in the Shadowfell bleak landscape of decay and death beyond the material plane. As Denmoor grew, it became obvious that Belazar's time walking in the light was killing her while he remained unchanged. She had been fading for almost two years, becoming bedridden from weakness. She had admitted her decline to prepare her son, but this did nothing lessen the sadness ensnaring his thoughts. However, Dynmur's next steps seemed head eastward to investigate the location marked on Belazar's map. The noble's obsession about finding other refugees from the catastrophe undergirded his sorcery lessons, but her matronly sense of duty to protect a young Dinmoor overrided her zeal for home. But now it was time to venture out and fulfill Belozer's wishes and a wholly unfamiliar landscape. Dinmor was now truly on his own and would need a guide. He'd seen some caravans rumble past in outfitters near the riverbanks by the city outskirts and decided to try his luck there. Dinmoor is starting this story as a Level one sorcerer in the Shadow Magic subclass. To get a full breakdown of his stats and attributes, check out the Session Zero episode the late afternoon sun was already low in the sky, casting long shadows on the cobbled paths. Merchants called out offering sundries and goods, while farmers guided carts laden with produce and driving livestock beyond the city gates. The trade roads branched out in all directions, and the smell of the nearby Dillimber river mixed with the salty tang of the coast reminded Dinmore of how far he remained from any semblance of home. His time spent sheltered in Daggerford hasn't given him much occasion to leave the city or delve too deep in it, save a monthly trip to a secluded patch of logged forest nearby, where his mother would instruct him in the proper use of his burgeoning sorcery powers. Near the fishing docks of Daggerford, a signpost swayed over a small wooden building. Eastway Expeditions, it read. Deep as your pockets. As far as we'll go. Dimmore found the front door and let himself in. Inside leather saddles, thick haversacks, lengths of rope, and other traveling gear was hung on the walls. A table sized map pinned to a leather backing hung amidst the gear. An older man stood at attention at the front desk, scribbling in a ledger. He caught Dinmore's eye and leaned forward with an easy smile, his clean shaven face lending to his amiability. Hello, young sir. My name is Deakins, administrator of this little outfit. How can I help you? I'm in need of a guide several days east. I require no truck or horse, just provision for the journey, dinmore said. The man chuckled. First time leaving Daggerford? There's lots of places east of here. Did you have a firmer destination in mind? Dimmore thought of the ancient map, its legends sorely lacking an updated view of the Sword coast settlements. The nearest settlement before the first fork of the Delimber. As long as it's welcoming. The man nodded, grabbing a wooden cane from behind his desk and pointing the tip at the map. Nearest Denmoor. That'd be Secumber, near the stone quarries. It's welcoming, sure, but I wouldn't tarry there longer than you have to. There's been rumored talk of happenings there of a foul nature. Our dear Duchess Morwen is sending a refreshed garrison of the Lord's alliance there soon, but that's a pretty common rotation. I don't think it's anything you have to worry about. Just keep your eyes peeled. Dinmore looked at the map and then back at Deacon's. Secumber will do. I'm ready to leave this afternoon, if you have a guide available. The man smiled again. Ah, the anxiousness of youth. Well, one of our guides is indisposed this afternoon, he said, stroking his chin. But Durla is ready to roam at your behest. Can talk to her about an agreement right over there in the corner, he concluded, gesturing over Dimmoore's shoulder to an open floor filled with stalls of dried meats, burlap bags, and hand tools. Beyond the stalls sat a dwarven woman sharpening a dagger with a whetstone. Dinmore stepped away from the desk and toward the dwarf. She looked up from her work, scanning him with a practiced eye, her worn leather gear and confident posture painting her as someone familiar with the dangers of the road. What's your business, young un? She asked gruffly, continuing to scrape the already keen blade. Need you a guide to pick berries? Or were you just looking to run away? Dinmore brushed aside the patronizing questions. My business lies to the east, at the Delimbra river fork. I am a scholar in need of an escort through the wilderness. Can you provide a guide while I take notes on birds and beasts? The dwarf narrowed her eyes, her dagger pausing mid sharpen. She looked in more up and down, clearly sizing up his appearance and taking note of his pointed ears. Dinmore's simple yet functional robes and lack of steel at his side mark him as a person of intellect rather than brawn. He's of average height with A lean build and pale skin featuring brushed silver and black hair. His youthful, if not slightly gaunt face is set with dark gray irises, and his face is flanked by pointed ears. However, half Elves and their kin are not so uncommon a sight on the sword coast to invite suspicion, so he wears no head wrap or disguise. A scholar, eh? She says, an edge of suspicion still in her tone. Well, you must be older than you look. And you're not the first I've seen heading east with lofty ideas and more coin than sense. But you look like you behave well enough to not get yourself skewered. She wiped her dagger clean with a strip of cloth, sheathed it, and extended a calloused hand. Name's Durla Ironstride. I'll get you to the Dilember Fork and maybe even a bit further if the price is right. Her expression softened as she appraised him. The standard rate is three gold for the journey to the riverfork up front. Further east from Secumber will be an additional three gold. Anything beyond that? Well, that depends on what we find. She paused, raising an eyebrow. And you scholars always have a knack for getting into trouble, sticking your noses in places they don't belong. That price includes one stop for resupply. But if I find out you're hiding more than books in that pack of yours, we're gonna renegotiate. Dinmora had spent enough time praying in the light of the moon with Belazzare to know the night to be a time of deception. Shar, Goddess of the Night, would caution him against blind acceptance of the way things are. Three gold sounds fair, but what's to stop you from knifing me in my sleep sack? Have you any writ of service or bond from Daggerford? Durla smirked at the pointed question crossing her arms. A scholar and sharp with your words. I like that. She dug into a pouch at her belt and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, tossing it onto the table between them. The document was worn but legible. Marked with the seal of the Daggerford Council, it declared Derla Ironstride, a registered guide authorized to provide safe passage for travelers through the region. Several signatures at the bottom, including Duchess Morwin, attest to her reliability. Assuming, of course, she didn't find her clients intolerable. There's your bond, she said, leaning back in her chair. If I was the type to knife folk for their coin, I wouldn't still be here running jobs, would I? Word spreads fast in a town like this, and there's not enough of us guides to go around. Happy clients mean steady work. Her smile dimmed. That said the wilderness don't play nice, so keep your wits about you, scholar. I'll do my job, but if you've got enemies, don't expect me to fight your battles for free. She was seemingly a woman worth her salt and untempting of Dinmor's staunch distrust. Nothing is for free, and I accept your terms. Call me Dinmore. I've already got what I need and I'm ready to leave when you are. Durla nodded, folding the parchment back into her pouch. Dinmore, huh? Well, good to meet you, Dinmor. She stood, stretching her arms and slinging a well worn packet over her shoulder. Give me a moment to grab a few extra supplies and we'll head out. The fork's a day and a half's walk if the weather's kind. If it's not, well, I hope your scholars robes are warmer than they look. Within the hour, Dinmore found himself on the road eastward, leaving behind the modest comfort of Daggerford. The streets soon gave way to a dirt path winding through the rolling hills and sparse trees of the countryside. The distant sound of the Dillimber river accompanied the pair as they walked. Durla moved with an easy confidence, her eyes scanning the horizon and her hand never far from the dagger at her belt. Despite her prickly demeanor, she proved to be a competent guide, pointing out sight lines and recounting stories of past travelers. Dinmore simply listened, choosing not to share more than what he was asked. He stuck to the story of a history scholar, which seemed to satisfy Durla enough to avoid probing too deeply. That was good, for he was too preoccupied with what lay beyond in this refuge for the first kingdom. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the terrain grew rockier. The faint scent of damp earth mingled with the cool evening breeze signaled the approach of the first river fork. Durla stopped suddenly, raising a hand to signal silence. Something's off in the treeline, she muttered. She crouched in a patch of wispy grass, motioning for Denmore to come closer. There, near the taller trees. Movement. Dunmore's eyes see a flicker of motion, a large shape weaving between the trees. The sounds of a low growl reached their ears, carried on the wind. Durla drew her dagger and whispered, it could be wolves, or worse. Regardless, I'd like to take a long way around to avoid it. Dinmore thought briefly about Belazar's lessons in the woods, and how magic was mightier than any blade. Let's see if it thinks it's the biggest thing among the woods, dinmore replied. Dinmor focused his mind and inhaled deep into his belly, casting minor illusion. His voice formed into a deceptive sound, a deep, resonant growl, far louder and more menacing than anything natural to these woods. The magic spread outward, echoing through the treeline like the roar of an enormous predator. Durla glanced at the thin half elf, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. The shape in the trees stopped. For a moment the woods were still, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. Then the shape retreated, its lumbering form disappearing deeper and deeper. The forest. The growling faded entirely, replaced by the softer sounds of night. The dwarf exhaled, her stance relaxing slightly. Not bad, scholar. Whatever it was, it didn't want to stick around. Dinmur forced a smile as Darla straightened up and got back onto the beaten path. Oh, come on. Let's keep moving before it changes its mind and brings back its friends. Cucumbers around the bend Dusk fell throughout the rolling hills. The lulls of travel between Derla and Dinmoor were filled with insect and frog song near the river, and travel was easy without further incident. Durla pointed out a bend up ahead to caution Dinmore. Watch out for the quick sand bars. Mind your footing. With careful steps, they rounded the bend. In the dark, Dinmore saw a faint torchlight on the outside of dilapidated palisades perched atop three adjacent hills. The Dilimba river glistened nearby under the moonlight, its surface reflecting the starlit sky as the travelers approached the outer gate. On the closest hill, pitted and rotting staves of wood leaned weakly against each other, indicating a fortification in need of dire repair. A wavering, uncertain voice at the gate overlook called from above their heads.
- [23:25]
Cooper
H Halt.
- [23:26]
James
Halt there. This gate is closed for the evening. Who goes there? Durla stepped forward, hands held up in a peaceful gesture. Travelers looking for shelter, that's all. I'm an Eastway Expeditions representative from Daggerford. This is my charge. She motioned behind her to Dinmoor and pulled out the same writ she'd shown him in town, holding it up to let the torchlight illuminate the wax seal. Right? Yes. By decree of the Lord's alliance, you are to shelter in place immediately before the final bell this evening. It's for your own safety. Those caught outside in public areas will be locked up in the Lord's alliance barracks. Open the gates. The gates listed and dragged unevenly through the mud pulled from inside. Dinmor and Durla stepped through cautiously, seeing the faces of Beleaguered and battered guards manning the gates and the shoddy town within. Dinmor saw the dwarf crestfallen as she took in the squalor. Welcome to Success Cumber Scholar.
- [24:42]
Cooper
Thank you for listening to Myth and Moon. We hope you enjoy the journey and join us in wherever the Dice choose to take this tale.
- [24:50]
James
You can follow us on instagram@instagram.com mythandmoonpodcast for artwork, additional content and updates between episodes.
- [25:00]
Cooper
If you want to dive deeper into the world, you can find character sheets, campaign maps and bonus content. And all the chaos we couldn't fit into the episode at our patreon page@patreon.com.
- [25:11]
James
Mythandmoon so come join our community and help support the show with your ideas and feedback.
- [25:17]
Cooper
We'll be back soon with more twists, more danger and more Dice roles.
- [25:22]
James
Because in this world, fates collide and dice decide. No prophecy is certain and no choice is without consequence.
- [25:30]
Cooper
So stay sharp. Stay ready.
- [25:33]
James
Destiny is waiting for you. We'll see you there.
- [25:49]
Cooper
Before the stars had names, two sisters shaped the void Selune, a light in the dark and sharp the shadow it cast. But envy took root in Shar. A city rose skyward in dark rebellion. At its heart, the Mythalar, an engine powered by creation itself. Yet it fell, shattered its fragments but lost to time until now. So begins the age of ruin and reckoning, where lost kingdoms rise again and champions battle in a game of fate. This is Myth and Moon. Ronan tugged his backpack loose and let it drop into the ferns. Days of travel weighed on him, with every muscle protesting. His lips felt dry, caked together from thirst and effort, and he slumped against the base of a nearby tree. Across the glade, a small, stagnant pond sat nestled in a pocket of silence. Something about it felt inviting. A breeze rippled through the leaves overhead, shuddering and spiraling over the water. The very air seemed to pulse. Then something stirred in the dark water. Ronan blinked, rubbing his eyes. Slowly, a figure began to rise from the pond, her back turned to him. A sheer white gown clung to her lithe form, and as she shifted her black hair over her shoulder, she turned toward him. Her pale blue eyes locked onto his with an inhuman intensity. Ronan froze, unable to move or scream. His heartbeat raced, but the clarity of his mind faded the longer he stared into those unblinking eyes. In a moment she was there, standing right before him. Her hand brushed his cheek tenderly, her brow lowered to meet his, and she whispered something. Breathless words perhaps, but they dissolved into nothing as the powerful numbness slowly crept over his entire body Then, smoothly, she leaned in and kissed him. Only it was wrong. It was sloppy. It was wet, and accompanied by a snuffling sound. With a startled groan, Ronan's eyes snapped open. The nymph was gone. In her place, a large, jowly mastiff slobbered all over his face, tongue lashing enthusiastically. Buster. Get off him now. That's enough. Ronan sputtered, shoving the beast back. The dream faded into groggy reality. He was upright in the corner booth of the Lonesome Tankard, his body stiff from an awkward night's sleep. God's above, he groaned, rubbing his face clean. That dog loves you. Hal. The owner and proprietor of the Lonesome Tankard, Harlan, stood behind the wooden bar, wiping a glass with a stained rag. Looks like you feel the same. What time is it? Ronan grumbled. You're late. And I told you this would happen. Ronin grimaced, dragging life back into his cheekbones with his palms. His head throbbed as he grew groggily more alert. Self loathing washed over him like a cold punch bucket of water. Ronan hated this part of himself, not just the drinking himself stupid, or the money he'd waste or gamble away, or the way his body felt like it'd been dragged under a wagon twice. He also hated the self loathing, too. Only real priests were supposed to feel guilty when they messed up, and Ronan actively ran away from any kind of expectation, self imposed or otherwise, as often as he could. It was the one thing he was genuinely good at. While he adjusted himself and wiped the table surface clean of crumbs, Harlan's words began to take meaning. Oh shit, he thought. How about a little air of the dog? He muttered, hopeful, a sense of foreboding now accompanying the splitting headache. And would that be on last night's tab, or are we just adding to your already impressive debt? Harlan asked dryly, then grinned with mischievous satisfaction. Besides, didn't you get enough from Buster there? Water then, he sighed. Lenara's already brewing tea in the back. At the mention of Lenara, a sinking feeling settled in Ronan's gut. He groaned again. I told you this would happen, harlan repeated. Lenara emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming kettle and two cups. She had a practical demeanor, her short cropped hair pulled back with a no nonsense precision. Her sharp gaze swept the room until it landed on Ronin, softening only momentarily before hardening once more with a huff. She chose a seat at the bar, clearly waiting for him, and Ronan got the message. He pushed himself upright and flicked a stale chunk of bread to Buster. The mastiff snapped it up eagerly he sat beside her, and the two both faced forward in silence. Lenara inhaled sharply, about to speak, then hesitated, finding her words. Her shoulders rose and fell as she reconsidered. I'll. I'll be in the back if you need me, harlan offered, then whistled for Buster. The mastiff padded after him, leaving Ronan and Lenara alone. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Ronan reached for the tea, but Lenara cleared her throat sharply, freezing him mid reach. If you go into that office now, she said, voice tight, Edric will fire you on the spot. I'm sorry. Damn it, Ronan, don't be sorry. Be better. Her words stung, but she let the silence settle between them. After enough time as an olive branch, she poured them both tea and slid a cup to him. They sipped quietly for a time, the warmth of the tea soothing the tension. Lenara set her cup down, folding her hands around its base. Her voice lowered. You know I've always stood up for you, she began. Even when they said you weren't worth it. I told them you had potential. You just needed time. She exhaled heavily. But gods damn it, Ronan, you don't make it easy. Ronan shifted uncomfortably but stayed silent. She wasn't wrong. Lenara reached into her satchel and pulled out a sealed parcel with the Eastway expedition's insignia. Ronan recognized it and groaned. You're going to Crom's hold, she said firmly. The company led a caravan there a few days ago and it never made it to its destination. As far as the office is concerned, you're already a morning's head start. Ronan started to protest, but she cut him off with a glare. Please don't make me a liar, Ronan. With a sigh, he accepted the parcel, breaking the seal after dumping the contents unceremoniously onto the countertop. He shifted the papers and read quietly over each document to make steady sense of this mission in which Lenara was so considerately volunteering him. He would play at being sour about it for as long as he could get away with being moody, but deep down, Ronan knew that Lenara had undoubtedly saved his job again. Inside the envelope were two transcribed reports and a mission order. Edric, the branch manager of Daggerford's Chapter and the two guides direct supervisor, could be a downright cantankerous mule at times, but Ronin had to give it to him. The paunchy man was thorough. He began with the earliest report. It was dated 14th day of Eleasis, year 1501, Dr. Three days ago, Ronan noted. He read further, scrutinizing the details with all the focus his hangover would permit. It seemed that Eastway Expeditions had been hired to deliver a merchant caravan from Daggerford to the manor fortress of Crom's hold. The caravan was listed as deliverable to one Baroness Wynn Crom. The vehicle itself was a horse drawn supply wagon and had unlisted cargo denoted only as high value. That was suspicious. It also mentioned the merchant by name Theron Valen, whose signature was accompanied by a stamped seal of an insignia bearing a crescent moon over a wagon wheel. Estimated time of arrival to destination 15 aliases accompanied return of Eastway guide to Daggerford headquarters 16 aliases. Edric included subtext that this merchant refused additional vetting services and hired his own auxiliary armed escort. Ronan didn't recognize them either. The second report was shorter. It was a transcribed inquiry from the guard captain of Crom's hold, sent directly to Edric looking for answers as to the delay of services. The mission order was equally simple. Ronan was assigned to retrace the steps of the caravan, discover what went wrong and either recover what was left or assist in finishing the delivery. He was being given three days to report back with results. Ronan hummed in thought. The circumstances of the caravan were certainly unusual. Dacorford was small enough of a town that the guide knew most of the regular merchants passing through through, but still large enough to be surprised from time to time. As far as guided expeditions go, this should have been a simple, straightforward job. The path between Daggerford and Crom's hold was as easy as following roads. Of course that didn't mean it was always safe, but the armed escort should have deterred any would be bandits from even trying. None of this makes any damn sense. Ronan thumbed through the papers once more, flipping them over to be doubly sure he hadn't missed anything. I know. The whole thing has Edric really worked up. Yeah, I bet. If that's the case, why didn't he assign Durla to this? She's a better tracker. Probably a better fighter too. Aye, and she's better looking, don't forget, lenara chided. The tea had warmed her demeanor noticeably. Problem is, she left on another mission two days ago, Deacon said. She took some confused looking fellow out eastward to Sicomber, I think. Ronan furrowed his brow. So what do you make of this mess? Bandits, maybe worse. Oh, and there is one more thing. Howl. Lenara leaned closer, a devilish grin forming. I'm coming with you. The road from Dackerford to Crom's hold wound through grassy hills and sparse woodlands. The morning mist clung to the Edges of the path. Merchant wagons passed with polite nods and wary glances. As the hours slipped by, the tension between Ronan and Lenara eased, replaced by the steady rhythm of travel. Eventually, they reached a narrow stretch flanked by dense trees. Keep your eyes sharp, linara whispered. Ronan scanned the area. Ronan will make a perception check. He's proficient in this skill, so he'll get a sizable bonus. The roll 10 total. Not great, not terrible. He'll discover basic details. Skill checks are normally rolled against difficulty classes or DCs. These numbers are larger or smaller based on how difficult the task is. For each skill check, I will roll a 20 sided die or a D20 for short. I'll tally up any bonuses from the character and compare the result. The goal is to overcome the DC by getting that result or higher. On a personal creative note, I think getting Meyer down in details modifiers plus ones and minus twos is a lot more compelling on paper than in audio format. So I'll always just present you the total. But if you ever want to follow along with numbers, feel free to find Ronan's character sheet on our Patreon page. A glimmer caught his eye. Ronan knelt, tugging a leather strap with a buckle that was partially buried in the mud. As he pulled more of it free, it took shape as a horse's bridle. A decorative insignia was inlaid in a metal crest, displaying a crescent moon overlapping a wagon's wheel. This was the missing caravan's insignia. Nearby, the tracks told a curious tale. Here, Ronan will make her survival check against a DC of eight as a seasoned guide. He's also proficient with this skill. He rolls 19 total. Much better. He reads the scene like a map. Because he rolled so well, he'll also get advanced information as well. Strange. It looks like they set the horses free, ronan murmured, stowing his tracking dagger to the small of his back. They pulled the wagon off road and there. Look. He pointed his eyes following the tracks. They go into the woods. Lenara frowned. Do you think they encountered trouble? Hmm. Ronan scratched his beard, thinking no. Something doesn't add up. These foot paces are steady with an even distance between them. That means they had time to work, Ronan concluded. None of this seems rushed to me. I don't see any signs of fighting. Now that you mention it, there's no blood, Linara assessed, hands on her hip. Who was the guide assigned to this expedition? Lenara pursed her lips, frowning. Kelvin. The two stood for a time, exchanging a knowing look. Kelvin was an optimistic and resilient youth, still earning his place in the company he was kind hearted and gentle and even though he wasn't the best guide, he always tried, the two didn't need to finish the thought. Without real answers as to what happened to the caravan, there would be no turning back the trail Trail led deeper into the woods and the two guides pressed onward. They carefully navigated the tight natural passages of the forest, following the broken branches and cleared pathway that was bushwhacked for the wagon. The two paused to rest against a moss covered boulder. Ronan unscrewed the cap and took a pull from his waterskin. Tracking and moving in the woods in armor was arduous work. After wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he absently rolled the water skin between between his hands. You know, you didn't have to come, he began. Lenara exhaled sharply. We're really doing this again? You don't owe me anything, Lyn. Don't be an idiot. What, did I save your life when I was too drunk to remember? Pull you out of a fire? Or was it when I saved that puppy that one time? If you put as much effort as you do into being an asshole, into just arriving to work on time, we both wouldn't be here. She jabbed, then snatched the water skin out of his hands and said flatly, sidelong, besides, I do owe you. Oh. Ronan raised an eyebrow. Mhm. Five gold pieces from that bet last winter. Ha. I knew you never paid that back. Lenara shook her head, grinning again with mischief as she took her own sip. A moment lingered afterwards and she spoke again, her tone now more serious. The way I see it, we're all we've got out here. This job chews people up, Ronan. It spits them out. Bitter, broke, or worse. And if we don't look out for each other, if we don't have someone to pull us back when we're leaning too far over the edge, then what's the damn point? Ronan simply listened. Accepting the water skin back for her, she continued, you act like it's a debt or some favor that I'm doing for you. It's not. It's just how it ought to be. Ronan studied her, his lips pressing into a thin line. His first instinct was to argue, to dismiss it, brush it off with some half smirk and callous remark. He was good at that. But there was truth to her words that he couldn't sidestep. Instead, he shouldered his pack and pushed himself off the boulder. All right, come on, Lynn, he grunted. Let's go find out how far over the edge these blowhards lean as they continued. The shadows in the trees grew long. The wooded canopy fell into an oppressive, unnatural silence. Even the birds were still, as if the very forest was holding its breath. A twig snapped nearby. Lenara's hand dropped to her sword. Ronan drew his blade as they pressed forward. Who's there? Reveal yourself. Ronan called. His voice cut through the stillness for a heartbeat. There was no response, just the creaking of swaying branches and the faint rustle of leaves. Suddenly, a shuffling figure emerged from the underbrush about 30ft ahead. @ first glance, it looked human, a hunched, shambling form draped in tattered, drab cloth. As it shuffled awkwardly closer, the faint light filtering through the canopy revealed pale, mottled skin stretched taut over its frame. The head jerked unnaturally to regard them. A guttural growl escaped its throat, and it lunged forward. Combat Begins In D and D, characters will inevitably encounter combat Combat it's similar to skill checks, but with a wide variety of actions, consequences, and choices. Here's what you need to know. Characters and monsters have hit points, which loosely describes how healthy they are. If a character or monster falls below zero hit points, they die. Main characters, such as Ronin, will instead bleed out and can be stabilized or saved by others. We'll talk about that more if a situation demands it. Combat is taken in turns and the order is determined BY initiative a D20 for each. The higher the number, the better. On their turn, each character and monster can move a distance to their speed, which in Most cases is 30ft, as well as use one action where they can do things such as attack with a weapon, weapon cast spells, dash to sprint greater distances, apply bandages, and much, much more. Sometimes characters are allowed bonus actions in addition to their action. These are typically quick spells or maneuvers determined by the class or abilities, and will be stated clearly. I'll try to explain further rules as I go when new situations demand new explanations. Alright, let's get back to it. Initiative Ronan12 he has nine out of nine hit points. As a cleric of Saloon A and the Twilight Domain, Ronan possesses the ability Vigilant Blessing, which gives him advantage to initiative checks. He rolled two D twenties and accepted the highest for a total of 12. Linara 15 Linara has seven out of seven hit points. The creature seven. The creature has 19 hit points. That's more than both of them combined. Linara Ronan Then the creature Linara begins our first combat. Still at range from the charging enemy, she will attempt to throw one of her daggers. To succeed, she'll need to roll higher than a 12, which is the creature's armor class. She rolls a 14. She hits 4. 4 damage. Whatever this creature is, it doesn't seem to value its own safety, so it's easy to hit, but it has an alarming number of hit points. Even after the hit, the creation creature still has 15. Lenara reached for a practice quickdraw, palming the dagger's handle and underhandedly tossing it at the charging creature. The dagger embedded itself into the creature's shoulder, but doesn't slow it down. Ronin forced himself between the creature and his companion. He widened his stance, raised his shield, and prepared to meet the foe with a resilient bracelet. For Ronin's turn, he'll take the dodge action. He'll rely on his excellent armor rating and fight defensively before committing to a potentially vulnerable strike. After all, he doesn't know what it is. The creature hurled itself with abandon at Ronin, swinging its clawed hands. Ronin's Armor class is 18 with chainmail and a shield. Additionally, the dodge action forces his opponent to roll its attack. Attack with disadvantage. The creature rolls 16 and 9 total with disadvantage. The lower roll is used, so the attack misses. The creature snarled in frustration, but continued to press the attack. Keep it distracted. Linara shouted, circling to its back. She waited for only a moment, then dove into the fray. As a rogue, Linara can attack with a sneak attack, bonus to her damage. To take advantage of the creature being distracted by Ronan. Let's roll her attack. 18. That's a hit. She deals a total now of nine damage. The creature, however, still fights on with a swift strike. Her blades slice deep into the creature's side, eliciting a guttural hiss of pain. It staggered slightly, but its rage only seemed to intensify. Not risking the opportunity for the creature to turn its attention to Lenara, Ronin attempted to catch the creature off guard and slam his weight into it. Ronin performs a shove attack in the 2024 edition. This requires a saving throw from this creature. It'll need to beat a 13. The creature rolls 14. The creature wins. It wrapped its hands around the shield and pushed back with surprising strength. The creature dug its feet into the soil beneath it and refused to budge. Ronan could feel the heat of its sickening breath on his face as it snarled and bit over the edge of his shield. And he barely held it bay. The creature attacks with vicious, elongated claws. It rolls an 18. That's exactly enough to hit. And because Ronin is no longer dodging, it's going to keep this. Roll meets. It beats it. The creature deals five slashing damage, reducing Ronin to only four hit Points left. With a wrenching motion, the creature ripped Ronan's shield to the side and pulled him off balance. Then, finding a small gap between the armor at his side, it sank its razor sharp claws into the underside of his arm, drawing blood and sending a searing bolt of pain through Ronin. Then, to his alarm, Ronin felt his body begin to numb. The effect was immediate. Starting with his arm, his entire body began to feel heavy and leaden. This enemy packs a nasty punch. After being hit with its claws, Ronin will need to make a constitution saving throw to avoid becoming paralyzed and entirely vulnerable. Saving throws, like checks, roll a D20 and are usually made to attempt to overcome some adverse effects. Also, like skill checks, saving throws are given a difficulty class. This DC is 10. He rolls. Critical failure. Oh no. I've rolled a one. That's a natural one. On the die. And in this campaign, an automatic failure. Ronin is human, however, so once per day, he can use an ability called heroic inspiration to reroll a result. I'll use this now as this could mean life or death. The final roll. Three total. That fails. Oh dear. The feeling surges through him with sickly speed. Suddenly, the weight of his armor, the heft of his shield, even his own body, all of it feels simply too heavy. He can't move. He can't scream. Only this time, it wasn't a dream. Linara attacks once more from behind the creature. With Ronin paralyzed and wounded, she's got this one chance to save him. She rolls a 17. That's gonna be a hit. But the creature still has six hit points points remaining. As Ronan's now paralyzed, she won't be able to use him as a distraction for that additional sneak attack. Damage. She deals. Eight piercing damage. Wow, what a roll. That's gonna be enough. In a flash, Lenara darted behind the creature's exposed back and with two hands plunged the shortsword down and into its chest from the top of its shoulder. With a final mucus filled snarl, the creature collapsed to the ground, motionless. The silence returned. Ronan. Ronan, are you alright? The voice was a faint ringing in his ear, as if spoken through a wall. In only a few moments, Ronan's lungs filled with air. He gasped and coughed, dropping his blade and reaching for the wound at his arm. Ronan, what in the nine hells was that? She stammered. I don't know, Lyn. I couldn't move. Ronan grimaced, sneering down at the corpse at his feet. He needed to know that it was dead. He gave it a swift kick to the ribs. Nothing. Satisfied, Ronan knelt and pulled back the creature's hood. It's seemed to be human, but was grotesquely malformed. Its pale skin was stretched taut over wiry muscles and bony features, like a corpse not yet ready to die. Jagged, dangerously sharp claws protruded from ghastly and elongated fingers. The eyes were unnaturally sunken with faint streaks of a sickly black substance that wept from the corners of its eyes. His stomach turned as he examined it closer. This thing's skin was a sickly pallor, but beneath the grime its tattered garments were far too fine for a common vagrant. The loose folds of what once might have been a tailored shirt draped over an unnaturally gaunt frame. The fabric shredded at the wrist. Lynn, take a look at this. He carefully lifted its arm, peeling back the ragged sleeve. Dark bruising rubbed raw along the skin of its wrists. It was circular, scarring chafing with unusually even lines. What does this look like to you? He asked over his shoulders. Bruises from binding rope maybe? No, I don't know. Shackles, lenara answered. Ronan grimaced back. He pat down the creature's limbs until he heard a telltale rustling clink. His chest tightened as he pulled back the creature's pant leg to reveal a manacle still clasped around the ankle. Lenara swore under her breath as she examined it. Ronan, these are merchant grade. Look. She indicated a small metal hoop on the manacle in which a single long chain would pass through to secure a prisoner. A design far more practical for the illicit transit of not just one, but many prisoners. Together, the two stared at each other, then back at the manacle. Ronan's mind worked through the pieces, sluggish at first, then with a sickening, undeniable clarity. He had read the reports. He'd seen the details. A high value shipment, unregistered cargo, a third party escort. The sinking feeling in his gut swelled and for a moment he thought he would throw up. The realization was suffocating. Lenara's voice was quiet, cautious. Ronin. This creature, this thing hadn't stumbled into the caravan. It was being carried inside it. And it wasn't alone. Lynn, it's the car. Thank you for listening to Myth and Moon. We hope you enjoyed the journey and join us in wherever the dice choose to take this tale.
- [57:12]
James
You can follow us on instagram@instagram.com mythandmoonpodcast for artwork, additional content and updates between episodes.
- [57:22]
Cooper
If you want to dive deeper into the world, you can find character sheets, campaign maps and bonus content. And all the chaos we couldn't fit into the episode at our patreon page@patreon.com.
- [57:33]
James
Mythandmoon so come join our community and help support the show with your ideas and feedback.
- [57:40]
Cooper
We'll be back soon with more twists, more danger, and more dice rolls.
- [57:44]
James
Because in this world, fates collide and dice decide. No prophecy is certain and no choice is without consequence.
- [57:53]
Cooper
So stay sharp. Stay ready.
- [57:55]
James
Destiny is waiting for you. We'll see you there.
- [58:08]
Billy Hindle
You can listen to the next episode of Myth and Moon wherever you find podcasts linked in the description or on rustyquill.com thanks for listening.