The City of Silence

Dawn breaks over Revillon. The party wakes slowly, voices hushed, spirits weighed with the realization that only one mission remains: the southern operation known by its codename—Lorelei. They attend to final errands—quiet goodbyes, unfinished letters, sacred rites. It is Greg who makes the boldest move. From his pack, he retrieves the sap of the Knowledge Tree, collected in silence sessions ago. He drinks. And in that moment, they all see. Not just Greg. Every member of the party is gripped by a shared vision—the full epilogue of Gambino, unfolding across their minds in perfect clarity. The meeting in Phandalin. The burned face. The hounds. The deals. Tarrok. Chernobog. Krampus. The machine in the desert. Every secret kept from them now spills forward as fate lays itself bare before them. When the vision ends, the silence lingers like fog. Then, they move.

On the road to Lorelei, Greg explains what little he knows: if the missing resistance fighters are real, they are likely held near Moonweft, a forgotten coastal village whispered about in fragmented reports. As they approach the outskirts of the mist-covered shore, they’re ambushed. A deft hand slips through cloaks and coin pouches—Mycha and Greg both lose gold, unaware until moments later. The thief melts into the brush like morning dew. But Weneon sees everything. He calls out in Thieves’ Cant, not with threat—but recognition. "Give it back." From the bushes, a small leather pouch is tossed back. No words. No face. Only silence. Weneon doesn’t pursue. Instead, he draws a golden dagger, balanced and sharp, and places it on a rock where the thief can see. "Game recognizes game." They leave the path behind and continue on, the coast curling near and the sky dimming. Moonweft waits.

The party crosses the threshold into Moonweft, a crooked village curled along the coast like a secret. Immediately, they recognize it for what it is: a den of thieves with a heart of gold. Three barefoot children splash in the shallow surf at the village’s edge. Watching them from a shaded tidepool is Mura—a quiet figure with the torso of a woman, the lower body of a horse, and long octopus-like tentacles for arms. She weaves a seaweed basket with practiced ease, one eye always on the children. Above them, carved in driftwood, the village’s sign reads: Moonweft: The Town Where Silence Sleeps Mura greets them without fear. Her voice is slow, like tides receding. She gestures up the winding streets and says, “You’ll find shelter at Peepin’s. Just don’t expect manners.” The party follows her advice. At the tavern’s crooked deck, they’re met by the squawking tune of Jorran, a flamboyant parrot aarakocra bard. He strums a battered lute and sings half-songs in exchange for coin, easily charming a few party members into tipping him for tales. But when Mycha points toward the distant island, barely visible beyond the mist, Jorran's feathers puff. His voice dies. Weneon narrows his eyes. Instead, Mycha turns his question to the lighthouse perched on a cliff above Moonweft. That, at least, Jorran will speak of. “The lighthouse? Belongs to Tharn, the bear. Keeps watch. Doesn’t talk much. Keeps the real things out.” With little more to gain, the party steps into Peepin’s Tavern, and instantly regrets it. The place reeks of salt, fish rot, and cheap oil. Decor drips from the walls like seafoam mold. Crabs scuttle beneath the tables. Peepin, a one-eyed goblin with enthusiasm to spare and hygiene to lack, greets them with a toothy grin and several apologies. He serves them something edible. As they settle, Kilijan, ever direct, brings up the true reason for their visit: the missing resistance soldiers from Revillon. Peepin wipes a glass with a rag that only makes it dirtier and shrugs. “Oh, those poor lads? Yeah, they’re upstairs. Got themselves into a bit of trouble. Twelve thousand shards’ worth of trouble, to be exact.” The room falls quiet. Outside, waves crash against the rocks. Somewhere above, a lonely bell tolls from the lighthouse.

Driven by duty, Kilijan makes his way upstairs to speak with the Revillon soldiers. What he finds is far from a disciplined unit: the soldiers are slumped in a drunken stupor, half-conscious, the smell of cheap ale and defeat thick in the air. He locates Captain Eloi, a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a stuttering voice. At the sight of Kilijan, Eloi straightens—recognizing the rank, but trembling all the same. “Sir... I—please. Don’t ask about it. Don’t ask about Lorelei.” Kilijan presses. But Eloi’s gaze flickers with something deeper than fear—shame, perhaps. Or a pact made in desperation. “We shouldn’t have come here,” he whispers. Downstairs, the rest of the party meets equal resistance. Peppin, normally so boisterous and casual, grows tense when the name Lorelei surfaces. His hands shake as he dries a glass for the third time. “Best not to chase shadows you can’t see,” he warns, eyeing the windows. The party doesn’t back down. They push again. Suddenly, from outside the tavern, a piercing scream shatters the uneasy silence. They rush to the door. Mura is kneeling at the shore, wailing. One of the children—the smallest—is convulsing violently in the water. Foam flecks their lips. Villagers gather, frozen in horror. As the party turns, Peppin stands with his back to them, eyes shut, lips moving silently. They press him harder. Demanding answers. Another scream. They turn back—and see the other two children now collapsed, lifeless on the sand. Mura’s voice cracks into a final, primal howl. And inside Peppin’s tavern, the room goes utterly still.

The party bursts from the tavern into chaos. Mura cradles the smallest child in her arms, wailing. The two others lie motionless on the wet shore, pale and still. Saltwater clings to their skin like a burial shroud. Weneon freezes—his vision blurring, breath short. The weight of past trauma claws at him. The others don’t wait. Greg and Kilijan kneel beside the lifeless bodies, invoking divine power through trembling hands. A crowd gathers, drawn by grief and suspicion. Voices rise. “Leave them!” “This is Moonweft’s burden!” “Outsiders shouldn’t meddle!” Tension threatens to boil over—until Mycha steps forward. He raises his voice not with authority, but understanding. He speaks of life, of second chances, of children lost too soon. The crowd hesitates. Then quiets. Weneon blinks away the past, steadies himself—and dives into the surf. He reaches Mura and the third child just as their small body seizes again. From his belt, Weneon pulls a healing potion and tilts it gently into their mouth. The child gasps. Breath returns. As life stirs in their limbs, Weneon looks up—and sees something strange. In the crowd surrounding Greg and Kilijan, a hooded figure stands unnaturally still. Then, in a flicker, it turns to leave. Weneon gives chase. But as he rounds the corner—nothing. Only one thing is left behind: a coin, slipped deftly into his pocket by unseen fingers. Cold and unfamiliar. Back on the beach, Greg and Kilijan’s spells take hold. But as they pull the children back from death’s grip, another force speaks. A voice—serene and distant—echoes in their minds: “You know, the children must choose… whether they wish to return.” Time hangs suspended. To Greg’s patient, he speaks softly: “Your parents are waiting for you. They’ll be heartbroken if you stay.” The boy stirs. His eyes open. Kilijan speaks to the other child with quiet conviction: “The world can be better. And it will be. I promise.” That child too, returns. The voice fades like a ripple in deep water. Lorelei is gone—for now. Moments later, a new figure arrives. Tarlip, the mayor of Moonweft—a short, wide-eyed humanoid frog in ceremonial wrappings—approaches the group. He bows low, croaking with unexpected eloquence: “Your intervention was not asked for… but it was needed. You’ve done what few dared.” “Please… join me for dinner tonight. There is more we should discuss.”