A Town of Drinking and Fighting

After three months of relative quiet in Revillon, the party turned their attention southward. Rumors had spread of refugees pouring into Gossamer, a mountain town perched on the ridges below Brqua. With General Taylor accompanying them, they set out to see what truths lay behind the stories. By the time they arrived, night had already claimed the peaks. The streets were alive with flickering lanterns and the faint echo of mountain winds. The weight of the long road was heavy on their shoulders, but Gossamer was restless; new faces crowded its narrow alleys, and whispers of the coming days carried through the night air.

Their path ended at the Broken Fang Tavern, a solid stone structure with smoke rising from its chimney and warm light spilling onto the cobblestone street. Siena Lock, the barkeep and proprietor, greeted them with a measured smile and offered them food and lodging for the night. Before they could enter, however, a cluster of students from Revillon intercepted them. Dressed in academic garb and carrying themselves with youthful pride, they spoke quickly and loudly, more interested in flaunting their wit than in hearing answers. One blond-haired student singled the party out, his arrogance sharp as a blade. He mocked their manner of speech, questioned their intellect, and made the adventurers into the butt of his jokes before his companions. The sneers cut through the mountain air, drawing a small crowd of onlookers. The party’s response was subtle, but devastating. With a flicker of magic, humiliation struck — the arrogant student soiled himself in full view of his peers. Shock turned to laughter, and his companions quickly abandoned their jeering to distance themselves from his disgrace. The balance of mockery shifted in an instant. Those who lingered, chastened but curious, spoke more freely. From them, the party learned of a fighting tournament set for the next day. Combatants from across the land had gathered to test their strength, and the prize was said to be worth the journey. Only then did the adventurers step into the warmth of the Broken Fang, Siena watching the whole scene with an amused eye.

The next morning, Weneon rose early and ventured toward the Arena. With nimble steps and a thief’s confidence, he slipped past the bustle of preparations and into the restricted grounds. His eyes caught the glitter of the tournament prize suspended from a crane high above the fighting pit — a tantalizing lure on display for all to covet. He withdrew before he was noticed, carrying the image of the prize back to his companions. Over breakfast at the tavern, the group realized they needed a sponsor to enter the tournament. Siena Lock, shrewd as ever, was persuaded to take up the role. Her interest was not only in their prowess, but in the growing spectacle surrounding them. By midday, the mountain town had transformed. Gossamer, once a sleepy settlement nestled in stone and pine, now pulsed like the heart of a festival. Merchants rolled in with carts brimming with banners, masks, roasted meats, and wines spiced for the cold air. Street performers filled corners with music — fiddles, drums, and the sharp metallic ring of dulcimers — their melodies nearly drowned by the roar of hawkers crying their wares. Refugees mixed with travelers, adventurers with nobles, mercenaries with mystics. Everyone seemed to be swept up in the same current: the promise of spectacle at the Arena. Outside the Broken Fang, Siena’s gamble had already paid off. Hastily made Uninvited merchandise — stitched armbands, painted pendants, crude but colorful shirts — fluttered through the crowd. Children waved small banners painted with the party’s name. The chant of “Un-in-vi-ted! Un-in-vi-ted!” rose in fits and waves, echoing down the narrow streets until it blended with the general festival clamor. The tavern itself became a focal point, like a shrine to the newcomers who would compete. Curious onlookers gathered just to glimpse the heroes within. The party could feel the weight of dozens of eyes whenever they stepped to a window or doorway — eyes filled with expectation, hope, or simple curiosity. And beyond it all, rising above the roofs and banners, stood the Arena, its gates draped in crimson cloth. The sound of its opening horns was not far off.