The Poem of the Drunk

Night had fallen over the Revillon Army’s stronghold, draping the general’s office in shadows and candlelight. Outside, the wind whispered over the battlements, but inside, the warmth of reunion filled the room. After a month apart — each member of the party engaged in their own struggles, their own trials, their own rest — they gathered once more around the round table. The room hummed with quiet anticipation. Maps were unfurled, tokens of past battles scattered across worn wood. And at the head of the table, Tamil, the young dragonborn strategist and protégé, spoke. His scales glimmered faintly in the candlelight, his eyes sharp and calculating. Six plans, six visions of victory, lay before the party — each one a path through peril. The target: the Tower of Elminster, a bastion of arcane power, shielded by the formidable Harrengon Army. Tamil’s voice carried both caution and clarity: an open confrontation would bring ruin. Even victory would be drenched in blood, as the soldiers under their command would pay the heaviest price. The first task, he explained, was to carve a safe path — a corridor through danger that would spare as many lives as possible. Only then could the second, far more audacious objective be attempted: the strike upon the Main Harrengon Outpost in southern Hither, a fortress built to withstand even the boldest of assaults. The weight of the coming days pressed down upon them, yet the room did not tremble with fear. It bristled with purpose. The party, reunited, knew that every choice would decide not only the fate of the army but the echoes of this campaign in the stories told long after.

The night stretched long over the walls of the general’s office, shadows dancing in the flickering candlelight as the party wrestled with the six strategies laid before them. One by one, ideas were debated, discarded, and refined, until only two remained — a fragile promise of clarity in a room thick with smoke, spilled rum, and the bitter tang of old wine. Inebriation crept over them like a slow tide. Tankards clattered. Laughter spilled between arguments. Rum and beer loosened tongues, but also tempers. Tamil, the young dragonborn, frustrated by the meandering and chaos of his companions, stormed from the room in a puff of scales and exasperation. Enter Taylor. Intended as the voice of reason, he instead succumbed to the same vice. Soon he, too, was drunk, swaying beside the maps, weaving stories of past adventures — tales of glory, folly, and narrow escapes — punctuated by laughter and groans of disbelief. At last, the decision was made: the mission would follow the path of the Hunter’s Trail. Sagiatto, always drawn to precision, seized the moment to expound on the nature of a hunter — stealth, patience, and deadly timing. Kilijan, ever keen to assert order from chaos, declared Sagiatto the leader of the expedition. The title hung in the air, unquestioned — save for Weneon, who, moments later, succumbed to the inevitable, vomiting into a nearby basin before reaching for another drink. Taylor, swaying on his feet, turned serious for a moment to recount the situation in North Hither. Whispers of rebellion had grown into a roar, and a single flower — risen from obscurity — had sparked uprisings across Harrengon camps. Frul, Gregs brother as an act of despair, had already departed north to lend aid to those in need. Kilijan, always curious, asked Greg if he had revived Frul’s children. The question struck a chord. Greg, his patience frayed, snapped that Frul was a fool and stormed from the room. Sagiatto, growing weary of the spiraling conversation, attempted to steer the group toward memories of old companions — those who had walked beside him in battles long past, whose names carried both honor and regret. He spoke of their courage, their failures, and the bonds that had been forged in fire and shadow.Weneon, ever pragmatic beneath his indulgence, accepted the plan — but only if it meant stealth and cunning over open combat. Then, as if to punctuate his agreement, he vomited again. Weneon asked if he would chose his old companions over his new. Sagiatto stood silent and answered that everyone has his own task, explaining that he was original from Arborea, and that he needs to hunt down Chernobogs warlock. Amid the chaos, Manasa raised his voice, singing a mournful tune — a song of their unglorious council, of rum-soaked strategy and drunken camaraderie. Taylor, too, added his voice, loud and slurred, creating a dissonant harmony that carried through the office, a testament to exhaustion, alcohol, and bonds tested in both frustration and friendship. By the time the candle burned low, the mission was set. The Hunter’s Trail awaited, and though the night had been unrefined, chaotic, and absurd, it had forged a choice. And in that choice, the party found a fleeting moment of unity — for even in drunken folly, heroes prepare to walk the path of destiny.