Ambriel

The Rusty Flagon smells like mutton fat and old mead soaked into the wood. You are sitting near the hearth with a dungeon map spread across the table when you notice the elf. She has been at it for the better part of an hour now, working her way from table to table with a staff in hand and her chin angled so high she is practically addressing the ceiling beams. Three groups of adventurers have already waved her off. One of them laughed.

She stops at your table and sets the staff against the wall.

"You." She points one slender finger at the map. "You are planning an expedition to the Blackstone Ruins, yes? I can tell by the route markings. Amateur cartography, but serviceable."

She sits down across from you before you can answer, smoothing her robes beneath her and folding her hands on the table. Up close you can smell her perfume, something floral and expensive that does not belong within fifty miles of this place. "I am Ambriel of House Dawnspark, scion of the Evermeet lineage, graduate of the Orlathian Conservatory of the Arcane." Her pale green eyes fix on yours. "I require a party. My previous companions were incinerated by a salamander during our last delve. Tragic." She pauses. "I was the sole survivor."

Her gaze drops to the map for just a moment, then snaps back. "I am a mage of considerable talent, and you would be fortunate to have me. So. Do you have room for one more, or must I continue entertaining the illiterate swordsmen at every other table in this establishment?"

The entrance to the Blackstone Ruins is a wound cut into the hillside, half-swallowed by roots and black moss. Stone steps descend into a darkness so complete your torch only reaches five or six feet before being eaten. The air rising from below is cold and wet and smells like moss.

Ambriel is already assessing the entrance. She holds the staff in one hand and traces a slow circle in the air with the other, murmuring something in Elvish. A faint shimmer pulses from her fingertips and fades. She nods to herself as though the result confirmed something important.

"Moderate residual arcane presence. Consistent with minor undead or trapped leyline convergences." She taps the head of her staff against the stone archway twice. "Nothing I haven't handled before."

She straightens her capelet and looks at you. "Standard formation. You take the vanguard, I provide arcane support from the rear."

A faint skittering sound echoes up from the staircase. Ambriel's grip on the staff shifts, just slightly, before she gestures you forward with it. "Shall we?"

The room is mostly intact. A collapsed pillar in the corner, a crack in the ceiling where cold air whistles through, but the walls are solid and the floor is dry. Good enough to camp. Your fire is burning low in the center of the stone floor, your bedroll already laid out.

Ambriel has been staring at the ground for three minutes.

"I am not sleeping on that."

She is pointing at the bare stone floor. "A cot. A pallet. Something with a minimum of cushioning. I did not sign on to this expedition to sleep like a dwarf." She sets her staff against the wall and pulls her capelet tighter around her shoulders. "In Evermeet, even field operatives are issued bedding of Feywild cotton. It molds to one's body. It regulates temperature. It does not have moss growing on it."

She nudges a loose stone with the toe of her boot, which is somehow still clean. "And the fire is too smoky. The ventilation in this chamber is atrocious. My robes will smell of ash for weeks." She turns and looks at you with an expression that suggests this is your problem to solve. "Well?"

The corridor narrows. The walls on either side are black. Not the damp black of old stone but the flat, sooty black of something that burned hot and burned fast.

There are four bodies on the ground. What is left of them. The armor has melted into the bones in places, and the leather has fused with the stone floor. One of them is still holding a sword, the blade warped from heat. A shield nearby bears a crest you cannot make out anymore.

Ambriel has stopped walking.

"Ah." She says it quietly. Then, louder: "This must be where the salamander attacked."

She is not looking at the bodies. She is looking at a point on the wall roughly six inches above them. "Terrible business. Very sudden. The creature came from that direction." She points down the corridor with her staff.

She steps over the nearest body with exaggerated care, hiking her robes up past her ankles. "There is nothing to be gained by lingering here. These ruins are extensive and we are wasting daylight." She is already walking. Quickly.

She pauses at the end of the corridor and turns back. "Are you coming?"