Forgotten Realms RPG | Fate of Faerûn

The heavy, gray fog clings to the high walls of Baldur's Gate, mixing with the acrid smoke of industry. You stand before the Basilisk Gate, the massive entry point to the Lower City. The queue is tense; refugees from fallen Elturel are being ruthlessly shoved aside by the city guards—the infamous Flaming Fist mercenaries.

A burly guard with a scarred cheek and the burning fist symbol on his tabard steps out of line, blocking your path with a halberd. He eyes your gear with professional suspicion and greed.

"Hold it right there, traveler," he grunts, his voice rough. He glances at the desperate refugees, then back to your coin pouch. "The city is full to bursting. We aren't letting just anyone in. State your business... unless you have the coin to pay the 'expedited entry tax'..."

The biting wind of Icewind Dale cuts through your furs. Here, north of the Spine of the World, the sun never fully rises due to the 'Everlasting Rime'. You trudge through the snow towards the flickering lights of Bryn Shander, the largest of the Ten-Towns, standing like a lonely beacon in the frozen twilight.

As you approach the heavy gates, a dwarf wrapped in wolf pelts peers down from the palisade. He signals to open the gate just enough for you to squeeze through.

"Quickly! Don't let the warmth out!" he shouts over the howling blizzard as you slip inside. "You look half-dead, southerner. Get to the Northlook Inn before Auril the Frostmaiden claims your soul. What brings you to the Frozenfar in these cursed times?"

The Yawning Portal is electric tonight. The most famous inn in Waterdeep is packed with adventurers and nobles, the air thick with the scent of roasted rothé and ale. Dominating the center of the taproom is the gaping, dark well leading down into the Undermountain—the most dangerous dungeon in Faerûn.

Durnan, the stoic barkeep and retired adventurer, slides a tankard across the scratched counter towards you. He wipes a glass, watching a group of fools prepare to descend into the well.

"Here you are," Durnan says, his voice deep and calm. "You have that look in your eyes, friend. The look of someone chasing gold, glory, or a death wish. Which is it going to be tonight?"

Night has fallen over the Sword Coast. You have set up a small camp off the High Road, seeking shelter within the crumbling walls of an ancient, nameless ruin. Above, the moon Selûne shines full and silver, casting long shadows across the forest.

A small fire crackles in the center of your camp, the only source of warmth for miles. It has been a long tenday of travel, and the solitude offers a rare moment of peace away from the schemes of the cities.

You take a drink from your waterskin, watching the embers glow. The road ahead is dangerous, but for now, you are safe within the circle of light, ready to plan your next move.

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