FIELD REPORT: DAY ONE 0600. I am filing this from a beach that smells of salt, ooze, and poor decisions. We have arrived. I am choosing to count this as a success.
Let the record show that I accepted this commission in good faith, having been retained by one Stan Zintair — head of the Black Gauntlet security group, Waterdeep — for purposes of escort, documentation, and general expedition expertise. The client was not disclosed at time of hiring. This will become relevant shortly.
Our vessel: The Compass Rose. Our captain: Peggy. Our destination: an island temple, details forthcoming.
Our timeline: immediate.
Initial assessment — the party
The deck of the Compass Rose is where I first laid eyes on what I have since designated as the Newly Esteemed Stormwreck Team.
The NEST.
I coined this. It is excellent.
The members, as I assessed them on first encounter:
Mr. Brugan Hornblower — a dwarf. Blue mohawk. Standoffish in the manner of someone who has decided, preemptively, that most conversations will disappoint him. He carries enough weaponry on his person to constitute a one-man armory. I cannot identify all of it. I am not certain he can either.
Mr. Aurelian — a dragonborn, silver-skinned, approximately thirty years of age. Last name unknown. He held himself with the particular tension of someone trying very hard to appear at ease, which is its own kind of information.
Ms. Mephista — a tiefling monk, who said she prefers Mephy, to which I will continue to refer as Ms. Mephista for fear failure to do so will reduce my own personal longevity should I offend her. Quiet. Secretive. She carries something behind her eyes that looks like unresolved business. I made a note to observe further and interfere minimally.
Mr. Yaz — a large green-skinned orc monk who, within five minutes of my observation, had produced a teapot. He meditates. He studies the stars. He keeps several skulls on his belt, the origin and significance of which I have not yet catalogued, but which I found — and continue to find — disconcerting. A fellow astronomer, though. I respect this. The skulls complicate the warmth I might otherwise extend.
This is the NEST. We are, collectively, a motley assembly. I remain optimistic.
The client — a disclosure
Stan Zintair, having allowed us to assemble and take stock of one another, introduced the client.
The client is a baby silver dragon.
Her full name, as given, is Sis Arsepharus Avolar. The party, in a rare and immediate moment of consensus, agreed this name does not work off the tongue. We have taken to calling her Sassafras.
I assessed Sassafras as female. I recorded this without deliberation. I am a doctor of anatomy among other disciplines. This is not a controversial observation.
Sassafras informed us she intends to meet her cousin, Lord Arden — a bronze dragon — on the island for training. She mentioned her mother is named Roan. She was, for a baby dragon, composed. I noted this.
Operational note: we are escorting an infant dragon across open water to a volcanic island during what the sky was already suggesting was an unstable period. I filed this under “commissioned work” and proceeded.
The King Killer Star — a critical observation
As we approached Stormwreck Isle I turned my attention to the sky.
I found what I was looking for immediately.
The King Killer Star hung directly above the island — visible, unmistakable to anyone trained to read it. I relayed this to the party with the gravity the observation deserved.
What this means, for the record:
- The King Killer Star is associated with elven workings of deep magic. Its position is not random. It does not drift to volcanic archipelagos by accident.
- Dragons are drawn to it. In the same way moths find flame. In the way Mr. Yaz finds his teapot. Instinctive, irresistible, not entirely conscious.
- Where this star burns over contested ground, things are already in motion. The events have already started. We are, in all likelihood, arriving into something rather than before it.
The party received this information with varying degrees of attention. I logged it regardless.
The sky battle
The storm arrived as we drew close.
Thunder. Then, above the clouds, the unmistakable silhouette of two dragons — locked in combat over the island. I cannot confirm species at that distance and in those conditions. I can confirm it was not a friendly exchange.
We turned in for the night with this overhead.
This was, in retrospect, optimistic.
The harpy — a brief and confusing encounter
I was woken by water.
The ship’s underbelly was flooding. We had run aground, or struck something. The crew was in disarray. I reached the deck to find Mr. Yaz already there, and at the bow, a harpy — singing, luring two of the crew toward the edge.
I reached into my pack and produced a grappling hook, which I handed to Mr. Yaz.
Mr. Yaz looked at me.
I looked at Mr. Yaz.
The intention, which I had considered self-evident, was for him to use the grappling hook to bind the harpy. Mr. Yaz’s expression suggested this intention had not transferred successfully. I began to explain.
The harpy fled into the night before I finished.
Operational note: I have added “establish nonverbal equipment protocols” to my pre-mission checklist.
The kraken — a less brief and considerably worse encounter
The harpy was replaced, almost immediately, by tentacles.
Large ones. Coming over the hull. Two swept across the deck and took out the mast — already damaged — in a single motion. The crew scattered. Mr. Yaz dragged sailors back from the edge with the particular efficiency of a man who is accustomed to things going badly at sea.
I ran.
I want to be precise about this. I am a small duck. I am three and a half feet tall. I was in a full sprint across a wet, listing, mast-strewn deck when a tentacle swung at head height directly in front of me.
I ducked.
I slid. I covered approximately four feet of deck on my stomach, which I had not planned, arrived somehow at the rowboat, and got in.
The physics of this were — in the moment — less interesting to me than the survival.
The party and remaining crew rowed to shore.
Captain Peggy was not in the boat. By the time we confirmed this, we were already ashore. I recorded her name and the fact of her absence. I do not know what happened to her.
The shore — undead, ooze, and an indignity I will document accurately
The shore was not empty.
Undead. A significant number. Rising from the sand, assembling with the particular purposefulness of things that have been waiting.
The party made the decision to fight them. I will not second-guess this in a field report. We fought them.
Two observations I consider operationally significant:
The undead were unnaturally drawn to Ms. Mephista and Mr. Aurelian specifically. Not the group — them. Whatever is pulling the dead to this island, some part of it recognizes something in those two. I do not yet know what. I have noted it.
Mr. Aurelian took flight, drawing a portion of the undead toward the water’s edge, where the waves handled them. This was effective. This was also the first time I observed him move without the tension I’d noted on the deck. Some people find themselves in the air. I recognized this. I respect it.
I attempted to assist Ms. Mephista with a minor magical application — guidance, nothing invasive, a simple steadying of the hand — and elected, given her apparent preference for privacy, to administer it without announcing my intentions.
She caught me by the tail.
Her tail. She used it to catch me. I was held upside down for a period I will estimate at six seconds, which is longer than it sounds.
I apologized.
She put me down.
I logged this under interpersonal calibration and moved on.
Several of the undead, upon dispatching, exploded. This produced a considerable quantity of ooze across the beach sand. I was not wearing shoes. I assessed the situation, assessed my feet, and made the only reasonable field decision available to me.
I asked, rather, I insisted, Mr. Brugan carry me across.
He did.
I have updated my assessment of Mr. Brugan accordingly as: useful in the capacity of carrying.
End of day — current position
Two small kobolds appeared at the tree line and beckoned us toward a gate. We followed. The gate is where we are now.
Behind us: a wrecked ship, a missing captain, and a beach covered in ooze and whatever remains of the undead.
Above us: the King Killer Star, still burning.
In my pack: one baby silver dragon’s escort contract, several star charts, two cracked lenses, and a grappling hook that has not yet been used for its intended purpose.
In summary: we have arrived at Stormwreck Isle. The island is actively hostile, cosmically significant, and almost certainly already in motion. The NEST is intact. The client is safe.
We do not yet know where the captain is.
We proceed.
I am Dr. Waxyl T. Feathers and this is my field report.
— Dr. Waxyl T. Feathers Field Correspondent, The Nest Stormwreck Expedition, Day 1 0600