Beneath the sands of Sabal’Har lies an ancient mystery. One that kingdoms from all over Lenwir would covet, should they know of its existence. Tales of treasures, enough to fill a palace bring many seeking wealth and power, but none truly know what awaits below.

The desert winds whip the sand from the great dunes through a small outpost built against stone stacks and shake the windows of one of the more luxurious inns in Sandmyst Point, The Sandlion.

Misxibis and Zipz

The rowdy bar, packed with the usual and unusual alike, feels very much at home to Zipz and Misxibis, familiar with the cheering crowds and drunk patrons of the big top. An all too perfect place to ply their trade. Misxibis trails off, her beautifully crafted song coming to an introspective end and the last spinning dagger is plucked from the air by the deft childlike hands of Zipz. Both take sweeping bows and the room erupts with applause.

“Again!” a man in a dusty trench coat, tricorn hat and likely fake eyepatch shouts, leaping to his feet. His shouts are echoed by others. Misxibis lifts a hat with a dozen copper and a dusting of silver to the crowd, shaking it for emphasis. A dozen more coins, copper and silver, rain down on the pair, and Zipz scoops a large portion into her pouch, a motion few patrons notice.

“Another! Another! Another!” the bar chants and they begin again. Half a dozen daggers soar from hidden pockets into the air with grace and skill. Zipz catches one on the tip of another before sending it cartwheeling back up, much to the delight of the crowd. Misxibis settles down on a nearby stool, smirks at the palpable admiration and begins one of her spoken poems to the gentle strumming of her lyre.

The song ends with another deluge of copper and silver clattering to their feet, and in the lull of entertainment, a distant panicked shout breaks though the chatter of the room. All quieten as the patrons glance around in seeking an answer. The sand-pirate captain kicks back his chair, hops to his feet and casts his single eye over the rooms occupants. He nods to himself, then his mouth splits into a wide grin.

“Time to do our duty, lads,” he shouts, pulls a rapier from his scabbard and drives it into the patron next to him. The man gasps and clutches his side as the sand-pirate captain draws it back out. “I like ye ladies, so I won’t be killin yah,” he bellows, winking at the pair on stage. Blood flows from his victims mouth and the man collapses to the floor. Around the room, four others leap to their feet, draped in soft brown cloth and headbands that match. And the slaughter begins.

Patrons run, jostling about the tightly packed room, filling it with screams of fear and pain as they find their single exit from the room blocked. Zipz and Misxibis cower in the corner of the stage, watching the spectacle with wide-eyed panic.

The sand-pirate captain wanders from the room, as if about a leisurely stroll instead of what is fast becoming a human slaughterhouse. Misxibis and Zipz share a glance and both nod, regaining their lost wits before leaping into the brawl, eager to spare those that still live a gruesome death. Zipz nimbly darts beneath tables and over chairs, dealing blows with her daggers to the unsuspecting sand-pirates as Misxibis lays down a barrage of crossbow bolts to assist her nimble companion. Caught off-guard by the unexpected retaliation of the entertainers, the pirates quickly fall with the final making a stand before the doorway.

Zipz jumps from a chair towards him, rapier trained on his heart. Her small bulk is all the force she needs to drive the point home, but as it slips through his ribs, his raised spear slams into the airborne Zipz. She bounces sideways, off a table and onto the floor with a sickening crack. After a few seconds she surfaces above the table, staggers back and buckles as she tests her weight on her injured leg.

"Argh!" Zipz screeches in agony, the sound wrenching at the heart of her long time friend. Misxibis soothes her with some gentle shushing and strums a few chords on her lyre, infusing them with her magic. The notes ring in the air, the magic finding its mark on her leg and the wound begins to knit itself back together. Colour returns to Zipz' otherwise pale goblin cheeks.

“Thanks, Missy,” she breathes with a grin, though Misxibis brushes her thanks off, already moving towards the shrieks and fighting that echo from the main taproom.

“Get dese people out vindow,” she orders, gesturing to the thin glass at the back of the room, before turning and striding out. Zipz leaps back onto the stage and smashes the window with the hilt of her rapier before pushing the four surviving humans from the inn into the dry desert night.

Tyrvaan and Zlynan

The wooden bench creaks beneath the weight of a hulking creature, adorned in full armour, his shield and mace resting within easy reach. An odd outfit for a rowdy inn and one noted by those that give him and his friend a wide berth. Though many would cringe purely  from the mark of Tyr that dangles from a chain link necklace, it is the creature itself that enflames their fear. A dragon given human form, a terrifying beast, though one that many would love to have framed above their mantlepiece, for what prestige it would bring them. 

In their speculation though they fail to notice the dangerous eyes of his friend. Eyes that follow them around the room, framed by his slightly pointed ears. He shifts on the bench opposite Tyrvaan beside a roaring fireplace, in a desert, though absent entirely of sweat. Far less impressive, but equally, if not more dangerous, for what resides within.

A barmaid places two ales on the table beside them before retreating with a quick shuffle, though the movement is ignored by the two, intent instead upon the card game they are playing. Tyrvaan claws at the cards on the table, unable to grip the hardened paper with any real fingers, his scarred hands meant for other tasks entirely. Zylnan awaits his friend patiently, flicking his cards from where he sits onto the table, and back into his hand. Though, the presence of magic is absent here, his actions seems to possess a hint of wonder themselves, drawing several uneasy glances from about the room.

A distant shout breaks their concentration and Tyrvaan turns to the door leading into the tap room. More shouts and screams erupt, not those of a bar brawl, but ones you are more likely to encounter upon a battlefield, ones Tyrvaan is far too familiar with. The room explodes into movement as the other patrons push over benches and chairs in a bid to reach the front door, but to their shock and horror it doesn't move, seemingly barricaded from the other side. Their bodies batter against it in a bid to gain freedom, though Tyrvaan grants them little attention. They are safe, for the moment, but others beyond are being terrorised, something he can not abide. He hefts his shield and mace, lifting his massive bulk from the bench and wanders towards the sounds of pain.

"Let's go," he growls, gesturing for Zylnan to join him.

The room is a bloodbath. Humans lie around in different stages of death and sand-pirates stalk the room chasing down those that still live. A company of dwarves in common clothes cluster by the door and Tyrvaan’s eyes lock on the man that dances along the bar in a trench coat and tricorn hat. His uncovered eye alight with glee and madness. This joyful carnage is something Tyrvaan cannot abide, and he charges, his bulk pushing aside chairs and tables.

Zylnan follows, though not before seeing a group of sand-pirates enter the room they just left through another door.

"Tarnoth's claw," he curses, hesitating. Those trapped have little chance of escaping, cornered as they are. Zylnan makes a soft incantation casting it at one of the invaders before throwing a blast of pure force in their direction. Though the man’s back faces him it misses, instead hitting the lintel of the massive door. He grits his teeth and stares between the defenceless civilians and his friend, engaged with a sand-pirate captain of surprising skill.

A hard decision, but not for Zylnan. He barely pauses, drawing his longsword and shield before running to assist his friend, determined never to lose another.

Ballen Greenfinch

Within a small room, with little furnishings and no colour sits an unusual sight in Sabal’Har. A high elf draped in colours of an unknown legion, another one that has become lost to the sands. His fingers play along a small flute and he hums a series of sad out of tune notes in an attempt to match those of the instrument. Several figures pass his doorway drawing his eye, their footsteps continuing to the end of the corridor where they cut off. Ballen sneaks to his door and places his pointed ear against the wood. A series of mutters and grunts, followed by the light cracking of some wood. He waits for more, but the footsteps and whispers fade and Ballen sighs.

“It’s probably nothing,” he mutters, stepping out into the corridor and walking in the opposite direction leaving his halberd with his other belongings against the wall of his room.

"I’ll find someone who wishes to hear my song here, surely," he mumbles as his fingers play across the holes of his flute. He wanders out onto the second floor balcony. One covered in vacant and occupied chairs that overlook the first floor of the taproom. A place for those that have paid for rooms, but wish to stay apart from the regular patrons below. He glances down to see a room filled with dozens of rowdy tavern-goers and smiles.

"At last, a worthy crowd!" he says before looking up. The rest of his thoughts interrupted by a shout of panic. Flames dance from the balcony on the floor above and as if on queue half a dozen patrons below leap onto the tables, draw weapons and attack the others. Ballen shuffles back from the balcony, shocked by the suddenness of the carnage and watches as a man who had stood next to him on the balcony draws a dagger and drives it a man on his other side, flipping him over the railing to join the bloodbath below.

“My halberd, where is my halberd…,” Ballen whispers, spinning on his heels and running back to his room.

Heri Skips

A musty scent of human sweat and grit undercut with dry earth notes tickles his nose and it twitches. He’ll never get used to these humans, and they will never get used to him it seems. Many passersby  stare openly, some in confusion or wonder, but too many stare with hungry eyes, their brains concocting a way to turn his uniqueness into profit. Greed, their poison, one Heri despises. Though it is not what brings him to this packed taproom in such a horrid place, for that his hand drops to the amulet around his neck. A gift from Titania, Lady of Light and Life and Heri’s sovereign, something that has helped him find those that deserve his wrath. 

Heri has had to deal with this prejudice since entering Sabal. He stares back at those that watch. Many turn away, their eyes instead returning to their ale, and Heri sips at his own flagon, a smirk of satisfaction on his lips.

His ears twitch at a distant thumping, and the scent of woodsmoke fills his nose, something out of place. Another scent follows, one familiar. Its sickly sweet aroma drifts beneath the unwashed bodies of the taproom, a scent that has always proceeded horror.

His eyes find themselves tracking a cloaked figure of middle build along the far wall, one who pauses momentarily and turns to face him, though nought but a grin is visible beneath the cowl of his hood. He turns away, the glance barely filling a moment and dashes out the main door. No one else turns or notices the strangeness, but Heri shivers with foreboding and looks up to where the smoke, largely undetected, emanates from.

He takes off at a run, heading for the second floor drawing several glances as he bounds past them. He takes the stairs two at a time, skidding to a stop on the landing of the second floor as a shout from above echoes through the inn. One followed by the screams and shouts of death from the taproom below. The inn explodes with movement as a man is thrown over the balcony and civilians burst from dozens of rooms, belongings clutched in their arms. Heri has little time to concern himself with them as two sand-pirates before him life javelins from their cloaks and charge.

He pulls an axe from his size, his longbow forgotten and charges, knocking one of the sand-pirate’s thrusts aside and driving his axe into the man’s chest. He chokes out a curse and blood boils from his mouth. A hard kick against the corpse drives it to the floor and sends Heri sailing ten feet back through the air to land atop the stairs. Over the shoulder of his remaining adversary, Heri spies a high elf in a soldiers uniform, driving his halberd through a bandit. Heri shakes his head at the oddity, turns and rushes down the stairs a step before the throng of people reach him. 

Ballen and Heri

Ballen skids around the corner, his halberd at the ready and charges. The murderer's back is as easy a target as a child's training dummy and Ballen's momentum carries him through. The flimsy hardened leather stood little chance against one trained for war by the Sky Elves of the east. The halberd's end erupts from the man’s chest with a shivering gasp and he slides forward over the railing to join his victim on the blood drenched floor below.

Ballen pauses to take in the scene as dozens of civilians run for the stairs and catches sight of a Haregon hopping back from a dead sand-pirate.

“How odd…,” he mutters, though as the creature bounds back down the stairs he notices the tension in the body of the remaining sand-pirate as he shakes with rage. Ballen's seen enough of the massacre below to know these are the ones to blame and charges. The man never saw him coming and as Ballen throws his foe's corpse aside in a single blow he's swept downwards with the fleeing crowd.

Heri reaches the bottom of the stairs a step before the thunder of footsteps and finds half a dozen bodies. He glances back and forth, spying a dragon and a man battle the sand-pirate captain, who dances and jumps along the bar, but to the other side is the back door, packed with sand-pirates. Their lethal darts have turned the corridor into one of death. Several darts fell a fleeing civilian and Heri grits his teeth, mind made up. He squeezes the haft of his two hand-axes and charges the three sand-pirates, 

“That way!” he shouts, gesturing to the windows in the side room as he ducks beneath the spear thrust at his chest and drives his axe into the nearest pirate's thigh.

Ballen all but falls down the stairs, swept along by the throng of people and squeezes into the tap room only to find blood pooling across the floor. A single sand-pirate hunts the remaining survivors in the room, a small cluster of defenceless dwarves, but his eyes are drawn instead to the display on the bar and those that battle there, their blows taking them back and forth. 

He recognises an officer when he sees one and charges, slipping past the dragon and driving his halberd straight into the pirate captains abdomen. Blood spurts from the captain’s mouth and he staggers back, the fire of his death knell shining in his eyes. He grins and retaliates with some wild swinging attacks that push the three of them back.

Heri side-steps one, then two javelin thrusts, but senses that he made a mistake. He ducks a third and then slams back against the wall as one finds its mark and pins him to it.

He grunts as pain swells from the wound, and coughs a breathless cough as another javelin pierces his other shoulder. His hands go numb and the two hand-axes clatter to the floor as his fingers refuse to respond to his instructions. He looks up, his vision blurring and everything begins to spin. 

Strength flows from him and his thoughts float like wood on the sea, too distant for him to seize. One of the sand-pirates grins. His teeth are yellowed and several are missing. He drives another javelin into Heri's body and he barely feels it.

'Must... revenge... Titania... help,' his thoughts say as darkness consumes him.

Charles Wells

Flames burn all around. Everything's slow. There’s movement and there’s heat, but despite all this chaos, all Charles can hear is his breath. It’s like someone else’s but heavy and laboured. Charles' hand goes reflexively to his keepsake, a twisted shard of metal hanging from a whipcord strap around his neck and he grits his teeth. It’s gone. They’ve taken it. All he had.

The anger seethes through him as his chance begins to slip away and he glances around the room. The fire has spread from the bedroom, but the door to his side is open and he hurries through, finding himself on a private balcony. 

“Fire!” he screams, but knows not if it was heard, instead grabbing the papers and notes that grace a nearby desk and shoving them into his bag. Clarity slowly pushes the haze from his mind and he turns towards the room's exit, giving the fire as wide a berth as possible.

“This inn is a tinderbox,” he mutters, trying the latch. Locked. “No time for this,” he takes two steps back and charges the door channelling the anger into his muscles. The sturdy door shatters before him, wood and shrapnel exploding outwards in an impressive display of athleticism. Charles is greeted with the bodies of the nearby bouncers. He scans the top floor of the inn, a place for the more wealthy and sees a cloaked figure emerging from a room across the landing, dagger in hand.

He clenches his fist, the desperation to retrieve his lost amulet overpowering, and charges the man. He tosses a bolt of fire across the space and it skims the man’s face, blossomed against the wall and curtains behind him and setting them alight. He ignores the mishap and clears the sofa in a single bound, dodging the awkward dagger thrust and jams his hand against the man’s chest. A sneer graces his face as he summons three missiles of arcane magic straight through the stranger’s abdomen. Each sends the man spasming and as the last emerges from his back he goes limp. 

Charles pushes the body to the side and it thunks against smooth wooden floors. Charles wastes no time, frantically tearing through the man's pockets, seeking that which was taken, but finding only coins, a dagger and a strange wooden token carved with three links of a chain. 

"Shit," he swears and tucks the items away in his satchel.

He turns to find the fire spreading out the shattered doorway and across the floor at an alarming rate. The stairs are now completely impassable and he bites his lip, walking to the balcony railing and looking over the side. Blood covers the floor of the tap room two floors below, as do bodies. It's hard to make out at this angle but the sound of fighting is clearly audible. 

Two more robed figures appeared from another room, their knives slick with blood. They freeze upon seeing Charles and begin to approach hesitantly. The nearest lunges and Charles raises his hand, catching one of the daggers on a shield of magic energy. Its blade slides along the blue surface, though the other slashes under its protection and catches him in the side. Charles gasps and staggers back, turning to the fire covered stairs behind before casting another glance over the side of the railing. He weighs his options for a second, sighs and jumps. 

The rush of air lasts a second and Charles crashes into one of the tables with a crack, somehow still on his feet. The wood buckles beneath him and the dishes and mugs smash to the floor. He peers up at the two hooded figures watching him and waves. As if perturbed by his escape, flaming beam detaches from the third floor railing and clatters to the ground behind him. 

He takes in the room and finds a dragonkin, human and high elf engaged with a dying pirate. A tiefling lurks in the corner of the room, crossbow in hand and all the other occupants lay dead, their blood coating the floor in a single film of crimson.

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”