West Marches at the Board N Brew

Peregrine, When you were born, you were smaller than any of your brothers had been before you. On your forty-second day, your grandmother held you and named you. She told me she had a vision and it must be so, so I named you Peregrine. All your life, you have focused on proving your worth. You were fierce and indefatigable. To you, every inch taller than you your brothers were was a mile further you had to climb. And yet, everything you accomplished you were so sure was just a glimpse of far more within you. The sword you left with your last letter is truly excellent. I think you know it is itself a worthy tithing from a chieftain's son, but you chose to leave it to me at the Place of Giving. It is a glimpse of far more within you. I have known for some time you would never tithe the clan. The sword is the sign that you now know it, too. On the day of your naming, your grandmother saw within you the Khatra Adonai, the displacing spirit, the singular soul. One bestowed wit

Mother, As always, I strive to obey the Turning of the Wheel and honour our Clan and its ways. Tomorrow, at the Place of Giving, I will leave for you a sword and this letter. The sword bears the totem we share in relief on the crosspiece and etched along the blade. Its weight is perfect. It's edge unfailingly sharp. It is the sword I bore when I sought out Koth, the Wyrmlord, to gut him from Vraath Keep. It did not taste a single drop of his blood. Instead, when I leaped toward him to meet him in glorious battle, he invoked mystical energies to fly from me like overgrown poultry. He left me to face his underling, a minotaur, as, from on high, he rained down fire upon us. I was not alone. Bree, the Lucky, Val the Hunter, Barakas, Master of the Arcane, and Ranger Jor fought with me to win the keep, a tactical stronghold in our efforts to hold back the goblin tide that brims to overflowing from the Wyrmsmoke mountains. These companions filled Koth with arrows as I traded gou

Adventurers of Tempered Vale, old and new, gather in the Stonehill Inn. They collect around the now-famous Stonehill Map like iron filings around a lodestone. They plot their alliances and excursions in search of power, knowledge, glory and riches. Perry O'dershed, unusually quiet until now, lifts his head to speak to them. His voice is low, but audible to those he addresses. His eyes move across the faces of the gathered. He leans in. At first, it seems he might be about to reveal a monumental score waiting to be plundered in the Dark Wood. Attend, friends. I will tell you what dangers loom, menacing Tempered Vale and Drellin's Ferry. By now, you have surely noticed the guard is more on edge than seems right. Guard Captain Sildar is taking pains not to alarm the whole of Tempered Vale, so he might appreciate your discretion among those who are not able to do more than disrupt the town with their panicking. Southwest, in the Wyrmsmoke mountains, a goblin horde assembl

Mother, I still walk this side of The Wheel, and, in my heart, I know you do, too. I know the Clan thrives in my absence. The land is teeming with life and the signs of your work. I will arrive at the Place of Giving tonight. I will leave you this letter, a journal of my voyages and discoveries in the North, and the thighbone of one of my fallen enemies. I have decorated the bone with my Diurniad, in keeping with the ways of our people, that you may know I have not forgotten them. By your acceptance of my offering, I will know you have not forgotten me. I am preoccupied that I have not yet won a trophy worthy of tithing the Clan. My hands are calloused and soaked with blood, but I only win vile artifacts, baubles and trinkets. Did you know my peregrination would last so long when you named me? The reborn ruin we knew as Phandalin is now called "Tempered Vale." Those that toil in its rebirth, though oblivious of the fact, truly live in a golden age. The leaders are new an