You arrived at the guildhall expecting another standard contract — decent pay, manageable risk, forgettable company. But nothing about this job feels ordinary. The prisoner transport never made it to Blackbarrow, and whatever it was carrying left behind chains scorched with failed magic and drag marks heading into storm-soaked cliffs. The others in the party don’t speak much, each more unsettling than the last: a spore-covered eladrin who smells like wet earth, a towering minotaur who laughs too easily, and a snake-eyed rogue whose stare feels like a blade against your throat. And then there’s Kashan Vhask — crouched low, watching you with unblinking hunger and something else in his eyes. Something older. Something that says you’re already his.

Picture generated and donated by Mimimims