Chapter 1: Dead Horses Don't Talk

The grimy streets of Neverwinter stank of piss and ambition. Gundren Rockseeker, a dwarf with a face like a cracked anvil, had offered them a deal: haul a wagonload of supplies to Phandalin, a dirt-poor settlement a few days' ride southeast. Ten gold pieces each for safe delivery to Barthen's Provisions, a name that stank of watered-down ale and stale bread. Rockseeker himself had bolted ahead on horseback, accompanied by a muscle-bound oaf named Sildar Hallwinter, muttering something about "business."

The High Road south had been a gruelling slog, the sun baking the wagon's canvas like a roasted pig. Now, they'd veered onto the Triboar Trail, a snake's path that slithered through bandit country. The air hung heavy with the promise of trouble, a silent threat that clung to the shadows beneath the trees.

The creak of wagon wheels and the rhythmic clopping of hooves echoed through the stillness. Darry Teasmoot, the halfling rogue, his eyes sharp as flint, scanned the surroundings with the vigilance of a cornered rat. Beside him, Hinnerk, the battle-worn fighter, gripped the reins, his knuckles white with tension. The wagon, laden with provisions, was a promise of coin in their pockets, but also a potential target for the brigands and cutthroats rumoured to haunt these woods.

A sudden silence shattered the tranquility. The horses whinnied and reared, their nostrils flaring in fear. Hinnerk fought for control, his muscles straining as he hauled back on the reins. Ahead, two lifeless horses lay sprawled across the trail, their once sleek coats pierced by black-feathered arrows.

"Looks like trouble found us before we found it," Darry muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

Before they could react, the woods on either side of the trail exploded in a flurry of movement. Goblins, their eyes glinting with malice, swarmed out of the undergrowth, their crude weapons raised in a feral cry.

Og, the half-orc paladin, let out a roar that echoed through the trees as he charged forward, his sword flashing in the dying sunlight. Hinnerk, a grim determination etched on his face, leaped from the wagon, his own blade whistling through the air.

Darry, ever nimble, scampered up a nearby tree, his bow drawn taut. Leofric, the elf warlock, unleashed a torrent of arcane energy, the very earth beneath the goblins' feet trembling in response.

Arrows flew, swords clashed, and magic crackled through the air. The battle was a maelstrom of violence and chaos, a dance of death played out under the watchful eyes of the ancient forest. Goblins fell, their blood staining the earth, but more kept coming, their numbers seemingly endless.

Og, his massive frame a beacon of defiance, fought with the unyielding strength of an ancient oak, his every blow a testament to his unwavering will to protect his companions. But even his strength had its limits. A goblin spear found its mark, piercing his armour and drawing a guttural cry of pain from the half-orc.

Hinnerk, seeing his companion falter, fought his way through the horde, his blade a whirlwind of steel. With a mighty roar, he cleaved through the goblin that had wounded Og, sending its lifeless body tumbling into the dirt.

Meanwhile, Darry's arrows found their mark with deadly accuracy, each one felling another of the foul creatures. Leofric's earth magic continued to wreak havoc, the ground opening up to swallow the goblins whole.

The tide of the battle began to turn. The goblins, their initial ferocity waning, started to retreat, their cries of fear mingling with the triumphant shouts of the adventurers.

As the last goblin fled into the shadows, the adventurers surveyed the scene. Og lay on the ground, his breathing shallow, his face pale. Xanthe, wounded in the skirmish, tended to his injuries with practiced hands.

Hinnerk knelt beside the fallen horses, his face grim. "Gundren and Sildar..." he muttered, his voice heavy with dread. "They must have met the same fate."

Darry, ever practical, began to search the bodies of the dead goblins, his nimble fingers rifling through their meagre possessions. "No sign of them," he reported. "But these tracks lead to a goblin trail. Perhaps we can follow it and find out what happened."

The party split up, with Hinnerk guarding the injured Og and Xanthe by the wagon, cursing their luck and the gods for good measure. Tunwéya, Leofric, and Darry followed the goblin trail, the elf muttering darkly about the "ineptitude of lesser races" as Tunwéya narrowly escaped a crude snare trap, only to tumble headfirst into a hidden pit after being distracted by a particularly vibrant wildflower.

"By the gods, druid, must you be so easily led astray by nature's trinkets?" Leofric hissed, hauling the disgruntled Tunwéya out of the hole.

After Tunwéya's less-than-graceful attempt to scale a nearby tree for a better vantage point ended with a bone-jarring thud, Leofric, with an air of haughty disdain, effortlessly ascended the same tree. From his lofty perch, he spotted a cave mouth, smoke curling from its dark maw—undoubtedly the goblins' lair.

Reunited, the weary adventurers made camp, the silence punctuated only by the crackling fire and the occasional groan from Og. The next morning, they approached the cave, their footsteps muffled by the soft forest floor. Two goblins, their backs turned and their attention clearly elsewhere, stood guard at the entrance, oblivious to their impending doom.

A cold, predatory glint flickered in Darry's eyes as he slipped his dagger from its sheath. A smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his face, a promise of violence to come. The shadows seemed to writhe with anticipation, eager to consume the bloodshed that was about to unfold.