Chapter 5: Phandalin's Rotten Core

Tunwéya and Og, their hearts heavy with the grim task at hand, ventured to the woodcutter's cottage. It was a scene straight out of a nightmare: a mutilated corpse in the sawmill, its throat slit, its face a gruesome mask of violence. A trail of blood led them to a hidden stash of coins and a set of bloodstained dwarven clothes. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the darkness lurking beneath Phandalin's peaceful facade.

Back in town, Darry and Hinnerk, their faces hidden in the shadows, stalked the streets, seeking the Townmaster's house. Darry, his nimble fingers working their magic, slipped through a window and into a dimly lit study, his eyes scanning the room for anything of value. He found a locked desk and, with a practiced twist of his tools, popped it open. A stack of letters, filled with cryptic messages and veiled threats, revealed the Townmaster's eagerness to deal with the Orc threat in the vicinity, despite Lord Neverember's refusal to send aid. A letter from the Lord's Alliance confirmed the dispatch of the wizard Iarno Albrek. However, the Townmaster's own letter, addressed to his sister, boasted of his own plans to handle the Orcs, hinting at a secret arrangement and a desire for personal gain rather than the safety of Phandalin.

In the bedroom, a hidden trap sprung beneath Darry's feet, a single poisoned needle piercing his skin. He hissed in pain, but his halfling resilience allowed him to resist the worst of the effects. He snatched a locked box from beneath the floorboards and vanished back into the night.

Reunited at the Stonehill Inn, the adventurers gathered in a private room, their faces grim as they examined the contents of Darry's stolen box. A mere five gold pieces and a note, scrawled in the Townmaster's hand, mocked their efforts: "The gods may not be watching you, but I am."

The party's destination was now clear: the Sleeping Giant Taphouse, the heart of the Redbrands' operation. Florina, the scarred lieutenant, greeted them with a predatory grin, her eyes raking over them with undisguised contempt.

"So, you think you're tough enough to join the Redbrands?" she sneered. "Prove it. Kill the half-elf, Daran Edermath, and leave one of our capes on his corpse. That'll show us you're not just a bunch of spineless whelps."

But Darry, ever the schemer, had a different plan. He sought out Edermath, convincing the orchard owner to cooperate. Faking his death was a risky proposition, but Edermath, eager to escape the Redbrands' harassment, agreed to the plan. However, there was a complication: Edermath is a half-elf, with pointed ears. The corpse they found at the woodcutter's cottage, however, was human. To make the deception more believable, Darry resorted to a grim act. With a heavy heart and a promise of future recompense to Edermath, they cut off the corpse's ears, hoping the Redbrands wouldn't notice the difference in the dimly lit tavern.

The ruse worked, and the Redbrands, satisfied with their "proof," directed the party to Tresendar Manor. There, in the dimly lit halls of the ruined estate, they met Glasstaff, the Redbrands' enigmatic leader.

"I have a job for you," Glasstaff purred, his voice smooth as silk. "Kill Sildar Hallwinter. In public. Make it a spectacle. And I'll reward you handsomely."

The adventurers exchanged uneasy glances. This was a dangerous game they were playing, a dance with devils in the heart of darkness. But the lure of gold and the chance to strike a blow against the Redbrands was too tempting to resist. With grim determination, they accepted the task, their fate entwined with the dark forces that held Phandalin in its grasp.