Phealafarian Frontiers: 01: A New World
Tent Town woke with all the grace of a hungover troll. Sunlight spilled over the horizon, casting its golden glow over the sprawling encampment pressed against New Albion’s towering walls. A chaotic sea of tents and ramshackle huts stretched as far as the eye could see, forming winding paths that barely qualified as streets. The scent of last night’s stew—still bubbling in a few neglected pots—mingled with the sharper tang of damp fabric and the morning’s first cooking fires.
Merchants were already setting up, their stalls creaking under the weight of trinkets, produce, and questionably sourced goods. A child darted past, chasing a particularly unimpressed chicken, while a man used a tarnished pot as a shaving mirror, muttering curses under his breath. Tent Town was alive, disheveled, but undeniably thriving.
Near the center of the settlement, a makeshift stage stood—hastily assembled and about as stable as an adventurer’s retirement plan. Upon it, a city guard, his armor gleaming in the sunlight, cleared his throat with the enthusiasm of someone who had long since given up on his audience.
“Right then, listen up!” he barked, unfurling a scroll. “We’ve got work assignments, and you lucky few are up.”
He began reading names, each followed by varying degrees of applause, groans, and whispered bets among the crowd. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of half-hearted claps and muttered complaints, the guard reached the final names.
“Tobias Folner, Erisa Brightglade, Eldrin Valtorin, Tösk Ettinkue, and Guardian of Orthod!”
The gathered crowd quieted as their names rang out. The guard barely looked up as he continued, “You lot, report to the South Garrison. Get moving.” With a flick of his wrist, he rolled up the parchment and walked off, clearly done with the day’s formalities.
A few murmured reactions followed, but there was no room for protest. Their path had been chosen, whether they liked it or not.
The party arrived with all the coordination of a mismatched parade. Eldrin strode forward with the confidence of a nobleman who expected admiration. Tobias, battle-worn and draped in a threadbare cloak, walked beside him, his makeshift red eyepatch making him look both intimidating and vaguely theatrical. Erisa lingered at the back, her candy-pink hair and tinted shades setting her apart, a quiet observer rather than a willing participant. Guardian, his presence as unsettling as ever, led a well-groomed horse with quiet precision. Finally, Tösk lumbered along behind them, his shaggy fur carrying the distinct scent of damp earth and questionable decisions.
As the group stepped into the garrison’s main hall, the steady hum of military life surrounded them. At the center of it all, a formidable dwarf woman sat behind a desk piled with paperwork. Sergeant Kira Stonefield barely looked up before addressing them.
“You’re from the lottery, I take it?”
A few nods. She eyed them each in turn before grabbing an envelope from her desk and slicing it open with a dagger. Her brows furrowed as she scanned the contents.
“A missing person’s job?” she muttered. “That’s a first.”
She looked up. “Name’s Vanryn ‘Sweets’ Xyrquinal. Last seen heading south toward Mugen Bay. Find him.”
Tobias, ever the pragmatist, folded his arms. “Are we sure he’s not still in the city?”
Kira shot him a look. “If he was, we wouldn’t be sending a bunch of unproven adventurers to find him.”
Eldrin tried a different approach. “Wouldn’t it make sense to check first?”
Kira’s lips twitched, almost amused. “You’re not allowed in the city yet.”
Tösk’s trunk twitched. “But if—”
Kira cut him off with a sigh. “Look. Do the job. Come back alive. Then we’ll talk.”
She reached into a drawer and tossed each of them a lesser potion of healing. “Just in case.”
The conversation was over. They had their mission. Time to go.
The road to Mugen Bay was peaceful—until a sudden flash split the sky, followed by a sound like thunder. Then, silence. In its wake, a figure plummeted from the heavens, as though dropped by unseen hands. They tumbled through the air, limbs flailing, before vanishing into the treetops with a distant crash.
Eldrin and Tobias sprinted ahead, while Guardian hesitated, uneasy with the sight of something falling from above. Tösk merely grunted, trudging along without urgency. When they reached the impact site, they found a man—his clothes rustic, his boots worn, and his confusion the most telling feature.
For a few tense moments, the man remained still, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The party took the opportunity to examine him—his rugged attire, the faint scars on his hands, and the strange insignia stitched onto his sleeve.
Then, with a sharp inhale, his eyes flew open. He bolted upright, his gaze wild and unfocused. “Skeletal dragon!” he gasped, scrambling backward as if expecting the threat to still loom over him.
The party exchanged glances before stepping forward cautiously. Tobias raised a hand, his tone calm and steady. “Easy there, friend. You’re safe. Just take a breath.”
The man’s chest heaved, his eyes darting between them, still caught in whatever terror had gripped him before his fall. “Where am I? What happened?” he demanded, his voice hoarse and unsteady.
Eldrin crouched nearby, keeping his posture relaxed. “That’s what we’d like to know. You fell from the sky. Do you remember anything before that?”
The man’s brow furrowed as he struggled to recall, his fingers gripping the grass beneath him as if trying to ground himself. “There was… a battle. Fire. Smoke. Then—” He winced, rubbing his temples. “Then nothing. Until now.”
Before they could press further, a distant shout rang through the woods—desperate, frantic. A plea for help. The group tensed, exchanging quick glances before instinct took over. Weapons at the ready, they turned toward the source of the cry, their discussion forgotten as they rushed toward the sound, unsure of what they might find.
Following the urgent voice through the trees, the party emerged into a clearing where a vibrantly dressed man was perched precariously on a tree branch. Below, giant rats prowled, snapping at the air, eager for a meal.
The group sprang into action. Tobias, determined to put himself between the rats and the man, stepped forward, raising his shield defensively. As he did, one of the giant rats lunged at him, its sharp teeth sinking deep into his leg. He barely had time to react before the pain overwhelmed him, his vision darkening as he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
Eldrin, seeing Tobias go down, loosed an arrow, striking one of the creatures. Guardian called upon his magic—only for it to sputter out uselessly. Tösk, ever the problem-solver, took matters into his own hands—literally—swinging his axe in a powerful arc, cleaving through the remaining rats with brutal efficiency.
Erisa rushed forward, pulling a healing potion from her pack. She knelt beside Tobias, uncorking the vial with practiced ease before tilting it to his lips. The magic took hold, closing his wounds—but not entirely. Thomas, watching closely, noticed something strange. The potion had done its work, yet the bite mark left behind a patch of scar tissue, a lasting imprint of the rat’s attack.
The man in the tree, seemingly unbothered by his near-death experience, grinned as he climbed down. “Thanks, dudes! I owe you one.” He offered a dramatic bow. “Name’s Sweets.”
“Why ‘Sweets’?” Eldrin asked.
Sweets chuckled. “My full name’s a mouthful. Easier this way.”
It was hard to argue with that.
As they walked, Thomas—now traveling with them—turned to Sweets. “How would one get to Isenvale?”
Sweets quirked a brow. “Isenvale? Whoa, dude, that place is old news. It was way back on the Astror continent, across the ocean. Heard it got wiped out, like, fifty years ago or something.”
Thomas halted. “That can’t be right. It was—” His voice faltered. “It was thirty minutes ago.” The realization hit him like a hammer to the chest. Just half an hour ago, he had been in Isenvale, amidst the chaos, the fire, the skeletal dragon tearing through his home. The idea that those events had somehow happened fifty years in the past rocked him to his core.
The weight of those words settled like a stone in his chest. The others exchanged wary glances, but none had an answer for him.
Upon returning, the group approached the front desk, where a surly guard sat, his thick arms crossed over his chest. His uniform was slightly wrinkled, and the deep lines on his face suggested he had already dealt with more adventurers today than he cared to.
Without looking up, he began rattling off names in a bored monotone. “Eldrin Valtorin. Tobias Folner. Erisa Brightglade. Tösk Ettinkue. Guardian of Orthod.”
Tösk, ever eager to be helpful—or to interject where he saw fit—raised his trunk. “Oh, and Thomas is with us now too.”
The guard let out a slow exhale through his nose, eyes flicking up just long enough to glare at the interruption before scanning the list again. “Yeah, I know. He’s already on here.”
Tösk frowned. “Wait, what? He wasn’t—”
The guard shoved the parchment toward him, jabbing a finger at a name near the bottom. “Same ink. Same handwriting. Same list as everyone else. You want to argue about it, or are you gonna let me do my job?”
Tobias, frowning, stepped closer to read it for himself. Sure enough, there was Thomas’ name, written in the same meticulous script as the others. He shot a glance at the rest of the party. Something was definitely off.
Before they could question it further, the guard continued reading the remaining names, his patience wearing thinner by the second.
“Thomas Wilderman.”
The group froze. Tobias frowned. “His name wasn’t on the list before.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed as he watched their reaction, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Oh, I see how it is,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “You lot trying to act like he doesn’t belong here? What, hoping to take his cut for yourselves? Not happening.”
Tobias scanned the document. Thomas’ name was there, as if it had always been. He exchanged a glance with the others. Something wasn’t right.
The guard folded his arms. “I’ll be sure to put that in my report to Sergeant Kira, let her know you lot had a problem with this one getting his due. Now, if you’re done wasting my time—move along.”
The group, still unsettled by the revelation of Thomas’ name on the list, asked if they could speak to Sergeant Kira. “Short, stocky, fiery red hair?” Eldrin clarified.
The guard scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, I know who she is. What, you wanna complain to her about the list too? Not my problem.”
As soon as they described her, something clicked in Thomas’ mind. His breath caught, and a memory surfaced—of another red-headed dwarf, from what felt like a lifetime ago. “Mary… Cherry,” he muttered under his breath, the name slipping out before he could stop it.
The others turned to look at him, confusion and curiosity flickering across their faces.
The guard’s patience snapped. “You’re not getting into the city yet. Do more work. Now, GET OUT!”
Tösk sighed, then casually picked up Thomas and walked out, the rest following in stunned silence.
As the group began to separate for the night, each heading to their own tents, Thomas hesitated, realizing he had nowhere to go. Before he could voice his predicament, a group of celebrating adventurers approached, their spirits high.
“Hey, you guys just got back, right?” one of them, a broad-shouldered half-elf, grinned. “Well, good news for us—we’re finally getting into the city!”
Another, a gnome with a well-worn lute slung over his back, gestured toward a sizable canvas tent nearby. “Means we don’t need this anymore. It’s a good one, big enough for all of you. Consider it a gift.”
The group exchanged glances before Eldrin gave an appreciative nod. “That’s… actually perfect. Thank you.”
While Thomas took a moment to examine the new tent, the others separated to gather their belongings from their individual tents, bringing them back to their newly acquired space. One by one, they returned, setting up their bedrolls and supplies inside. It was a small victory, but one that made the night a little easier.
Around the fire, drinks were shared, laughter came easier, and—for a few brief hours—the weight of the day’s revelations was forgotten. But as the embers burned low, one thought lingered:
How could Thomas Wilderman’s name be on that list? And more importantly, what else did they need to do to finally earn entry into the city?
