The Light Touch's page

Alwic lets out a disgruntled hrrumph at the newcomer’s arrival, then pointedly shifts his focus to the chamber ahead. Uncertain what might be lurking in the gloom, he plucks one of Alwyn’s candles, strikes a flame, and lifts it to cast a clearer light into the room.

Seeing another searcher heading their way, the little party stops. Alwic moves to the fore and looks the person up and down.

"What can we do for you miss?'

The group pauses just long enough to glance back. Alwyn lingers, clearly torn, but the other three have already decided they’ve had enough—backs turned, boots crunching as they tromp off toward the next cluster of half‑collapsed buildings.

“With all that racket they’re makin’, I’m shocked some hungry beast hasn’t come barreling after them… or us, for that matter. And honestly—once we find the treasure, do we really want to carve it up into tiny little pitiful portions?” Seri mutters, poking around the rubble with the enthusiasm of someone hoping to find either gold or a good excuse to stop walking.

Alwic and Boric grunt their agreement—two men who would absolutely fight a troll but absolutely would not fight for a smaller share of loot.

Alwyn finally tears her gaze away from the departing group and sighs.
“I know… I know. I just wanted to see the cow. And the duck.”

With that settled—more or less—the remaining four turn back to the ruins, rummaging through broken stone and twisted beams for anything shiny, useful, or at least not actively trying to kill them.

Me too...lol But I also hope not to die instantly as well...just the group feels they can do better on their own...lol

The group loiters near the front of the building, half curious, half bored, watching another band of would‑be heroes wrestle with the stubborn doors.

“Well that’s just perfect,” Alwic grumbles, arms crossed. “A place that looks welcoming but’s built like a bloody fortress. And of course it’s got magic all over it. Because why wouldn’t it.” He snorts, as if personally offended by architecture.

“Oh no… look at her!” Alwyn blurts, already drifting toward the abandoned cow like a mother hen spotting a lost chick. “They’re just leaving her out here all alone!”

“Alwyn.” Seri’s voice cracks like a whip. “Head. Game. Now.” She jabs a finger toward the looming structures. “We’re here to find something valuable enough to drag us out of those slums, not adopt every stray barnyard animal we meet.” She mutters under her breath, “Next thing you know she’ll be naming it.”

“If we’re done gawking,” Boric rumbles, already turning away from the crowd, “why don’t we check out some of the other buildings? No sense playing ‘follow the leader’ when the leader clearly doesn’t know what they’re doing.”

With that, the group peels away from the makeshift arena, boots crunching over grit and debris as they head toward the quieter, less‑touched structures — the kind of places where secrets, trouble, and maybe a little profit like to hide.

Building for 'us' as well!!

Alwyn’s face twists, the colour draining as the creature collapses. It writhes weakly on the ground, its limbs spasming in uneven jerks, a thin, broken mewling leaking from its throat. The sound is small—too small—and somehow that makes it worse.

"Why…?” Alwyn’s voice cracks as she stares at the dying thing.
“Why did they just attack it? They didn’t even try to see if it meant harm…”

Boric follows her gaze and lets out a low exhale, rubbing a hand across his jaw as if trying to scrape off the discomfort.

“Better to get in the first swing, I guess.”

Even he doesn’t sound convinced. The shrug he gives Wynic is half-hearted, weighed down by the twitching shape at their feet.

Wynic doesn’t answer. His eyes shift instead to the shapes rising in the mist—dozens more of the creatures gathering like shadows thickening around the firelight. Their silhouettes multiply, weapons glinting, bodies hunched and quivering with agitation.
He swallows.

“Well… looks like we’ve gone and planted our boots right in the muck on this one.”

Seri steps forward, her expression devoid of doubt or hesitation. A grin crawls across her face—sharp, feral—followed by a low rumble deep in her chest.

“Good,” she growls.
“Let them come.”

Initiative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6

As Alwic and Boric are outdoorsy people, they will lead our group with Alwyn in the middle, and scrappy Seri watching the group's back.

I agree...off to see who is eating whom!!

Sounds good to me...!!

Boric wipes a smear of mud off his cheek, squinting toward the towering monolith before scanning the wavering grass.
“Gods…” he mutters, voice low and rough.
“Feels like my head’s been wrung out. That place between—whatever it was—didn’t want us passing through.”
He pauses, nostrils flaring.
“…And that smell. Smoke. Meat. Someone’s cooking out here.”
He shifts his grip on his sling, expression uneasy.
“I don’t like it. Not in a place like this.”

Seri pushes herself upright more slowly, swaying once before catching her balance. She presses a hand to her stomach.
“I think I left half my insides back in that… void.”
She shudders visibly.
“That was worse than the last time. It hated us.”
Her eyes drift to the mist‑covered court.
“Tall grass, bad visibility… if something wants to watch us, this is the place to do it.”
She glances at the distant path where the scent of roasting meat lingers.
“Smoke means fire. Fire means people. Or something smart enough to use it.”

Alwyn steps past Boric, brushing mud from her sleeves. She straightens, but tension radiates from her like taut bowstring.
“This is wrong. The monolith was meant to lead to a marked site—this… swamp court… shouldn’t be part of the route.”
She inhales again, face tightening at the scent.
“Smoke in a ruin like this is either a blessing or a trap. Neither option sits well.”
Her fingers tighten around her scissors.

Alwic crouches, fingertips brushing the mud as he inspects the ground with a hunter’s precision. The grass rustles softly around him, tall enough to tower over her crouched form.
He lifts his head.
“There are footprints. Several. But the ground is too wet to read them clearly.”
His gaze moves north‑east toward where the arena briefly appeared.
“And whatever structure we saw—if that wasn’t an illusion—it is far too pristine for this place.”
He rises, brushing damp grass from his knees.
“Something here is maintained. Or preserved.”

The mist swirls thickly around the party’s ankles. A faint rustle moves through the grass to your left—too deliberate to be wind. Everyone falls quiet.

The only sound is the slow, wet drip of water from the monolith behind you… and the distant, steady crackle of a fire from the east.

Boric breaks the silence first:
“So what’s the plan? Follow the smell? Or check the grass before it checks us?”

Alwic is an Elven Forester and Boric is a trapper.

Alwic is an Elven Forester and Boric is a trapper, but I do not know if these backgrounds convey abilities onto these characters or not.

Well better late than never...sorry was busy the last few days...

all good

The Forlorn Hope??

Alwic give a half-hearted smile to Hamood.

"I am not sure if there is an actual start...I think we just sort of head off into the swamp and see where the path takes us?!"

Alwic gathers his friends about, and they begin to head down the path into the swamp.

Seri glances at the man's hand on her shoulder, then back at "her" team.

" Which one of you wants to tell this gentleman what will happen to him if he does not remove his hand right now!"

She turns and glances back at the fellow with a slight smile on her lips.

"Whoh now Seri...relax." Alwic says. "He is just being friendly and offering us a possible alliance. Let's not do anything that might make him into an enemy...we will have enough of those once we get out there!"

Alwic turns to the newcomer and hold out his hand.

"Alwic, and the fine lady you best unhand is Seri. My sister, Alwyn, and business partner, Boric, round out our little group. And you are?"

A charged stillness settles over the courtyard—one of those moments before a great undertaking when every sound feels sharper, every breath a little heavier.

Alwic’s fingers linger on the drawstrings of the sack, as though hoping one last inspection might reveal some forgotten charm or hidden reassurance. It doesn’t. Just the same meagre supplies they’ve counted a dozen times already. His jaw tightens, but he rises with the quiet grace of his kind.

Alwyn watches him, her expression a blend of resolve and worry. She’s always been the steadier of the two, but even she can’t quite hide the tension in her shoulders. The mention of the chandlery shop had been half a joke, half a dream—yet dreams have a way of becoming anchors when the world grows uncertain.

Across from them, Suri and Boric murmur in low tones. Suri’s hands move as she speaks, sketching invisible diagrams in the air—battle plans, escape routes, or perhaps just nervous energy. Boric, broad-shouldered and calm as a winter lake, nods along, occasionally glancing toward the elves as if checking that they haven’t vanished.

The courtyard itself is a patchwork of dust, bootprints, and anticipation. Other groups cluster in loose circles, poor people like themselves, hoping for a chance to improve their lives. The air hums with the restless excitement of people who know danger is coming and have chosen to meet it anyway.

When Alwyn drops the coppers into the beggar’s bowl, the faint clink seems to echo far louder than it should. The beggar’s eyes lift—clouded, unreadable—and he gives a small nod that could be gratitude or warning. Seri’s sneer is quick, sharp, and utterly predictable.

“Superstition,” she mutters under her breath, though not quietly enough.

“Or kindness,” Boric replies as he steps up beside Alwic, his voice low but firm. “Both have their uses.”

Alwic exhales slowly, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. “Well,” he says, glancing at the gathering crowd, “it seems we’re nearly out of time.”

Alwyn touches his arm, a silent promise that whatever comes next, they face it together.

And somewhere beyond the courtyard gates, the road waits—dusty, dangerous, and full of the kind of opportunities that only the desperate or the brave ever dare to chase.

Boop!

This is Daniel....here is my submission for the game. Let me know if you need anything else. Thanks!!
BTW the name is what the group calls itself...it was Seri's idea!

Sorry am here...just a bit of connection problems

"What do you say to such a plan Tiger? Are you willing to play the 'maiden in distress'?"

I may be able to question some of my fellow merchants to see if they have news from afar...But I do not know how forthcoming they will be. Such information would be very valuable to a trade cartel."

Santiago waits for the young lady to finish speaking before introducing himself.

"Hola, you may call me Hawk for now. It is a great honour meeting the both of you."

“Indeed,” Santiago said, his voice edged with curiosity. “Let us see who this Blue Heron truly is.”

He held the door open for Elena, then pulled it shut behind them with a soft click. Pausing at the threshold, Santiago let his gaze sweep across the room, taking in the space and silently cataloging the faces within.

Santiago bent down, fingers brushing the dust as he scooped up the scrap of paper. His eyes scanned the words quickly, a shadow crossing his face. Without a word, he handed it to the señorita.

"So," he asked, voice low and deliberate, "what do you think?"

Santiago Valverde leans closer to the girl, his voice low but firm.

"Ho-hum, you say? Do you not hear the tremor beneath those words? They speak of calm because they fear the storm. A Governing Junta in Santa Fe—formed without Madrid’s blessing—this is no trifle. It is the first crack in the crown’s armour. Today, they counsel patience; tomorrow, they will beg obedience. And when that day comes, will you still shrug? Or will you stand with those who choose to govern themselves, rather than bow to a distant king who cannot even keep his own throne?"

He glances around, making sure no royalist ears are too near, then adds with a faint smile:

"The vase was only the beginning, amiga. Even the smallest fracture can shatter an empire."

With a wink, he goes back to drinking his wine and watching the others in the cantina.

Santiago’s pen paused mid-flourish. He looked up, the faintest curve of a smile playing at his lips. The official’s words were meant as reassurance, but to Santiago they were a reminder: the Crown’s grip was loosening, its attention fixed across the ocean. Here, in Buenaventura, shadows had room to grow wings.

"I think a cool drink is in order." he says as he walks back down the docks towards the town.

Finding a modest cantina in the Stilt House region of the town, Santiago opens the door. His boots were polished, his coat cut in the Spanish style, yet his gaze carried something sharper than noble arrogance.
He approached the bar, removing his gloves with deliberate calm.
“Señorita,” he said, voice smooth, “a glass of your strongest. The sea has been unkind today.”

The humid air of Buenaventura clung to Santiago Valverde like a second skin as he stepped onto the creaking planks of the dock. The scent of salt and tar mingled with the sharp tang of coffee beans spilling from burlap sacks, a reminder of the trade empire he now commanded. His boots were polished, his coat tailored in the latest Spanish fashion—every inch the loyal son of the Crown. Yet beneath the silk cravat, his heart beat to a different rhythm.

He paused to watch a group of stevedores wrestle with a stubborn crate, their backs bent under the weight of goods destined for men who would never know hunger. Santiago’s dark eyes softened. These were his mother’s people—the Quechua blood that ran in his veins tied him to their struggle as surely as the Falcon’s wings tied him to the night.

“Señor Valverde!” A port official hurried toward him, ledger in hand, sweat beading on his brow. “The shipment from Cartagena—delayed again. Pirates, they say.”

Santiago smiled faintly, the kind of smile that could mean anything. “Then we shall pray for calm seas,” he replied, voice smooth as aged rum. He signed the ledger with a flourish, the nobleman’s son playing his part to perfection.

But as the official scurried away, Santiago’s gaze drifted to the narrow alleys beyond the plaza, where shadows pooled like ink. Tonight, those shadows would be his cloak. Tonight, the Black Falcon would strike again.