Session 2 Recap

The lift-ship finally surrendered them to the stone and salt of Vi-Upper—towering walls, busy docks, and the constant press of people moving with purpose. The city felt like a machine that never stopped turning.

They barely had time to breathe before something went wrong.

Silas took a few steps onto the dock and suddenly crumpled—hard. The impact rang in everyone’s bones. Vaelrik and the others were on him in an instant, hauling him up, checking his head, talking over one another as the harbor churned around them.

“Silas—hey! You with us?”

He came back to himself with a dazed blink and a stubborn insistence that he was fine… but it didn’t land. He didn’t know why it happened. Worse—he looked like it bothered him.

And then they realized Prill was gone.

Vaelrik scanned the docks. Lyra and Bodrin traded a look—both of them had seen it: the quick flick of a black tail vanishing down an alley, Prill slipping away the moment the ship released them into the city. Prill had either gotten spooked… or she’d gotten impatient.

Brixton gave a low, frustrated laugh. “Of course she did.”

With Silas steadier and the harbor threatening to swallow them whole, they made the call: regroup somewhere warm, public, and safe.

They headed for Honeybrook’s.

Honeybrook’s was everything the docks weren’t—warmth, spice, the clatter of plates, and Clover Honeybrook herself running the room like a conductor. She greeted them like she’d been expecting them all night and steered them toward a table already claimed.

Prill was there.

She didn’t even bother pretending innocence. When Brixton finally caught her eye, she shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You just need to get a head start on us?” Brixton asked, half accusation, half admiration.

“Absolutely,” Prill said. “I got tired of hearing y’all talk, so I just left. I knew where you were headed.”

It wasn’t just impatience—she’d wanted to hear what they would say once they were off the ship. She’d wanted details. Truth. And whatever else she wasn’t saying out loud.

As Clover’s food hit the table—hot, rich, and too good for the kind of day they’d survived—Brixton and Bodrin’s eyes kept drifting to the same figure across the restaurant: an elf, disheveled and taut with nervous energy, scanning the room like prey. Brixton watched him long enough to mutter, deadpan:

“Does he have a quest marker above his head?”

Bodrin didn’t laugh. He just adjusted his posture and made sure the shadows of their booth held.

Because that elf was why they were here.

Brixton and Bodrin slipped away to the elf’s booth, moving like they’d done this before—casual on the surface, precise underneath. Brixton set a small challenge coin on the table where the elf couldn’t miss it.

The reaction was immediate. Relief… and fear.

“I’m… I’m so glad you’re here,” the elf whispered, voice tight. “Sit—sit. I don’t have long. I’m fairly sure I’ve been followed.” His eyes flicked to the crowd. “I just… I hope what they promised me—your parents—follows through.”

Bodrin cut through the panic. “Are you in danger? From who?”

The elf swallowed. “I’m an archaeologist,” he said like it explained everything. “I’m usually in danger.”

Then he slid something across the table: a charcoal rubbing—an imprint taken from carved stone. Even in black and gray, the image was unmistakable: a massive hammer, worked with reverence.

“My team found it last month,” the elf said, and for a moment his fear cracked—replaced by the shining obsession of a scholar who’d touched history with his bare hands. “An abandoned temple. Far north. We’d heard stories…”

He leaned in, words rushing now—lecture mode overtaking caution.

“One of the six gifts,” he said. “After the war—after the Pure Three came down and dealt with Ovenway—we were left to survive what remained. But we weren’t abandoned. Six gifts. Two for each of… each of his spawn.”

He tapped the rubbing like it was sacred.

“This is the first. The Hothbreaker Maul.” He breathed the name. “The hammer Morden bestowed upon the humans to help them fight back. There’s no telling what it does.”

And then—like a man remembering he was being hunted—his expression snapped back to paranoia. He shoved an old book toward them, its pages stuffed with notes and routes and names.

“You’ll find everything you need right here,” he said. “Where it is. The south. Buried with the last owner.”

He hesitated, then added in a low voice that chilled more than any threat:

“…You weren’t followed for you.”

When Brixton and Bodrin returned to the main table, the night shifted again—this time with the arrival of someone who carried authority like a blade.

Areska Vell.

She entered Honeybrook’s in a navy suit with crisp white stitching, glasses perched low on her nose, pausing briefly to exchange pleasantries with a couple by the door before her eyes found Prill. A nod. Recognition. Purpose.

Prill lifted a hand and drew her in. When Areska reached the table, she greeted Prill first—familiar, pointed.

“Prill. Good to see you again.”

Prill turned to the rest of them. “Everybody—this is Areska. She wanted to talk to you all.”

Brixton, instantly, turned away and covered his face with his hand like the gesture alone could erase him from the world.

Bodrin stared at him. “The whole profile,” he muttered, unimpressed.

Silas stood and offered Areska a handshake like he still believed manners could keep the world from turning sharp.

Areska didn’t waste time. They all knew who she was—envoy, a director over Tideborn relations and legal counsel, a public figure with a reputation for fighting hard for the Tideborn.

Vaelrik, on instinct older than logic, stood and gave her an old soldier’s salute.

Areska blinked, then softened. “Member of the guard?”

“Old habits,” Vaelrik admitted.

She nodded. “Thank you for all that you did.”

Then she asked the question that mattered.

The ship. The hostage. The Tideborn child.

Areska’s gaze moved from face to face. She didn’t demand obedience or pledge rewards. She offered honesty.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” she told them. “You can leave here and go about your time. I will not report anything that I’ve seen here.”

Brixton—still hiding his face—measured her through the cracks in his fingers.

Areska continued, quieter now: she didn’t want them “tied up” and she didn’t want another faction—the Iron-Wake—jumping ahead. She needed tangible proof. The Stillforge weren’t just rumor; they were organized. Growing.

When Silas asked what she knew, Areska answered plainly:

“They operate out of Vi-Lower,” she said. “They stay very, very secret—hidden under the city’s feet and inside the parts of Vi no one wants to look at too closely. I have a couple names on the inside, but they don’t surface.”

Her jaw tightened with the next part.

“And they’re spread beyond just here—presence in Val’Meca, pushing toward Calen Vara. They are not a small sect. Their numbers grow every day—just as racism does.”

She’d learned a name, too—Captain Vayne (even if it was only a pseudonym). A starting point.

Brixton tried to keep the table light, tried to shift attention away from himself and his wings and the heroics people were already whispering about. Areska didn’t press. Instead, she offered him an out that wasn’t quite mercy and wasn’t quite strategy—but felt like both.

From the official standpoint, she hadn’t seen him.

Finally, Brixton asked for the one thing they all needed: time.

“Could you let us sleep on the decision?” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

Areska accepted immediately. “Absolutely. I wouldn’t want an answer half-heartedly. This is serious.”

And then she gave them a place—an invitation that sounded like a test.

“If you decide to speak with me,” she said, “meet me at the Unloading Bay. It’s a tavern just inside the Gold Market. Anytime—go in, have a seat, ask for me.”

Vaelrik asked about Rynna of the Broken Chain—his reason for returning, the thread that had pulled him back into Vi-Upper.

Areska’s brows lifted. “Yes. Rynna. I work very closely with Rynna every day.” She studied him, then recognition dawned. “You’re Vaelrik… Rynna has spoken very highly of you. I wouldn’t be able to do my job without her.”

And with that, the envoy of Tideborn relations left them with full plates, heavier choices, and the knowledge that the city’s politics had already put its eyes on them.

Honeybrook’s carried on after she left—patrons thinning, laughter from the bar, late-night bravado and drunken stories. The party kept eating, kept talking, kept trying not to look at the shape of the future waiting just outside the door.

But the day had marked them.

And tomorrow, Vi-Upper would demand answers.

Appendix: Session 2 Key Facts & Threads

• Silas unexpectedly collapsed on the docks and couldn’t explain why; he seemed genuinely worried.
• Prill slipped away immediately upon arrival, then regrouped at Honeybrook’s.
• Brixton & Bodrin met a paranoid elf archaeologist contact who provided:
  • A charcoal rubbing of a relief depicting a legendary hammer: the Hothbreaker Maul.
  • An old book of notes pointing to the Maul’s burial location (south; with the last owner).
  • A warning that someone is watching/following (and not necessarily following Brixton/Bodrin).
• Envoy Areska Vell met the group, discussed Tideborn disappearances and the Stillforge threat:
  • Stillforge operate out of Vi-Lower and are spreading (presence in Val’Meca; pushing toward Calen Vara).
  • Areska has a lead/name: Captain Vayne (possible pseudonym).
  • Areska promised (officially) not to report what she saw at Honeybrook’s.
  • Meeting invitation: Unloading Bay tavern (Gold Market), “ask for Areska.”
• Vaelrik confirmed Areska works closely with Rynna of the Broken Chain; Vaelrik was encouraged to visit her.