01/21/2026: The Coach Depot

The eight adventures mill around the coach depot, beneath the faded wooden sign, “Wallard & Son Transit and Cargo.” They have arrived in singly and in pairs, and each is itching to get to the capital, Lamlin City, whether for business or adventure.

As the time for departure draws closer, Cornelius Wallard unlocks the door to allow his potential passengers into cramped waiting room, out ofthe weather. At the far end, across from Wallard’s cashier window, stands a low table. Dried flowers, a lit candle and the roughly carved figurine of a young man are encircled by a worn leather whip.

Burning with curiosity, the elf Nesquo blurts out, “Is that for someone important to you?” The druid plucks up the small statue.

Cornelius’s eyes fill with tears, and he rasps, “My boy, Orion, gone now for too long…”  He turns away quickly, but most in the room are aware that he is distressed. “It’s an altar to his son,” whispers Freda to the group.

A cleric, a silvery white dragonborn called Lynx, intones, “So sorry for your loss,” while signaling with one clawed hand for Nesquo to replace the carving. 

The coachman slips behind his ticket window and clears his throat.

“All passengers traveling to Lamlin should line up to pay the fare, the deposit and sign an agreement saying you’ll keep all hands, heads and anything else inside the coach until we arrive at our destination.”

There is grumbling, and also questions. Why a depoosit? Why a signature?

Murlack, a elvish warlock, does not wish to put pen to paper and attempts to intimidate the coachmen into dropping the demands. 

Curtly, Cornelius snaps, “You’ll sign or you’ll not travel in my coach! I’m protecting my interests.”

Another tiefling, the ninth passenger, slips into the coach office. He is tall and slender, and carries a well made carpet bag at his side.

His pale orange eyes, curiously without pupils, are deeply set in his eggplant colored face. “Hand it here,” calls the newcomer. “I’ll sign. I’d like to get going quickly, if it’s all the same to you fine folks.”

The man signs with a flourish and steps out to toss his luggage into the coach before levering himself up. He finds a seat on one of the padded benches inside.

One by one, the eight put pen to paper, paying both ticket price and deposit. Newt, a novice fighter. A pair of rogues: the sad-eyed human called Krasnyy and yet another tiefling, who signs themselves only as “The Toe Tickler.” Freda, a very lanky aarakokra ranger, has a bow slung across her back that might scrape the smoke stained ceiling. 

Finally, Tall Glumbo, not quite the height of Freda, but nearly. Glumbo slides all their gold at poor Cornelius, then claws it all back, then pushes it back to him. Confused, the coachman counts out only what is needed, and Glumbo slips his coins back into his pouch before any of the others can offer to take it. 

Glumbo stores his pack with the others and climbs into the coach, taking the last open seat. Cornelius slams the door and climbs op the exterior ladder to settle onto the driver’s bench. The team of  silky black horses snort and paw the gravel, eager to run. 

In moments, their journey will begin.