Eight strangers from different walks of life up and down the Sword Coast find themselves presented with identical letters conscripting them into Her Majesty’s militia. Beneath the Queen’s red and yellow crest, the spade and dagger, each of the similar letters read:
Greetings, Citizen!
You are commanded to present yourself at the 7th hour of the 28th day of Highsun to the royal airship Windchaser, which will be moored at the Goldmeadow Airfield in Waterdeep’s Castle Ward, above the Fetlock Court. Here you will be equipped and readied for transport to Her Majesty’s Militia Training Facility at the Frostholm Ice Station 3R-T.
Wishing you safe and productive service on behalf of
Queen Gerriblagger Cassalanter, III
signed,
Oleg Krathammer
Royal Commissioner of Indentures
⚔
On the designated day, all eight stand squinting up at the huge airship that rests upon enormous inflated wheels meant to cushion its keel. A wooden hatch in the ship’s side gapes open, used as a wide ramp up to the cavernous interior. Porters in the Queen’s livery roll stacks of crates, boxes, and barrels into the darkness. Pacing around them is a large, muscular bronze dragonborn, scales flashing in the sun, who is also in the Queen’s colors. He wields a clipboard and quill, and gestures impatiently for them to line up.
They arrange themselves in an untidy row before him, one Sergeant Bailey, who says nothing but wears a disappointed expression as one by one, they give him their names and talents.
The first, a red dragonborn both smaller and more lithe than the sergeant, steps up to Sergeant Bailey, who greets him in the manner of their species: a head bob and acknowledgement that they are “cousins,” whether from the same nest or not.
The red dragonborn responds with a broad and toothy grin that he is a wizard called Gandalf, then rushes at the sergeant, who is not quick enough to sidestep Gandalf. Sergeant Bailey’s russet brow ridges rise in surprise as Gandalf wraps his arms around him in a tight hug. He looks down at the top of Gandalf’s head, clipboard in one hand and quill in the other. The Sergeant begins clearing his throat and tapping Gandalf’s scarlet head plate. Finally, Sergeant Bailey is released. Gandalf, golden eyes glittering with mischief, skips up the ramp and into the belly of the ship.
The sergeant shakes his head and moves on to the next conscript.
He is a goliath, but a relatively small one. Only seven and a half feet tall, nearly six inches taller than the sergeant himself. The grey-skinned monk approaches, barefoot, and must duck to get through the hatch. Sergeant Bailey had to ask twice how to spell his name: “Grapalt.”
The goliath is followed by a cleric, one Fred Fishborn, who stands uncomfortably before the sergeant. “A man of the gods, no? I’d ask a favor,” Sergeant Bailey whispers to him. The priest compresses his mouth, but nods. Would you look after the two that just entered the ship….I mean, just until we get everyone boarded. Just make sure they cause no trouble before we depart.” The cleric, looking nervous, moves up the ramp and disappears into the ship.
Next comes yet another dragonborn wearing a holy symbol and carrying weapons. A paladin, thinks the sergeant. The fellow is covered in copper scales and tremendously tall, taller by at least a foot than the goliath. The paladin’s name, shortened to Three, is warmly welcomed by the sergeant. “Hello, cousin,” he says in a low and friendly tone, “would you watch our other cousin…Gandalf, he’s called…keep him out of trouble. Do so, and I’ll treat you to a refreshing beverage after we’re underway.” Three nods, and he climbs the ramp.
”Oh!” The sergeant suddenly stops, recalling something. “I have a note here that says we have a changeling in this group. One of you can shift his skin the way I might change my boots! Of you lot who are left, are any of you this changeling?” When no one says anything, the sergeant draws out pliers He snaps them closed a few times as if testing them. “It is said,” the sergeant says ominously to the remaining conscripts, “that a sudden pain will cause a changeling to drop their form.”
The four remaining conscripts shift uneasily.
“You’re not the changeling, are you?” The sergeant demands this of the tall blond woman next in line. Her panicked grey eyes focus on him, and he is not sure, but Sergeant Bailey believes her lower lip is quivering.
He clears his throat, pockets the pliers, and says, “Guess not. What are your skills?” Dutifully, he scratched down “Bard.” Inspecting the face of the woman called Astrid Keenwind, the sergeant is captivated by the very faint glow of her skin. “Are you…?” he begins, and Astrid flinches and exclaims, “I’m human!” She trots up the ramp to follow the others, leaving the sergeant to wonder.
Astrid is relieved that her aasimar nature has not been revealed. In her experience, folks sometimes treat half-celestials…differently. This is particularly when their wings come in, but Astrid has yet to acquire this gift. And Astrid has been through enough, though she does not choose to share her past with the others.
The sergeant next offends the conscript, Nesquo, by insisting on clamping the pliers onto one of his pointed elvish ears. The druid yelps, a pained and reproachful look on his face, and trudges up the ramp into the hold, grumbling. His hand remains firmly clamped to his ear.
Sergeant Bailey is momentarily confused as he looks around for the next conscript, who is so very small as to almost be overlooked. “Errr…name?” The small, purple-skinned tiefling mutters, “Canaloa.” Dutifully, the sergeant scratches it onto his parchment, then barks, “Right. I’ll test you next to see if you’re a changeling.” He leans down to approach the tiefling with his pliers, and the small half-fiend wriggles away.
Pleased with his detective work, the sergeant exclaims, “So you ARE the changeling, aren’t you?” Griping the tiefling with one claw, Canaloa is restrained. He glares up at Sergeant Bailey. Canaloa vigorously shakes his head and denying he is a changeling as the sergeant swaps his pliers for the tattoo wand that will leave a permanent tattoo. The mark will alert others that Canaloa is a changeling, . The sergeant tattoos the tiefling in the middle of his back. “Ow!!” Canaloa complains loudly, then races away into the ship, casting a furious look at the sergeant.
The actual changeling, the last of the eight conscripts, is called Istyher. They have kept silent and are currently disguised as a red-skinned tiefling.
They meet the sergeant’s coppery eyes with their own disconcerting pupilless black ones. “Talents?” he demands of them. “Blood Hunter,” they respond quietly. Sergeant Bailey pauses, as if trying to read to see if they are joking. They do not seem to be.
“You like monsters, eh? You’re not the changeling, are you, monster hunter.” This lands as a statement rather than a question. Keeping their face unreadable, Istyher shakes their head. The sergeant leaves his pliers in his pocket and follows them up the ramp, pulling the hatch closed behind them.
Istyher is relieved their ruse has worked. For now.
⚔
Minutes later, Sergeant Bailey addresses the new recruits from the doorway of their berthing compartment. Four racks of beds, stacked three high, have the group’s gear piled between them on the plank floor.
“Here,” intones the sergeant, gesturing to a white box clipped to the wall, “are medical supplies, in case of minor accidents. It contains bandages, salves and four healing potions.” He points to the thick, golden fluid in phials inside inside the box. “Be sure you actual need one of these before you drink any of them. We only have these four!”
Sergeant Bailey points across the room beneath one of the two portholes. “Behind you, a trunk of uniforms. Find your size and gear up. You will be given duties aboard this vessel. We are traveling to the Frostholm Ice Station 3R-T. Anyone good with navigation?”
The hands of Istyher and Nesquo rise. The sergeant passes the map to Istyher, who unrolls it and flattens it against the wall for all to see. The sergeant points to it with a clawed finger. “We are starting at Waterdeep. We will move north over the Sword Mountains, then the Mere of Dead Men. Over the Neverwinter Woods. Passing Luskin and finally to the island of Frostholm at the southern bounds of the Sea of Moving Ice. Should take between 10 and 12 days, weather permitting.”
The sergeant turns to them and warns, “Now, you’ll want to sit or lie down on your bunks for lofting so you don ’t hurt what is now the Queen’s property, at least for the next three years.”
Unable to control himself further, Canaloa silently launches himself at the space the sergeant has only just vacated. Gandalf snags the tiny tiefling out of the air by the back of his tunic. His loud complaints cannot be heard over the rumble of the engines beginning. Canaloa dangles above the floor, kicking his small, cloven hooves, and Grapalt peers at him just as the ship jolts, knocking the goliath off his feet. Grapalt tumbles, striking himself against the metal frame of the bunks. Ouch.
Gandalf, rocking back on his heels, maintains his balance during the lift off and tosses the tiny tiefling onto a top bunk, telling him, “If anyone bothers you, come to me!”
This seems to settle things among the eight recruits, at least for now.
⚔
Five days later, in the private quarters of the Sergeant, a stream of steaming liquid is poured into a mug and handed to Three. Suspiciously, the copper scaled dragonborn tosses back the entire contents, but holds the hot liquid in his mouth. He is afraid to swallow the smoking liquid, not knowing what it is, but is also fearful of insulting his host, Sergeant Bailey.
As the bronze sergeant turns to face Three, and asks, “Do you like it? It’s my grandmother’s herbal tea recipe.” Three, eyes watering, nods, gulps the tea down, and says with a relieved grin, “Mint!”
Sergeant Bailey is delighted that Three has recognized the taste, but suddenly his head whips toward the stern of the ship.
“Did you hear that?” he hisses at Three. He slams his cup down, leaping to his feet as running feet can be heard moving down the gangway.
Shortly, a pounding commences. The sergeant throws the door to his cabin open to be greeted by Nesquo, the high elf whose ear he wrenched earlier. He is with Gandalf. They both look serious.
Each claims that something is wrong with the airship.
