10–12 Abadius, 4725 AR

I want to start by saying that I did not expect any of this.

My name is Miro Pinelight. At the time I’m writing about, I was a halfling with a horse, a pair of spare horses, and a sealed contract delivered by a raven who could speak exactly two words: “Take” and “Read.” I had been traveling the road between Cevarra and the Ithamar fork, looking for a group called Devon’s Daring Dungeoneers, because someone had paid good money to ensure I found them.

I found them.

They were on the road. There were five of them: Klause, a fetchling with the kind of stillness that makes you want to know what he’s thinking; Devon, a bard who had apparently just been convincing strangers that they were all part of a traveling circus; Eli, a medic who looked like someone had spent money on him once and he’d never quite forgiven them for it; Azazle, a monkey goblin ranger with a giant chihuahua named Fenrir who could have eaten me whole if he’d been so inclined; and Grizzle, a grey-and-rust-scaled kobold who regarded me with the calm assessment of someone deciding whether I was worth the trouble.

They signed the contract. I handed over the horses. That was the arrangement.

We made for Ithamar, where I spent the evening doing what I do best: telling stories in the local tavern, buying goodwill for the group one tale at a time. Devon helped, naturally. The man could sell water to fish.

On the road out of Ithamar, we ran into trouble. Slime molds and grey oozes are not what most traveling storytellers dream of encountering, but here we were. Azazle went after one of them with his bare hands, swapped weapons mid-fight without missing a step, and earned himself a case of slime rot for his trouble. Klause, who apparently has a talent for making things bleed profusely, was the most devastating presence in the fight. Nobody died, which in my experience is an acceptable outcome for a first night together.

We made camp outside and had our first campfire conversation as a proper company. The Dungeoneers were already arguing about something. I wrote it all down.

I keep writing it all down. That’s my job. I’m starting to think it might also be my calling.