The Driftwood Tavern stood at the heart of Sedgemount, the light from its windows spilling onto the cobbled streets like a warm hug. Constructed from the dense, water-logged timber of the nearby forest, the place had an air of permanence, like it had been here long before the town itself. The smell of spiced stew clung to the wooden beams, the hum of conversation never truly faded, and where stories—both old and new—were passed around as freely as the ale (to the great interest of the traveling bards in search of inspiration.)


    Inside, the fire crackled in its stone hearth, casting long shadows against the walls lined with trinkets from travelers and old relics Maris (the owner) had picked up in her younger days. She moved about the tavern with practiced ease, weaving through tables with a tray in hand, trading laughter and remarks with regulars as if she had all the time in the world.


    At one of the corner tables, tucked away from the livelier crowds but close enough to catch snippets of conversation, three friends sat together, sharing a well-earned meal. They weren’t adventurers in the way people liked to sing about—not yet, at least. There were no grand quests, no fated prophecies hanging over their heads. Just three people bound together by familiarity, trust, and the unspoken understanding that only came from shared years.


    Leoparin sat with his usual composed air, his hands resting neatly on the edge of the table as he idly turned a spoon between his fingers. His clothes were well-maintained, carrying the air of someone who still held onto the refinement of his upbringing despite the path his life had taken. He had chosen a soup, its creamy surface rippling as he scooped up a portion. A dish suited to his tastes—subtle in flavor, crafted from ingredients that were rare yet not ostentatious.


    Across from him, Finlay ate with far less grace, hunched slightly over his bowl of sunken stew as he tore off pieces of bread to dip into the thick broth. The scent of dark ale and slow-cooked game rose with the steam, burrowing into his nose. Finlay was a man who appreciated simple, filling meals—those which stuck to your ribs after a long day’s work. His twin axes were propped up beside him, their handles worn from years of use, though for once, they weren’t in his hands.


    Earl, leaning back in his chair, had a fork hovering over a plate of forest berry pie. The crumble of oats and nuts dusted his fingers as he plucked a piece from the edge, chewing thoughtfully. The tartness of the berries was balanced by the sweet, golden crust—a rare treat, considering his usual meals were whatever he could afford or barter for. He wasn’t one to indulge often, but tonight, perhaps, was an exception.


    The conversation between them was easy, meandering through topics with the unhurried pace of those who had all the time in the world. They spoke of the people they had seen throughout the day, the small happenings of Sedgemount that were only important in the way familiar places made even the smallest events feel worth noting.


    But amidst the clinking of mugs and the murmurs of other patrons, a different conversation caught their attention.


    “The forest is changing,” an older man muttered at a nearby table, his voice low, as if cautious. “Too fast. Faster than any of us have seen before.”


    His companion, a younger woman in a weatherworn cloak, nodded grimly. “The druids are struggling to contain it. Whatever’s happening in the deep woods, it isn’t natural. Should we be worried?”


    Earl’s fork paused midair.


    Leoparin set his spoon down, his brows knitting together ever so slightly.


    Finlay, never one for subtlety, turned his head toward the voices without pretense, listening openly.


    Maris, passing by with a fresh round of drinks for another table, glanced toward the hushed conversation. Her usual easy demeanor didn’t falter, but there was something in the way she lingered—how her gaze flickered toward the speakers, how she didn’t immediately move on—that hinted she had heard similar whispers before.


    The Sunken Forest had always been a place of mystery. Dense, ancient, full of forgotten secrets... But this was different. If even the druids were struggling, then whatever was stirring within its depths was no small thing.


    The three friends exchanged glances, each one gauging the others’ thoughts without needing to speak. They weren’t adventurers. Not yet. But the world had a way of pulling people toward its troubles, whether they sought them out or not.


    It was then that the presence of another made itself known.


    A man, an elf, approached their table. He was not imposing, nor did he carry himself with the air of someone looking to make an impression. But he had presence. His armor, blueish in hue, bore signs of wear—not of neglect, but of use. Moss clung to his left shoulder, as if the forest itself had left its mark upon him. The white symbols etched into the apron-like cloth draped over his armor and onto the metal itself were unfamiliar to most, but their purpose was clear to anyone with even passing knowledge of druids. They marked him as one of them.


    His face was open, unguarded, with sharp elven features softened by sincerity. His brown hair, cropped short, barely fell past his ears, and his blue eyes were striking, in the way of clear skies after a storm. He was, for lack of a better word, nice-looking. In appearance, yes, but mostly in the way he held himself, in the way he moved as he pulled out a chair and sat without presumption, only intent.


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    “You are adventurers, aren’t you?” His voice was steady, confident but not forceful. “I’ve heard of you three.”


    Leoparin’s brows lifted ever so slightly, exchanging a glance with Earl and Finlay. The latter grunted, setting his spoon down.


    "Depends who''s askin''," Finlay said, tone neither welcoming nor hostile.


    The elf bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect rather than submission. "Arlen Elmaris," he introduced himself. "Of the Circle of Bubbles.”


    That earned him a few thoughtful looks. The Circle of Bubbles was no small name in Sedgemount—its druids were the reason the waterways remained clean, the reason the surrounding lands were livable, the reason Sedgemount even had a leader today. Even those who had no dealings with druids (which was rare in these regions) knew that they mattered.


    “You''re one of the druids keeping this place standing, then,” Earl noted, sitting up a little.


    Arlen inclined his head. “Yes. And that’s precisely why I’m here.”


    He looked at each of them in turn, gauging them, not as warriors, but as people. The brief pause before he continued spoke of someone weighing his words, not out of fear, but out of the genuine need to convey something important.


    “The Sunken Forest is changing,” he said. “Something deep within is corrupting it. We’ve sent druids to investigate—skilled ones—but none have come back.”


    A beat of silence.


    Finlay’s expression hardened. Leoparin exhaled through his nose, reaching for his drink but not taking a sip. Earl frowned, fingers idly tracing the rim of his now-empty plate.


    “That’s not something you just say casually,” Leoparin noted. “What’s in there?”


    “We don’t know,” Arlen admitted. “Precisely what makes it dangerous.”


    “That, an'' the fact that anyone who goes in doesn’t come out,” Finlay said bluntly. “That’s a problem.”


    “Yes,” Arlen agreed. “It is. Which is why I need help.”


    He let the words settle, allowing them to consider rather than pressuring them with urgency. “I want to go myself,” he continued, his voice unwavering. “But I won’t do so without the right people at my side. I am no fool—I can fight, I can wield magic, but I am not a warrior. I need adventurers.” His eyes gleamed. “I need you.”


    Leoparin studied him carefully, as if weighing his intent, before leaning forward slightly. “And what’s in it for us?”


    There was no hesitation in Arlen’s answer. “Elder Willow and the Circle would reward you appropriately.”


    Leoparin’s brow quirked slightly, but before he could push further, Arlen continued. “And if they didn’t, I would.” He met Leoparin’s gaze with resolve. “Regardless of outcome.”


    The answer seemed to satisfy him, for now.


    Finlay exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if stretching out unseen tension. “Someone’s gotta deal with it,” he muttered. “Druids don’ just disappear. Not like that. I''ll rise me axe for ye, friend.” His fingers drummed against the wooden table before he gave a firm nod. “I’ll go.”


    Leoparin smirked slightly, shaking his head. “Well, if there’s coin to be made, I’d be foolish not to.”


    Earl hadn’t spoken yet. He looked between his friends, then at Arlen, and then at his own hands, fingers stained with the last traces of berry crumble. He had seen enough of Sedgemount’s struggles to know that sometimes, waiting for others to act wasn’t enough.


    “I’ll go, too,” he said at last. “Because it’s the right thing to do.” A small, lopsided smile. “And because these two are going, and I’d rather not let them run off without me.”


    Arlen exhaled, the faintest trace of relief passing over his features before he smiled—a genuine, warm smile, not of victory, but of gratitude.


    “Thank you.” He dipped his head. “Meet me tomorrow at the Healing Pools. I’ll tell you everything you need to know then.”


    He stood, reaching into a pouch at his side, drawing out enough coin to cover their meal. He set it on the table with a light clink of metal against wood, offering one final nod before taking his leave.


    The three friends sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their decision settling in. Then, slowly, Finlay picked up his mug, raising it slightly.


    “Well,” he said, “guess we’re adventurers now.”


    The tavern’s warmth held them a little while longer. Even with Arlen gone, his words lingered, settling into the quiet spaces between conversation.


    Finlay scraped the last of his stew from his bowl, Leoparin leaned back in his chair, and Earl sat with arms crossed, listening as their talk drifted back to the familiar.


    “Can’t say I’ve ever worked with a druid before,” Leoparin mused, tipping his mug toward Earl. “What do you make of him?”


    Earl thought for a moment before shrugging. “Seems honest.”


    “Aye,” Finlay agreed, setting his spoon down with a dull clatter. “Doesn''t strike me as the type to lead folk intae somethin’ blind. If he says it’s bad, then it’s bad.”


    Leoparin tilted his head slightly. “And yet, he’s asking us.”


    “Who else is he gonna ask?” Finlay gestured vaguely with his mug. “Half the folks ‘round here are fishers ‘n merchants. The rest are too smart to go chasin’ after missin’ druids.”


    Earl huffed. “And us?”


    Finlay grinned, slow and sharp. “We’re just the right kind of dumb.”


    Leoparin smirked, shaking his head. “Well, if nothing else, I suppose we’ll have quite the story when this is all over.”


    The conversation lulled after that, the weight of the coming task pressing heavier now that their stomachs were full and the night had settled in. Eventually, they paid Maris their farewells, stepping out into the cool beyond the door.


    The night was thick with mist, curling along the waterways like something alive. Lanterns, dim and flickering, cast pools of gold against the dark, an array reflections stretching and wavering in the slow-moving currents below.


    Peace.


    Sedgemount at night was quiet, but not silent. Water lapped gently against moored boats, the occasional creak of wood and rope breaking the stillness. Somewhere in the distance, a lone flute played—wandering melody, lost and found again between the winding streets and water channels.


    Earl took his usual route home, stepping carefully over his worn footbridges and his narrow stone paths. The city never truly slept, but it did rest, and tonight was no different. He passed shuttered windows, wondering what laid behind tonight. In an alley, a pair of urchins huddled close, sharing warmth beneath a cloak. Earl made a note to bring them something tomorrow.


    Finlay walked with his hands in his pockets, boots scuffing against the damp wood of the docks. The mist clung to him, to everything, but he paid it little mind. The Sunken Forest was already creeping into his thoughts, its name heavier now than it had ever been before.


    Finally, Leoparin, ever watchful, moved with the ease of someone who belonged to the night as much as the day. His path wound through familiar streets, past shops locked up tight, past the flickering lights of a sign marking an old altar. He liked the quiet, the way the world seemed to shrink in the dark, making things simpler.


    The three had parted ways without ceremony, each retreating to whatever sleep they could find.