Hark and behold! With the caress of morn, our heroes reach the splendor of Goldenfields, the bastion of Chauntea, where the bounty of the earth blooms as vast as the Sea of Swords. ‘Tis a sight to quicken the pulse, for upon this walled abbey, the labor of devoted souls stretches over thirty square miles, a verdant jewel set atop a pedestal of stone, on the western bank of the noble Dessarin.
Zephyros, the giant of clouds, conjures the stairway of vapor once more, and our companions descend with valor in their step. Before them looms the gatehouse of Goldenfields, a stout sentinel graced with sculptures of Chauntea, her arms holding cornucopias like a mother cradles a newborn babe. The doors, tall and unyielding, boast arrow slits that cast a wary eye over all who seek entry. Interrogated by one Hantanas Tarm, our company asserts their errand, and with a gesture, he directs them to seek Miros Xelbryn at the local inn.
Passing the threshold, dirt roads invite them into the heart of Goldenfields, past the towering wooden effigy of Chauntea, her maternal smile bestowing blessing upon the roundabout’s golden wheat. The sign of “Earth Mother’s Bounty” beckons, as the heroes observe the toil of hundreds in fields verdant with the promise of spring. The air resounds with the contented lowing from livestock pens, and a braided-haired worker, Shalvus Martholio by name, accosts Zephyr with tales of the abbey’s splendor, pointing the way to “Northfurrow’s End” and whispering of “The Yeti” with a knowing wink.
The inn, flanked by statues of proud horses, welcomed them with open doors. There, ‘The Yeti’—Miros Xelbryn himself—stood in his hirsute splendor, his visage a startling white canvas of fur. He received the news of Nightstone’s woes with a somber heart. Tien proffered the winged cat, Skrillex, and Murk delivered their tidings with the blunt directness of a fallen stone. Miros, gracious in grief, offered them rooms at the inn to rest their weary heads, at a compassionate price.
With curiosity as their guide, the adventurers sought out the abbey, Harvesthome. This ancient bastion of devotion, graced with statues of the bounteous Chauntea and hedges as neatly trimmed as a scribe’s quill, was adorned with a sun-window of stained glass and the hues of harvest splendor. Within, two bears, as black as midnight but as gentle as dawn, roamed the sacred halls, and the Abbot, Ellardin Darovik, greeted them with the hidden signs of the Emerald Enclave. A secret language shared and understood, Zephyr inquired of the grove’s significance.
The Abbot, as if he had anticipated their arrival, led them to the grove, introducing them to Lifferlas, an awakened tree sage of years beyond counting. Zephyr, communing with this venerable sentinel, learned much, while his companions pondered the words of Zi Liang, the acolyte, whose fiery spirit had earned her laborious penance for critiquing the martial oversight of Goldenfields. Thus, our heroes found themselves entwined with the lifeblood of Goldenfields, each interaction weaving them deeper into the rich tapestry of its existence. From the high towers of the abbey to the depths of the sacred grove, their story within this bastion of Chauntea’s grace was only just beginning to bloom.
chronicles 