Four at the Portal

13 Nightal 1500 DR

~ FLASHBACK

The notice hung among a scatter of others on the board out front of the Yawning Portal, its edges lifting and settling in the restless air:

 Adventurers needed.
 Situation escalating near Willowdale in the Delimbiyr Vale.
 Seeking three competent companions.
 Meet here on 13 Nightal, second bell after highsun.
 I will be the Orc at the northwest table.

Mama Laran’s message had reached Zhale in Waterdeep with more urgency than explanation: something was wrong with the Willowdeep, wrong enough that she wanted Zhale to come back home, and not alone. The notice had been her answer to that need, plain, practical, and more hopeful than she felt comfortable admitting. She had known, in the abstract, that the Yawning Portal was famous, but knowing it and stepping through its doors proved to be very different things. The tavern struck her at once with its force: tankards slammed in uneven rhythm, dice clattered across scarred wood, and somewhere behind her a lute player steadily lost a battle against a wall of shouting sailors. At the center of it all yawned the vast black well leading into Undermountain, a forty-foot ring of stone with a lowering platform built in, which every patron avoided without thought, as if some shared instinct warned them away. Zhale had chosen the northwest corner for its clear view of the door and its partial line of sight to the well, settling into a position that forced any approach to meet her directly while keeping that dark opening always within her peripheral awareness.

The first interruption came quickly. “You the Orc?” the man asked, broad-shouldered and brimming with the easy confidence of someone who had never yet been tested in earnest. Zhale looked at him, then at the notice board beyond the door, then back at herself, as if checking the sentence against its own instructions before deciding it was close enough to answer. “Yes.” He spoke at length after that, claiming he had “once killed three goblins with a single swing,” though the boast unraveled the moment Zhale asked what weapon he had used, the answer slipping from “a big sword” to “the sharp kind” with increasing uncertainty. She rose before he could recover, thanked him for coming, and sent him on his way, leaving him confused and faintly offended. The next applicant arrived smelling of beer and insisted that bravery mattered more than skill, and he fared no better. Before another could take his place, a small bell rang, delicate and almost cheerful, and the tavern shifted around it as if pulled by an unseen thread. Conversations dipped, chairs angled inward, and attention gathered at the well as the great winch above began to hum, lowering a broad platform into the darkness. Zhale watched it descend while coins changed hands and slates scratched quietly; One-Eye climbed onto a chair just long enough to display a chalkboard before snapping her ledger shut. When the platform rose again, two battered adventurers leaned against one another upon it, dragging a dented iron chest between them, and the tavern greeted them with laughter, groans, and the weary recognition of a familiar bargain struck and paid. They vanished toward the bar almost at once, swallowed by eager listeners, and the room resumed its full-throated roar.

It was in that returning noise that XiuQing approached, moving with the quiet economy of someone long accustomed to the road. His clothes were worn but carefully kept, softened by use rather than neglect, and he inclined his head slightly as he introduced himself, “XiuQing,” before taking the seat opposite Zhale as though it had always been his. She blinked once at the assumption, and he answered the look with a smile so open and unguarded that it changed the shape of his whole face, turning the quietness from distance into ease. “You came because of the notice?” she asked, to which he answered simply, “Yes.” Another applicant soon arrived and addressed XiuQing directly, “You the Orc?” before launching into a description of his experience with “bandit suppression” that proved, under the lightest scrutiny, to involve more running than suppressing. XiuQing listened gravely for perhaps three sentences too long, then glanced toward Zhale with warm amusement and said, “You should speak with her,” and the correction did nothing to improve the man’s chances. Two more followed in quick succession, one leaning on an uncle who had once been a ranger, the other calling reckless fire-setting “alchemy,” and both were dismissed while XiuQing watched with the calm patience of someone observing weather, though not without enjoying the weather a little.

Zhale turned back to the table and noticed a very tall figure ambling through the taproom toward her. The goliath drew the eye even in that crowded space, long-limbed and unexpectedly lithe, as though he had not yet decided what to do with his height, a greatclub strapped across his back without the heavy certainty of a practiced bruiser. He veered aside at the last moment to glance into a nearby doorway, grinned at whatever he saw, and resumed his approach as if nothing had happened. “Tiny,” he said when he reached them, and for a heartbeat the loose energy fell away entirely as he met Zhale’s gaze with a steady, unexpected focus. “Looks can be deceiving,” he said, then sat. The moment of clarity dissolved as quickly as it had come, the easy awkwardness returning as he folded himself into a chair beside XiuQing. XiuQing offered his hand; Tiny waved at first, then noticed, paused, and completed the gesture properly, the exchange uneven but genuine. They sat in silence for a few seconds while the tavern moved around them like a current.

Then Alastra arrived, crossing the floor with the quiet certainty of someone who had never questioned her place in any room. The bronze sweep of her horns glinted above copper-colored hair, drawing glances; her gear was new but chosen with care, and she introduced herself, “Alastra,” offering her hand first to Zhale and then to the others. “I saw the notice,” she said, lingering a moment as if weighing a choice. Before she could sit, another figure stepped forward in black leather, bandoliers crossing his chest and daggers set within easy reach, two polished hand crossbows at his hips and a dark mask framing his eyes. “I am Sezanol Nightwing, the Shadow Stealer,” he announced. “You are the Orc, a druid.” Zhale looked around the table, took in XiuQing’s quiet composure, Tiny’s loose ease, and Alastra’s measured curiosity, then answered, “Yes. But I’ve already got a thief, thanks.” The man hesitated, then withdrew into the crowd with stiff formality. “He looked competent,” Alastra observed, and Zhale’s eyes flicked briefly toward Tiny as she replied, “Looks can be deceiving.” Alastra studied them in turn, seemed satisfied, and pulled out the remaining chair to join them.

Conversation followed in fragments that slowly gathered into something more cohesive. XiuQing finished one story with the quiet line, “...That’s when I landed on his head. Which detached,” and Tiny nodded as if committing the lesson to memory, replying, “So noted for possible future encounters with Skeleton Necromancers. Throw a monk at his head!” XiuQing laughed then, sudden and bright enough that even Tiny looked pleased with himself, and whatever remaining formality had been sitting at the table lost its chair. Zhale told a joke about a squirrel eating a walnut, and though the first reaction was polite, her explanation, “See, cause he’s a squirrel,” drew a bright, unrestrained laugh from Alastra that carried the others with it. XiuQing, still puzzled by another tale, asked, “...but, then, why would you put it back?” and Tiny answered with easy certainty, “Just to prove that I could.” Alastra added her own story of tripping a man into the bogs, which prompted Zhale to tilt her head and ask, “Bogs... is that what us non-military call the privy?” and the rhythm of their exchange settled into something steadier.

“Let me order the next round,” Tiny said, raising a hand, and when the Bitter Black arrived, it came thick and opaque, heavy enough to seem almost solid. XiuQing studied his mug and said, “I don’t think I’ve had this before,” while Tiny took a long pull and said, “I like it because it’s honest. Doesn’t pretend to be anything else.” Alastra tasted hers and paused just long enough to say, “Oh. That’s dangerous,” while Zhale blinked several times, processing the experience without comment. By the second round the edges softened; laughter came more easily, and the stories remained carefully chosen: roads, inns, employers, nothing that lingered too deeply. The tavern continued its constant motion around them, and for a time the moment held, warm and unremarkable, until Tiny broke it. He set his tankard down with a sharp thud that cut through their corner of the noise, something restless glinting beneath his grin as he said, “Alright, let me show you something. It’s called ‘To the Bottom.’ It’s simple.” He tapped the table twice. “We all get fresh drinks, we chug, first to finish wins.” Alastra arched an eyebrow and asked, “What’s the catch?” and Tiny answered without hesitation, “We toast, we say ‘To the Bottom!’ and we drink. First one done taps the table twice. Boom boom! That’s how you know you finished. And if you lose, you’re paying up.” He set a silver piece on the table. “Every time. That’s the bet.” When she pressed, “And this is a tradition of yours?” his expression shifted just slightly as he said, “Me and my friends. All either dead or in prison. Doesn’t matter. It’s a game to remember them by.” XiuQing inclined his head and said simply, “To friends,” and the others followed, adding their silver coins to the small pile. Somewhere else in the Yawning Portal, bright and sharp enough to cut cleanly through the tavern’s roar, a woman laughed once. “Alright, on the count of three,” Tiny began, and they raised their mugs together. “To the Bottom!” they shouted, and drank.

Alastra finished first, her mug striking the table twice in quick succession as she rose, grinning, declaring, “WINNER!” Tiny finished last, unhurried, setting his mug down with a theatrical sigh as scattered cheers rose from the surrounding tables. The moment lingered between them, warm and shared, and Zhale broke it by asking, “So, what are we going to call ourselves?” The question settled, and XiuQing answered after a moment, “The naming of things is very important. We shouldn’t rush that... Why don’t we just call ourselves ‘The Four’ for now?” Tiny raised his mug in approval, and Alastra and Zhale nodded, until Zhale stopped, raising both hands sharply. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. No. No, we can’t do THAT.” The table went still. “We are not becoming that,” she said, the words quickening as they came. “You know the version. Big men up front swinging steel, women in the back daintily throwing spells, wearing nothing but tiny scraps of chainmail and skimpy boob robes. I grew up hearing those stories, and I am not walking into one. Can’t do it. Won’t.” The pause that followed held just long enough to matter before Alastra leaned back, unconcerned, and said lightly, “You don’t think of yourself as a fighter? That’s fine with me.” She gestured toward Tiny, then toward herself. “You want him stepping up and introducing you to his greatclub, or would you rather I shoot a fireball up your ass?” Zhale stared. “You can’t cast fireball.” Alastra did not blink. “That is entirely beside the point.” Tiny laughed, XiuQing hid a smile behind his hand, and the tension broke cleanly.

“Tomorrow. Dawn,” Zhale said, cutting through the moment with finality. “South Gate. Travel light.”

   -----

Dawn at Waterdeep’s South Gate unfolded in a slow grind of commerce and departure: wagon wheels rasping over damp stone, merchants arguing tariffs beneath bored guards, and a long ribbon of travelers stretching south into the pale light. They arrived separately. XiuQing waited just beyond the gate, still and observant, until Zhale joined him, looked down the road, and said, “Two and a half days if we push hard. Three if the weather turns bad.” Tiny came next with an easy gait, glanced between XiuQing and Zhale, and asked, “She’s coming, yes?” Alastra arrived soon after, quick-footed and adjusting her pack, and Tiny’s attention caught on her at once. “...your hair is red.” Zhale looked as well. “You cut it last night?” Alastra touched one of the short ponytails at her shoulders and said, “Oh. Yeah. Well. It does that.” She offered nothing more. A moment later, the gate guards waved them through, and the road opened ahead.

They pushed the pace immediately, without easing into the day. XiuQing and Zhale took the front by silent agreement and set the rhythm, while Alastra and Tiny followed a few paces back. For a time there was only the steady strike of boots on the road, until Zhale glanced over her shoulder and said, “So. The river,” and XiuQing inclined his head. “You said it is behaving... strangely, is that all?” “That’s what Mama Laran wrote,” Zhale said. “Didn’t explain much. If she says something’s wrong, though...” She let the thought trail off. Tiny kicked a stone and sent it skittering down the road ahead of them. “Strange rivers I can handle. Strange rivers with angry things in them I’d like to know about in advance.” “Same,” Alastra said quietly. A few more steps passed before Tiny looked at Zhale again. “So how exactly did a druid from the woods end up recruiting three strangers out of a tavern?” “Uh. The notice board?” she said. He snorted. “Those never work.” “Sometimes they do.” XiuQing’s voice came after that, calm and distant. “Chance meetings seldom are.” Tiny glanced sideways at him, amused. “One of those sayings, hm? Got a lot of those?” XiuQing answered, “Yes.”

The road carried them onward beneath a whitening sky until Alastra drew a measured breath and said, “All right. If we’re marching three days together, we may as well start with the obvious question. Where is everyone actually from?” XiuQing answered, “Shou Lung,” so simply that Zhale immediately asked, “That’s... east?” then, after a beat, “How far?” “Very,” he said, and a moment later added, “Months.” Tiny whistled softly. “Walked here?” “Yes.” Zhale looked at him with frank disbelief. “You came all that way just to get to Waterdeep?” XiuQing said, “I came to the center of the world,” which drew a faint smirk from Tiny. “How’s that working out so far?” XiuQing considered. “Better recently.” Zhale took her turn with no such mystery. “Fox Gap. Gerd’s Trees. West of Daggerford. Mama Laran found me when I was fangless. Been there ever since.” Tiny nodded as if that fit into some private category. “Hedge druid territory.” “Yes.” “Quiet life.” “Usually.” When the silence shifted toward Alastra, she said, “Well. I suppose that leaves me.” Tiny said, “Let’s hear it,” and she answered, “I’m from Waterdeep.” His expression remained flat. “That narrows it down.” “North Ward,” she said. “My family runs a jewelry house.” Zhale asked, “What’s the name?” Alastra answered, “Massalan.” The silence that followed lasted longer than she expected. Tiny said only, “Huh.” XiuQing offered, “Very good.” Zhale added, “Jewelry’s useful.” Alastra looked between them. “...that’s it?” Tiny shrugged. “You make good rings? Then I approve.” A few steps later he glanced at her again and said, “Still stuck on the hair though.” “Same,” said Zhale. Alastra did not look up. “I told you. It does that.”