Reno walks in the door to hear Remiel say, "The halfling just needs water and sleep. You, on the other hand need to drink this and lie down." Remiel puts bowl of leafy green concoction to Artair's lips and a warm, wet rag to his head. "Get him another blanket from the cupboard," he says, and one of the guards in the room complies.

"Before the war, they would lynch wizards. Here, everyone who does anything magical is a wizard. The lynching is an old tradition. Never could get the militia to stop carrying it out, no matter what punishment I laid out for it. The ladies trust me more, thankfully. Anyway, meals will be brought to you. I'm locking the door behind me. Guards are posted outside, if for no other reason but to make sure no one throws bottles of burning oil through your windows. If anyone besides the axe wielder or the dragonborn tries to leave before they are ready to enter the tower they will have to deal with the guards, who do not take your presence here lightly. If you survive the night together, you can clear the tower, collect your pay, and leave."

Remiel hands a key to Reno. "Let me know when your people are ready to go, and I'll have the guards escort them to the tower." Remiel, the guards, and the thin woman leave. The door closes behind her, and you hear a click.

Enormous, ancient walls of seamless, lustrous stonework. Would these walls have held against the dragons and their armies? Old soldiers (not the glorious heroes of the battles, but the men who fought and survived them) saw the muddy reflection of Baator in the corpse strewn fields of the wars of men. What did they see at Heimor, Hammerdale, and Lluwyndel, where the walls of ancient mortal kingdoms shattered like clay pots before them?

All the mortal races and kingdoms, united in a common goal. Militias and able men from all mortal communities have been called into that hellish conflict. There's coin to be had in towns like Fallcrest, whose guards have abandoned them for the war. The gateway through the outer wall is more like a long corridor than a doorway, and it's three wagons wide, with no portcullis to bar it. The hooves of the horses pulling your cart echo all the way into the ruins of the outer city. The buildings and roads of Fellcrest and it's outlying city ruins are made of the same lustrous stone as its imposing outer wall, and the whole city gleams like fresh snow. They say the seamless stone roads of Fellcrest have remained unworn for 1000 years. Some of the larger buildings on the main road between the outer wall and the city proper have meticulously carved signage displaying the script of a long lost language, and the whole city is replete with alien stonework. As you ride by, you catch the curious glances through the holes in walls where window panes once were, though the exact nature of these denizens is obscured by shadows. Ravens are everywhere, and the smell of corpses brings back memories of those fields alight with dragon fire, that despairing stage for mortality's finest hour.

In the distance, you can see your ultimate destination: the brilliantly-painted tower known as the Chromatic Temple. Each floor, they say, is a church of a different human deity. Goblins found their way into the city through the temple somehow, and have been robbing homes and stores at night. The duchess of the region fears a raid may be imminent, and has offered gold to those who can secure the temple. The dull bricks of modern masonry compose the wall between Fellcrest and the ruins. When you first saw the guards, you thought they were human marauders, the way they were dressed in hide and leathers, but as you got nearer you could tell they were no barbarians, but city folk, mostly women, who have fashioned armor and scavenged weapons from what was left over after the militia left. The guards recognized your driver, and you entered the city.

Fellcrest is a fair city, if overshadowed by the grandeur of the ruins. Wooden doors and traditional window panes clash with the ancient architecture. Signs for shops, inns, and taverns are stood outside the shops, rather than hang off the buildings.

“Don't let them see you use magic, or do anything magical,” Zora, your driver and the proxy by which the duchess hired you, tells you. “It's an old superstition. They don't trust the motives of people who use magic here. Even priests.” Zora drops you off at Gilby's Mead Hall. “Gilby owns some of the more pleasant rooms in this area. She'll take care of you, if you got coin,” Zora says, before heading off to report back to the duchess.

What do you do?

L