Waves crashed in the distance - it was a night like any other in Oserions Haven, the Moonsea’s port of call for those who sought adventure, work, or the darker intrigues that came with any region in a state of upheaval and strife.

You shrugged aside the chilly dampness of the evening fog and arrived at your destination, pausing for a moment to take in a glimpse of the azure stars shining brightly overhead - when a sudden outburst beyond the darkly-stained door interrupted your moment of solitude.

“The fiend yapping for my warm entrails I tell you, I carved a glorious swath through his gibbering hordes to, nay, charged I say-" Another voice, decidedly brutish, cut the man off.

“Oi! Let me drink in peace, ye bloody fop!”

Low mumbling from others followed in consensus, laced with threats of dismemberment and worse.

You took the lull as your cue, wrested the door open and entered the Drunken Dragon, the Moonsea’s locale of choice for spilling both blood and ale.

You immediately spied the source of the discontent - an exquisitely groomed man, standing by the wooden barrister of the Dragon’s bar. Slung over his shoulder was a well-worn lute - the name “C-a-i-n L-e-t-h-e-l-l-o-n” painstakingly carved into the spruce fretboard.

“Ha! A newcomer and perhaps a true patron of the arts at last!”, he said.

“Eh?”

“Yes?”

“No?”

The expression on the bard’s face suggested a hint of concern that you were either going to run him through with a blade, blast him into quivering chunks with magic, or even worse, ignore him all-together.

Desperate to stall the inevitable, the bard squealed in protest.

“Ah, just hold a moment friend! Surely you will be on your way soon - but I ask of you, nay, beg of you, grant this deprived poet some enlightened conversation!”

“These…,” as he gestured flippantly to the rough-shod patrons of the Dragon, each occupied in their own endeavors of drinking, talking or brooding, “These louts talk of high adventure - but you, you are no initiate to such exploits, are you?”

“Tell me - will you seek to share a fire-pit with the savage Orc tribes of Thar?”, he said. “Would you fancy slugging through the fetid woodlands of the Flooded Forest in search of abandoned ruins and their long-forgotten treasures?”

“Or maybe you’ll be plucking giants from atop their snowy perches o’er the Galena Mountains?”

“Aye, perhaps you might even seek out the rumors of ghost ships along the Moonsea coast – their vengeful crews cursed to haunt its dark waters for all eternity!”

Cain shook his head in what appeared to be resignation.

“The Zhentarim and The Harpers, ever circling each other. The Gemhammer dwarves and the vile Duergar, lockstep in time. Pirates, asail on the Moonsea and looking to fill your gullet with cold steel!”, he said.

He then looked around warily and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Then you have the Port Lords with their skulking ways, some of them in this very piss-hole now! Clashing openly in the streets with the Haven’s Guardsmen – treacherous footing I say!”

Cain made quite a ridiculous display of coughing loudly as to reassure himself that everything was in place before he went on.

“Perhaps something else as well, something not unlike what befell Neverwinter and its dreaded King of Shadows. I can’t place what it is, but aye, it chills my bones in the black hours of the nigh-"

He stopped to signal frantically at the serving maid who was returning from the far side of the barroom before he spoke again.

“Tis' a time of heroes and villains, friend. A time for glories to be had and fortunes to be made!”, he said.

He smiled wryly. “Yes, tell me – tell me indeed....”

“What will come of your Moonsea Adventures?”