Dog steps forward, his voice calm but clear. "We were sent by the mage in Redingham to investigate why trade stopped. But we've learned something important - Redingham never received your wagons. And you never received payment." Garrett's expression shifts. His jaw tightens. "Someone's been stealing from both sides," Dog continues. "The wagons left here. They never arrived there. We need to know everything you can tell us about the shipments." Garrett is silent for a long moment. Then he stands, moving to a shelf and pulling down a thick ledger. He sets it on the desk with a heavy thud. "Three wagons per week. For a month." He opens the ledger, pages filled with careful entries. "Grain, salted fish, wool, vegetables. Everything documented. Everything paid for by Redingham's merchants... or so they told us." His finger traces down the columns. "I hired guards myself. Men I've worked with for years. Reliable. Armed. Two guards per wagon, sometimes three." He looks up. "With the last shipment, six guards total. None of them came back." He closes the ledger. "I sent a rider north four days ago to find out what happened. He hasn't returned either." Garrett's voice is steady, but you can hear the anger beneath it. "The main road's been safe for decades. This isn't random bandits. This is organized." He looks at each of you. "Someone knew the schedules. Knew the routes. Knew exactly when to strike." He pauses. "And they're good enough that not a single person escaped to warn us." 🎯 What's next? 1. Ask about the schedules - Who knew when the wagons would leave? 2. Ask about his rider - The one who went to investigate four days ago. 3. Other → Your call.

The woman's face carries that dawning realization, confusion settling in like frost. She steps fully into the doorway now, no longer guarding her home but looking past you, as if the answer might be walking up the road. "Which road did your wagons take?" Dog asks, his tone even and steady. She points north. "The main road. Always the main road. It's the safest route - wide, well-traveled." She pauses, thinking. Her expression darkens. "Our merchants always hired guards. Two or three armed men per wagon. They weren't taking chances with bandits." She looks at you directly. "But if the wagons never arrived, and we never heard from the guards either..." She doesn't finish the thought. She doesn't need to. "The route's been used for years. Decades. It's never been a problem before." Her voice carries a new edge of fear beneath the anger. "Whatever's stopping them started recently. And it's thorough enough that not a single person made it back to warn us." She wraps her arms around herself. "You should talk to Garrett. He's our head merchant. He organized the shipments, hired the guards. His warehouse is in the town square - the large building with the blue shutters." 🎯 What's next? 1. Thank her and go find Garrett immediately - Get the official details. 2. Ask about the guards who were hired - Get names, descriptions, anything useful. 3. Head out to find the wagons 4. Other → Your call.

You approach the nearest house, a modest two-story building with dark shutters and a well-maintained garden. Dog steps forward and knocks. Three times. Firm but not aggressive. Silence. Then, from inside, the sound of movement. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The door opens a crack. A woman's face appears in the gap. Middle-aged, tired eyes, dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. She looks at each of you in turn, her expression more annoyed than afraid. "Who are you?" she asks, her voice rough with sleep. "And why are you waking me up this early?" She doesn't sound frightened. She sounds... inconvenienced. Behind her, the interior of the house is dim but normal. You can make out furniture, a table, shelves. No signs of struggle or corruption. She shifts her weight, one hand on the door frame, clearly waiting for an answer. "Well?" she says. "Speak up. It's barely past dawn." 🎯 What do you say? 1. Introduce yourselves honestly - Tell her you're here investigating why Thornhaven stopped trading. 2. Ask about the ocean - Directly question what you saw this morning. 3. Apologize and ask if everything is alright - Start gentle, gauge her reaction. 4. Show her your marks - See if she recognizes them. 5. Other → Your call.

You move quickly but carefully, keeping distance between yourselves and the last figure as it disappears into the mist. The western fields are wet with dew, the grass soaking your boots. The sound of waves grows louder with each step. The mist thickens as you approach, cold and damp against your skin. - The Shore You emerge from the fog onto a rocky beach. Gray sand stretches in both directions, dotted with stones and driftwood. The ocean spreads before you, dark and restless under the pale morning sky. Waves roll in steadily, their rhythm constant. But the figures are gone. You scan the beach. Left. Right. Nothing. Then you look down. Footprints. Multiple sets. Leading across the sand toward the water's edge. You follow them. The tracks are strange. Human-shaped, but stumbling, like backwards. They lead straight to the water. And into it. The waves wash over the final prints, erasing them as you watch. Beyond that point, there's nothing. Just water. Just waves. - he Search Dog kneels at the water's edge, his hand touching the wet sand where the tracks disappear. "They went in," he says quietly. "They just... walked into the ocean." You wade in a few steps. The water is cold, biting. The bottom slopes down gradually. You see nothing beneath the surface. No figures. No bodies. No movement except the natural shift of sand and water. One of you climbs onto a large rock jutting from the beach, scanning the waves for any sign of the figures. Nothing, just mist! The sound of the waves and something strange, like.. a clong, clong somewhere further away. They're simply gone. The ocean gives nothing back. - The Morning The sun rises higher now, burning away some of the mist. The beach becomes more visible. To the west, the coastline curves away toward rocky cliffs. To the east, it extends into more beach and scattered tide pools. Behind you, Thornhaven sits silent in the fields. Whatever you just witnessed, it happens regularly. The figures leave. They carry their burdens. They walk into the sea.

You descend the hill cautiously, keeping low, using the treeline for cover as long as possible. The mill sits at the eastern edge of town, separated from the main cluster of buildings by an open field. The wheel is still, locked in place. The red shutters stand out against weathered wood. As you approach, the silence becomes oppressive. Not the dead silence of Blackfen, but something else. Absence. Like holding your breath. - The Mill The mill looks maintained. No rot. No damage. The door is closed but not barred; it turns smoothly. The door opens onto darkness. Inside, the mill is clean. Swept floors. Tools hanging neatly on walls. Sacks of grain stacked and covered. Everything in its place. Dog moves to a window, peering toward the town center. "There," he whispers, pointing. Through the wavering glass, in one of the windows across the square, something moves. A shape. Human-sized. There for a moment, then gone. You watch in silence, waiting. Nothing else moves. No doors open. No voices call out. No dogs bark. No children play. Just... stillness. - The Cellar The cellar entrance is hidden beneath a heavy rug. Stone steps lead down into darkness. You light a torch. Below, the space is larger than expected. Stone walls. Wooden supports. And supplies: crates of food, barrels of water, weapons wrapped in oilcloth, bedrolls stacked neatly. - Observation You settle in to watch. From the mill's upper window, you have a clear view of the town square. Buildings stand intact. Gardens show signs of recent care. Laundry hangs on lines, moving slightly in the breeze. And then you see it again. Movement. In a different window this time. A figure passing by. Then another, in a doorway across the street. Brief. Purposeful. As evening approaches, you notice something else: thin trails of smoke begin rising from a few chimneys. Not cooking fires. Too thin, too controlled. One door opens briefly. something pulls in a bucket that was sitting on the step, then closes again.