Scene 1 - The Salty Harpy
Beginning credits run over this song: In This Moment - "In The Air Tonight" [Official Lyric Video]
Title Card: Threshhold, Vatermont 24, 1000 AC
Weather: Raining steadily
Open on a battered tavern sign reading "The Salty Harpy". The camera slowly moves out to show us the rest of the establishment. "The Salty Harpy" is a raucous and weathered watering hole nestled along the grimy waterfront of Fogor Isle in Threshold. The tavern leans precariously against other shabby structures, its timber walls warped by years of salt air and neglect. The faded sign outside depicts a snarling harpy with talons extended, hanging askew on rusting chains.
As the camera moves out, we see our main characters standing before the tavern as the sun sets over the ramshackle slum of Fogor Isle. Hawk Fleetwood, a brawny, youthful warrior clad in glimmering mail, puts a hand on his sword nervously. Clarion, a tall statuesque woman in the raiment of a priestess of Chardastes, god of healing, stands next to him, a sturdy mace at her side. Felonious, a middle aged main in a black cloak lined with arcane symbols, holds a twisted staff. Silverleaf, a lean, nimble Elf with chiseled features and pointed ears, has a bow across one shoulder and a sword and dagger in her belt. And lastly, Greegan, a small agile man in leather armor, looks on the Harpy as though he's just come home.
Fleetwood: (Looking around nervously) "The Salty Harpy. I've heard stories about this place. None of them good."
Greegan: (Playfully) "Come on, Fleety. This place has a certain rustic charm. Besides, if we're going to find your bad wizard, it's the folks in here we need to be asking." (He rubs his hands together to keep them warm) "But we're never going to find him if we don't go in."
Felonious: "A bit below my usual standards, but I suggest we get out of the wet."
Silverleaf: (Nose wrinkling): "This establishment has an unusual odor."
Clarion: "Yes, 'unusual'."
The troupe steps into the dimly lit tavern, its atmosphere thick with the scent of stale ale and the murmur of hushed conversations. As they disappear inside, the camera lingers on the street, capturing the silhouette of a shadowy figure in the rain who stealthily follows them through the door.
(Background) : Pirate Tavern Ambience | Pirate Music with Inn Sounds
Inside, the air is thick with the tang of spilled ale, sea brine, and pipe smoke. The wooden floor is uneven and creaks with every step, littered with sawdust meant to soak up whatever’s been spilled—or broken. The heavy wooden bar, carved with crude etchings from patrons past, stands as the centerpiece, tended by a gruff, scarred bartender with a no-nonsense demeanor. One wall is graced by a prominent wanted poster - 1000 Royals rewarded for the capture of Bargle The Infamous put out by Baron Sherlaine Halaran.
The Salty Harpy's clientele is a rough mix of hardened sailors, shady merchants, and local ruffians. Conversations are loud, punctuated by the occasional rowdy laughter or the crash of a tipped-over chair. The dimly lit interior flickers with the glow of a few hanging lanterns, casting long shadows that add to the tavern’s aura of unpredictable danger.
Fleetwood: (To Greegan) "Who shall we ask about Bargle."
Greegan: "Patience, squire. Let me work my magic." (Felonious snorts at this remark. Greegan casts an eye about the bar, his gaze settling on a firey-haired woman dressed like the stereotypical female swashbuckler sitting at the end of the bar, surrounded by a crowd of male admirers.) "Aye, there she be. Marla the Crimson. Stay here, 'eh, and let me do my thing."
Greegan sidles over to flirt with the redhead, who winks coyly at him as he approaches. Fleetwood tries to get closer to hear what they are saying but he overhears one of the other patrons, Jorrik 'Chalky' Cragg, a massive hamfisted man in a workman's apron.
Chalky: "Bargle? That tosser? He better stay out there in Mistamere if he knows what's good for him. Otherwise he'll have to tangle with me." (Fleetwood is astonished by his good fortune. He approaches the burly dockhand, who speaks with a Scottish accent, and for the first time since the troupe arrived at the Harpy, a smile spreads across his face.
Fleetwood: "Do you know of Bargle?" Chalky looks shocked and maybe a little afraid.
Chalky: "What's it to ya?"
Fleetwood: (Darkly) "He and I have some… unfinished business."
Chalky: "I didn't mean to mention… him, OK? I don't know nothin'." Chalky doesn't seem inclined to tangle with an armed warrior. Fleetwood slams his fist down at the table, and snarls.
Fleetwood: "Tell me or Bargle will be the least of your worries!"
Chalky: (suitably intimidated) "I heard he killed the Baron's niece. That's a bit of bad business that is. I heard him and his bunch was hiding out at Mistamere. That's all I know, I swear!"
Fleetwood's display of intimidation, particularly towards the burly Chalky, has attracted the attention of the bar patrons, including the dark figure now seated in a shadowy alcove. Fleetwood notices that this person has taken an inordinate interest in his conversation with Chalky.
Fleetwood: "I believe you, friend. Let me get you a drink." He waves to the barmaid. "Ales for my friend and his mates."
Barmaid: "That'll be six cronas." Fleetwood hands her six silver coins, and she distributes the ales to Chalky and his friends. "Anything for you?"
Fleetwood: "I have what I want." He returns to Felonious, Clarion and Silverleaf.
"I think we're in luck. But we've also grown a tail." He flicks his eyes toward the dark alcove where the observer sits.
Silverleaf: (Looks toward her rear end, looking a bit confused.) "I have no tail." (This elicits a wry smile from Clarion)
Fleetwood: "Someone's watching us." Silverleaf looks like she understands now.
Fleetwood positions himself at the table, ensuring he has a clear view of both the shadowy alcove and Greegan, who is mingling with the pirate captain and her crew. Greegan's quest for information appears to be faltering. The pirate queen has not only convinced him to buy drinks for all the pirates but had also swindled him out of a significant amount of money in a card game. Greegan's displeasure is evident, yet he wisely refrains from provoking the pirates. After several rounds, he seems to accept that his search is futile and decides to fold his hand.
The shadowy figure, realizing they have been spotted, swiftly reaches into their cloak and retrieves a bag. With a quick motion, they hurl several glittering gems into the crowd, inciting a chaotic scramble as pirates and impoverished dock workers scramble to claim the treasures. Satisfied with the ensuing mayhem, the cloaked figure makes their way towards the exit, blending into the chaos they have orchestrated.
Fleetwood fights through the crowd, desperately trying to escape the chaos of the brawl. Just as he manages to break free, he catches a fleeting glimpse of the spy darting down an alley in the rainy night. Without hesitation, Greegan sprints after the elusive figure, barely managing to keep pace.
Greegan: (Draws his short sword) "Don't be foolish, mate. Put on your big boy pants and give up."
Felonious, Silverleaf, and Clarion quickly catch up to the spy, with Fleetwood huffing and puffing behind, intercepting the ragged figure just before they can vanish into the crowd. The spy resembles the rest of the lowlifes that populate Fogor Isle: Ragged, smelly, and desperate.
Fleetwood:"Greegan, do you recognize him?"
Greegan: "Never saw him before. He may look like one of the local riff-raff, but he's not one. Iron Ring's my guess."
Clarion: "Makes sense Bargle would be working with those reprobates."
Fleetwood: (To Spy)"Why were you watching us?"
Spy: (Cautious)"Oh, is that what I was doing?"
Clarion: "Then why did you run?"
Spy: "For me health."
Greegan: "You can say that again." (He puts his sword to the man's throat) "Talk up or else."
The spy laughs and spits in Greegan's face.
Spy: "Do your worst, all of you."
Clarion steps up, and lets the spy see her holy symbol of Chardastes.
Clarion: "Bargle killed my oath-sister. The Baron is our Patriarch. Would you really care to see the worst of which I am capable?"
Spy: (Spits on Clarion too) "Leptar's curse upon you!" He rushes upon Greegan's sword. Even Greegan is surprised by this.
The inhabitants of Fogor Isle studiously ignore the spy's lifeless body falling to the wet cobblestones. Greegan rifles through his clothes but finds no clue to the man's identity or the whereabouts of his employer.
Greegan: "Nothin'. Not even any o' those fake gems he was tossing around. Blighter doesn't even have any of Bargle's gold on him."
Fleetwood: "I say we hand what's left of him over to the watch."
Greegan: (Scoffs) "The watch? Down here? No such thing, mate."
Silverleaf: "Well, we can't just leave him there."
Greegan: "He did himself."
Silverleaf: "On your sword."
Fleetwood grunts, and with a disgusted look picks up the body and stomps off toward the watchtower overlooking the river and Fogor Isle. Most of the townsfolk shy away from the grim-faced warrior carrying a dead man over his shoulders.
Tower of the Watch
In the rain, the watchtower of Threshold takes on an almost haunting quality. The sturdy stone walls, darkened by the downpour, glisten under the relentless sheets of water cascading down their surface. The wooden platform at the top, where the watchmen keep vigil, creaks faintly as the wind howls and drives the rain sideways. Water drips rhythmically from the corners of the roof, forming shallow puddles at the tower's base.
The narrow windows, designed more for defense than for light, flicker with the glow of lanterns from within, their warm light diffused by the streaks of rain on the glass. Above, the pointed roof is capped with a weathered iron weathervane, which spins erratically in the storm.
The soundscape is rich and atmospheric: the constant drum of rain on the roof, the occasional growl of thunder rolling through the hills, and the faint clang of boots on wet stone as guards patrol the tower. Despite its soaked exterior, the watchtower stands resolute, a symbol of vigilance against the backdrop of Threshold's stormy skies.
Several junior guards, dressed in the Baron's livery, stand watch at the gate to the tower. Their expressions shift from surprise to horror as Fleetwood, a burly figure, marches up to the gate and throws the spy's lifeless body at their feet.
Fleetwood: "I have reason to believe this miscreant was in league with Bargle the Infamous."
At the mention of Bargle, a look of terror comes on most of them.
Guards: (as one) "SARGE!"
The Sargeant of the Watch enters the scene. He sees the dead spy, and Fleetwood's party standing over him.
The Sargeant remains composed, showing no strong reaction. A brief montage follows, depicting the Sargeant interrogating Fleetwood and his friends. Ultimately, the Sargeant appears to accept their story. His men then proceed to remove the body.
Cut to a scene of the party walking through the crowds of Threshold. The city streets take on a somber, almost mystical character under the rain. The cobblestone roads glisten, their uneven surfaces forming shallow pools that reflect the glow of lanterns hanging from wrought-iron posts. Narrow alleys seem darker and more secretive, with water trickling down their stone walls and collecting in hidden corners. The wooden eaves of the houses extend out over the streets, dripping steadily, creating a soothing rhythm amidst the patter of rain.
The normally lively marketplace is subdued, with only a few determined merchants braving the downpour beneath oilcloth awnings. Their voices call out in muffled tones, competing with the sound of rainwater rushing through the gutters. Children dart between puddles, cloaked in makeshift capes, while townsfolk hurry along with their heads bowed, clutching cloaks tightly against the chill.
Despite the weather, the town still feels alive, its rain-soaked streets whispering of secrets, plans, and dangers waiting in the shadows. The party enters a much-friendlier looking establishment.
The Juggling Ogre
The Juggling Ogre Tavern stands as a lively beacon in the heart of Threshold, even in the most dismal weather. Its weathered timber frame is painted with a faded crimson that once might have been vibrant, now adding to its rustic charm. The sign hanging above the entrance depicts a cartoonish ogre juggling barrels, mugs, and a chicken, swinging gently in the breeze on rusty chains.
The tavern’s slanted roof is covered with overlapping wooden shingles, many of which are darkened with years of rain and smoke from the chimney. Lanterns with warm, flickering light are mounted on either side of the heavy oak door, their glow casting long shadows on the cobblestones below. The leaded- glass windowss are fogged over, but shadows and laughter hint at the warmth and revelry inside. The sound of laughter and the clink of tankards spills onto the street, inviting passersby to step inside.
Background: Medieval Fantasy Tavern | D&D Fantasy Music and Ambience
The troupe steps inside the Juggling Ogre, where they are greeted with a bustling hub of activity. The main room is dominated by a massive hearth on the far wall, its roaring fire casting flickering shadows across the wooden beams of the ceiling. The walls are adorned with mismatched decorations—a combination of old weapons, faded maps, and colorful flags from distant lands—giving the space a lively and slightly chaotic charm.
Long wooden tables with bench seating fill the room, their surfaces scarred and sticky from years of tankards and spilled ale. A few smaller, round tables tucked into the corners offer a hint of privacy for hushed conversations or secret dealings. Behind the bar, the burly barkeep stands ready, wiping mugs with a cloth that has seen better days. Shelves lined with bottles of various sizes and colors tower behind him, promising drinks for every taste—or tolerance. A large, chalk-smeared slate near the bar lists the day's specials, written in a hasty, uneven hand.
In one corner, a bard strums a lively tune on a lute, her hat strategically placed on the floor to catch the occasional coin. Laughter and the clatter of dice games echo through the room, blending with the hum of conversation. Above it all, a peculiar wooden chandelier fashioned from ship's wheels and lanterns sways gently, creaking with each gust of wind sneaking through the doors. A staircase on one side leads to a mezzanine where travelers can rent modest rooms for the night. The balconies above overlook the main room, giving an excellent vantage point for anyone who wishes to observe the lively crowd below—or keep an eye on potential troublemakers.
The group settles down in a secluded booth, and a barmaid brings them a round of ales with a wink toward Fleetwood which he seems to ignore. They notice a fidgety scribe at one of the tables. This pale and wiry figure keeps to himself, sipping a weak cider as he pores over a stack of scrolls. The only weapon he wields is his quill, which he clutches like it’s the only thing between him and certain doom.
Fleetwood: "So, Greegan, what news did your coin buy from the pirates?"
Greegan: "It turns out they're a tight-lipped bunch when it comes to old Bargle."
Felonious: "Perhaps it takes a more subtle touch."
Greegan: "I don't see you lot doing any better."
Fleetwood: "According to that big dockhand, we may want to investigate Mistamere."
Felonious: "What's 'Mistamere'?"
Greegan: "An old ruin out north of town. On a clear day you can make it out over the Dymrak. All sorts of legends about it in town."
Clarion walks over to the bard and puts a few coins in her hat.
Clarion: "Please tell us the legend of Mistamere."
The bard hands her back the coins.
Bard: "I'm sorry, no."
Clarion: "Please, my friend from Glantri has never heard the tale."
The bard relents and starts to tune her instrument. She hasn't started to play yet when a couple of town guards enter the tavern, asking questions of the bartender, and the scribe in the corner becomes even more nervous. The bartender suddenly becomes quite interested in an elaborately carved wooden plaque mounted behind the bar. This plaque displays the town crest of Threshold—a shield featuring a crossed sword and quill over a river—engraved with intricate detail and polished to a fine sheen.
The guards, meanwhile, troop over to where the scribe is sitting.
Guard: "Quillen Parchwright? Has anyone been to your shop recently asking about Mistamere?"
Parchwright: (Nervously) "T-there were some unsavory folks around a while back, yes. Very untrustworthy sorts. But really, at this point Mistamere's not really a concern. I thought maybe they wanted to knock it down and plow it over. It would be about time."
Guard: "What did you give them?"
Parchwright: "Only the usual stories. They could have heard the same things from this bard."
Guard: "Was this man with them?" He unrolls a wanted poster of Bargle.
Parchwright: "Dear Tarastia, no! I'd have reported him immediately."
Guard: "Mr. Parchwright, we'll need you to come with us and discuss this in more detail."
The scribe looks as though he would rather do almost anything else, but he picks up his scrolls and puts them in his bag, resignedly walking out with the guards.
Bard: "Not a very safe time to be knowing about Mistamere. Rumor has it Bargle the Infamous was sighted not far from there."
Clarion: "We're… acquainted with that rumor. Please tell my friends the tale."
The bard puts down her lute and walks to the table.
Bard: "I'm not going to sing this for the whole tavern, not after that. I don't know anything about Bargle, but I do know the legend of Mistamere." She takes a seat between Fleetwood and Felonious, with a saucy wink at both of them, to Clarion's obvious displeasure as she also moves a bit closer to Fleetwood. As the bard begins to speak, the scenes she describes come to life in a misty, glowing flashback.
Bard: "In days of old, when Threshold was young, A castle rose, where shadows clung. Gygar the Wise, in his lofty keep, guarded secrets vast and deep."
But whispers tell of a fateful fall, When darkness crept through Mistamere's hall. An artifact cursed, or a traitor's lie? None now live who can testify. The hearth grew cold, the halls fell still, The castle sleeps upon the hill. Yet restless spirits stir the air, And treasures gleam for those who dare.
Oh adventurer bold, hear this refrain: Mistamere’s lure brings glory and pain. For gold and power, you'll surely strive, But beware, not all return alive."
Fleetwood: "I think it's fair to say that Mistamere should be our destination."
Greegan: "If I get bit by another rat, it's coming out of your share."
Silverleaf: "If you are bitten by another rat, the rat will have a belly ache."
Felonious: (Favors the bard with a lecherous smile) "Perhaps before we go, you can tell me a bit more about this Gygar chap." The bard giggles.
Clarion: "Oh, brother."
Fade Out