<em>"I know this is unusual, but I do not know who else to turn to but the faithful. Twice now, my church has come under attack; by who or what I am uncertain, but it is only through good fortune and stout walls that I can write of this. I cannot ask the good folk of Gainsby to put their lives at risk for me, and the militia of Daggerford refuse my call. I put these words in the hand of a messenger in hopes that one of the faithful of Kelemvor may find to aid me, before it is too late.<br/>   -- Deacon Tollus Greystones"</em><br/><br/><div class="floatright">(https://static.framar.bg/thumbs/6/history/uyyjk.jpg)</div>These are the words that Kindra received some days ago, and shared with you, her acquaintances. It was decided to help the fraught Deacon, and you set out from Waterdeep that morning. The journey to Daggerford took all of two days under fair autumn weather and on a safe road, but as you rode the Ferry across the Delimbiyr river, thick clouds rolled in from the West. The short, muddy road to the hamlet of Gainsby was lined with fallow fields save for the occasional flock of sheep, and more than a few dis-repaired wattle-and-daub houses were slowly melting back into the earth.<br/><br/>A chill had set in when you finally reached Gainsby. Calling this a<em>town</em>would be doing it several favors; in reality it was more a collection of rough-made homes situated around a smithy and a squat little tavern, with a creaking sign bearing two frothy mugs. The locals are dour-looking but earthy folk, eyeballing the travelers with either squinted suspicion or gape-jawed curiosity (Gronnin got most of the former, Tinala the latter). Visitors are clearly not a common occurrence here. At least the goats mostly ignored you.<br/><br/>The sun was starting to dim behind the thick clouds, leaving the western sky light as a bruised purple crept in from the east; from what you can see here in this hamlet, there doesn't appear to be any sort of immediately obvious church to Kelemvor - or<em>anyone</em>, really...