Session 1
import ArchiveSheet from ’../../../components/ArchiveSheet.astro’;
<ArchiveSheet
title=“Session 1 — The Broken Compact”
subtitle=“The summons to Suzail, the empty carters’ bar, and the first look at the IF-Corridor”
docRef=“Player Journal — Recorded April 3, 2026”
stamp={Session\nOne}
None of you knew why you'd been summoned, and none of you knew each other. The notes you received contained an address — Kings Road, 1 — the Obarskyr crest, and nothing else. The address turned out to be a side door in the south wall of the royal compound. Not the main entrance with the Purple Dragon honor guard. A plain wooden door with a brass plate and a woman in plain clothes who checked your names off a list.
She brought you through a narrow corridor to a small courtyard garden that had clearly been neglected since the war. You sat on a stone bench with three strangers and a weasel named Buddy and waited until the woman came back and said, "She's ready for you."
Upstairs, a study full of ledgers and old paper. Filfaeril Obarskyr — the dowager queen — was behind the desk. She got right to it. She put a document in front of you: a trade license for the Immerflow Road between Immersea and Arabel. Properly filed, proper seals, dated four months ago. The thing was, the Immerflow Road doesn't exist anymore. The bridge at Whelon burned during the war. Nobody rebuilt it.
She'd asked about it. The War Wizards said they'd look into it. The trade ministry said it was clerical. The Immersea garrison said the road is impassable. Three institutions, three different answers, and somebody is running freight on a road that supposedly isn't there.
She wanted people who weren't part of any of those institutions. She found you.
Before leaving Suzail, you stopped at The Broken Axle, a carter's bar near the east gate. The barkeep, Greta, has poured drinks there for twenty years and knows every driver on the eastern routes. The place should have been packed — it was the night before a hauling day — but it was half empty. Greta said thirty wagons used to leave the east gate every morning. Last week she counted nine.
Two carters in the corner were arguing about some new outfit from Marsember paying good money for drivers, no guild dues required. One thought it was a lifeline. The other thought his dead father would come back to haunt him if he signed on. They went quiet when they spotted Dareth — the Drayner name still means something on the Arabel road. One of them brought up Torvin Blackwall, who's been holding meetings at way-stations, talking about getting working people a seat at the table. Opinion was divided on whether he's a hero or a liability.
Balren brightened the place up with a bloom cantrip — conjured flowers right there on the bar. Greta put a free drink in front of him and then said, quietly, that he ought to be careful with that. The War Wizards are twitchy about unregistered magic and there aren't enough of them left to know the difference between a flower and a fireball. She looked at Sal when she said it.
An old man at the end of the bar with a Purple Dragon pin on his collar was humming a song nobody recognized.
You traveled east the next morning. The High Road through Hilp, then north along the Wyvernflow to Immersea. The town was quiet in a way that felt like something missing rather than something peaceful. Six wagons were parked outside a new warehouse by the river — Sembian fittings, no guild markings. The guild hall was technically open, but nobody was in it. The ledger on the desk hadn't been touched in three weeks.
A hiring notice on the town board was looking for drivers for something called the Immerflow Corridor. Good rates, new equipment, inquire at the warehouse. It was signed by a man named Dorin Ravask, Licensed Factor. No guild seal anywhere on it.
Inside the warehouse, everything was new and organized with a precision that felt wrong for a town this size. Crates sorted by destination, a schedule board with routes and times, all in the same neat handwriting. Dorin Ravask was at a desk in the back — late thirties, trim, professional, wearing a guild medallion that hadn't been worn long enough to lose its shine. He was glad to see you. He has more freight than drivers and he's paying above guild rate because, as he put it, the guild rate hasn't been updated since before the war.
He told you the goods are coming from Selgaunt and Saerloon because Cormyrean production hasn't come back. He said a consortium of merchants is bankrolling the operation through a factor in Marsember. He didn't name them. He said it's not complicated, it's just commerce, and that he'd rather be hauling Cormyrean goods but you can't move what doesn't exist.
On the schedule board, one entry stood out. Most routes were local —
Immersea to Eveningstar, Immersea to Hilp. But one was listed as
"IF-Corridor" with departures at night and no destination.
Dorin said it's the partially cleared Immerflow, run at night because the
road is rough and it's cooler for the horses.
In the corner of the warehouse, leaning against a stack of crates and not working, was a woman with sunburned arms and a guild medallion on a leather cord. Sal recognized her — Lhara Caskwell, a carter from the eastern routes. She saw him and her expression closed up. She wasn't expecting company.