New to Willowshade and my Pathfinder 2e solo adventures, then please read session 0, click here to do so.

Scene Three: The Walk to Willowshade.

The path to Willowshade shimmered with lantern light, each flame swaying gently in its glass cradle like fireflies caught mid-dream. Renka’s tails flicked with impatience as she adjusted the strap of her Shamisen case, her ears twitching at every rustle in the underbrush. Lini, ever attuned to the whispers of the night, hummed a tune to the rhythm of her footsteps, while Branwin kept a steady pace, eyes scanning the treeline for movement—or mischief.

Then came the rumble.

It began as a distant tremor, like thunder trapped beneath the earth, growing louder until the companions turned to see a procession of wagons barrelling down the path behind them. The lead wagon’s lanterns cast long, galloping shadows, and the waggoneer—a broad-shouldered man with a voice like gravel in a tin—bellowed, “Outta the way, you dawdlin’ moon-moths! We’ve got goods to move and no time for stargazers!”

Renka raised a brow. “Moon-moths? I rather like that.”

Lini giggled. “I think I’ve been called worse by squirrels.”

Branwin stepped aside with a grunt, but before the wagons could thunder past, a voice rang out from the rear caravan—smooth, commanding, and laced with the kind of authority that made even the waggoneer bite his tongue.

“Hold!” the voice called. The wagons creaked to a halt, and from a velvet-lined interior of the caravan emerged a man dressed in robes of deep plum and gold thread, his boots polished to a mirror sheen and his beard trimmed with geometric precision. He looked like he’d stepped out of a merchant’s dream—or a bard’s exaggeration.

He approached the trio with a measured grace, eyes flicking from Renka’s fox ears to Lini’s moss-dappled cloak to Branwin’s weathered bow.

“What in the name of the Seven Silks are you doing out here at this hour?” he asked, voice low but firm. “The path to Willowshade is no place for wanderers after dusk. Bandits, bog spirits, and bureaucrats lurk in equal measure.”

Renka gave a theatrical bow. “We’re artists of the road, sir. Seeking a bed, a bowl of stew, and perhaps a tale or two in Willowshade.”

Lini added, “And maybe a cinnamon bun. If the stars are kind.”

Branwin simply nodded. “We’re heading to the village.”

The merchant studied them for a moment, then smiled—a slow, calculating smile that suggested both hospitality and a keen eye for opportunity.

“Well then,” he said, gesturing grandly to the caravan behind him, “I am Master Elric of the Gilded Ledger, purveyor of fine wares and questionable trinkets. My crew and I are bound for Willowshade’s market with goods to tempt even the thriftiest farmer. You may ride with us—provided you don’t sing too loudly or summon any woodland creatures without warning.”

Renka winked. “No promises.”

And so, under the watchful gaze of lanterns and stars, the companions climbed aboard the rear wagon, settling among crates of dried herbs, bolts of fabric, and a suspiciously jiggly jar labeled “Pickled Moonfish.” The caravan rolled on, the night alive with the creak of wheels, the murmur of conversation, and the distant hoot of an owl who, according to Lini, was mildly offended by Elric’s cologne.

Willowshade awaited, its lights flickering like a promise just beyond the bend.

Aboard the merchant’s wagon, Renka eased open her shamisen case, her breath catching as she inspected the instrument’s lacquered surface. The climb through bramble and bark had left her scraped and wary, but the Shamisen—her heartwood companion—seemed untouched. Still, she had to be sure.

Elric’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s and twice as calculating, caught the glint of silk and silver. “Is that…?” he began, voice trailing into reverent silence.

Renka shifted, snapping the lid shut with a practiced flick, but not before the polished body—black as midnight, etched with silver fox motifs—shimmered like moonlight on water. Too late to stop the strings from humming faintly, as if remembering songs not yet sung.

Elric’s breath hitched. “By the Ledger’s ink… that’s no common instrument.”

“It’s mine,” Renka said simply, her tone light but edged. “And it plays only for those it chooses.”

Lini tilted her head. “It hummed. Instruments don’t hum like that.”
Renka smiled faintly and whispered. “It’s enchanted. But it chooses when to show it.”
“Does it choose who hears it?”
“Sometimes,” Renka said. “Sometimes it chooses who remembers.”

Branwin nodded, eyes scanning the merchant’s crew. One of the guards was staring too long, fingers twitching near his belt. Trouble, perhaps, but not tonight.

Elric cleared his throat, visibly reining in his curiosity. “Well then. Let’s hope Willowshade has strong locks and stronger morals.”

Renka smiled, her tails curling like smoke. “Let’s hope it has good acoustics.”

The rest of the ride passed in a hush, broken only by the creak of wagon wheels and the occasional peep of a nightbird. Elric made no further comment, but his gaze lingered—not on Renka, but on the case. He offered a trade once, casually, as if bartering for a bolt of silk. Renka declined with a flick of her tail and a tune hummed under her breath, one that made the merchant’s horses shiver.

He didn’t press. Not yet.

Then, over the treetops, Willowshade emerged from the mist like a dream half-remembered. Thatched roofs and crooked chimneys leaned into one another like gossiping elders. Smoke curled from hearths, and the scent of bread and damp earth hung in the air. Lanterns still burned low, casting golden halos on cobbled paths.

The caravan rolled into the village square, greeted by weary-eyed traders setting up stall for early morning starts and curious children getting in the traders way. Elric dismounted from his caravan with a merchant’s flourish, already barking orders to his crew. Lini, Branwin and Renka, her Shamisen case held close, stepped down quietly and made their way to the tavern.

The Singing Creek Tavern welcomed them. But the music hadn’t started yet.

Scene Four: The Singing Creek Tavern and the Unexpected Stage.

🎻 Scene Four: The Cursed Tart and the Unexpected Stage

As the three companions stepped away from the wagons, Elric gave a subtle not towards a man in a patchy cloak. The man adjusted his satchel and began walking, not toward the market, but behind the companions.

As the trio left Elric’s wagons, the lanternlight caught the edge of Branwen’s gaze—not the warm flicker of the Singing Creek’s entrance, but something colder. A movement, too deliberate. A man in a patchy cloak adjusted his stride just as Elric gave a subtle nod, his smile fading into something unreadable.

Branwen’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t speak, not yet. Her boots crunched softly on the gravel path, but her thoughts moved faster than her feet. The man wasn’t browsing stalls. He wasn’t heading toward the tavern with the aimless gait of a trader. He was following.

The Singing Creek Tavern, usually alive with lute and laughter on market eve, sat in a hush. Lanterns flickered low, casting amber halos on the worn floorboards, and the hearth crackled with a kind of embarrassed quiet. Behind the bar, Tavish “Old Tav” Greystone—broad of shoulder and sharper of tongue—polished mugs with the intensity of someone avoiding conversation.

Renka’s ears twitched. “Where’s the music?”

Tavish sighed. “Bard’s out. Ate a fig tart from Meritha—one of her experimental bakes. Voice vanished quicker than a tax collector at a poetry reading.”

Renka paused mid-step. “Meritha?”

“The miller’s wife,” Tavish replied. “She’s been experimenting again. Claims she’s blending old recipes with ‘seasonal enchantments.’ Whatever that means.”

Lini blinked. “Cursed fig tart?”

“Cursed or just ambitious,” Tavish muttered. “Either way, he’s croaking like a toad in a rain barrel. No music tonight.”

Branwin glanced at Renka, who was already loosening the strap on her shamisen case. “Maybe Renka could play, Lini can sing” she said.

Tavish raised a brow and looked at Renka. “You any good?”

Renka smiled, tails curling. “We’re moon-moths, remember? We shimmer best in quiet places.”

Lini stepped forward, her mossy cloak catching the firelight. “I know songs that soothe sore throats and restless hearts. And Branwin hums like a kettle when she’s had enough cider.”

Tavish snorted. “Fine. Play. If the crowd doesn’t throw turnips, you’ve earned your beds.”

And so, as the tavern filled with weary traders and curious villagers, the trio took to the corner stage. Branwin leaned towards Renka and Lini as they unpacked their instruments.

“Don’t look now,” she murmured, “but Elric’s shadow is with us. Hearthside. Cloak like a moth’s wing. He’s watching.”

Renka’s tails flicked, not in alarm but in theatrical flourish. “Then let’s give him something to watch.”

Renka’s Shamisen sang with silver tones, Lini’s voice wove through the rafters like mist, and Branwin kept rhythm with the tap of her boots, the occasional, surprisingly melodic hum and deliberate glances towards the hearth, where the man didn’t move, but he didn’t relax either.

The cursed tart may have silenced one bard—but it opened the stage to three wanderers whose music turned a quiet night into a memory.

To be continued.

If you were in Renka’s place, would you trust Elric—or play him at his own game?
What do you think the enchanted shamisen might do next—and who should hear its song?
Have you ever created a magical item with a mind of its own? Share your favorite enchanted object from your own games!
Please leave a comment, I would love to hear your thoughts.

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