Lost Mines Of Phandelver

The sun bathed the dirt road in gold, its rays gleaming off the dew-soaked grass and fluttering through leaves that whispered in the morning breeze. But for Cain, the day felt anything but pleasant. The red-haired noble wrinkled his nose, the pungent scent of manure and damp hay clinging to the air like a curse.

"I never imagined my carriage to be so musty," Cain muttered, brushing a speck of dust off his velvet sleeve. The seat beneath him squeaked, worn and sticky with heat.

From the driver’s perch, Javier glanced back, his scent carried on the wind—a clean, earthy aroma like crushed dandelions underfoot. “You insisted on a low-profile job,” he said, voice flat.

Cain rolled his eyes, wiping his brow as a trickle of sweat ran down his temple. “High pay, low profile, you dimwit.”

As the horses' hooves thudded softly against the road, the smell of blood suddenly tainted the wind. Javier reined them in, the leather straps creaking in his hands.

“Something’s wrong,” he murmured.

Ahead, two horses lay sprawled across the path, their flanks torn open, flies already buzzing. The air was heavy with iron and rot.

Javier’s boots hit the gravel with a crunch as he dismounted, sword rasping from its sheath. The wind shifted, rustling the underbrush. A dry twig snapped.

Cain leaned out of the carriage window, the leather frame sticking slightly to his elbow. “Those belong to our employers?”

Before Javier could answer, his ears twitched. A faint hiss of movement—then he spun, hurling a crackling orb of mana. It struck a goblin crouched in the shrubs, the creature shrieking as its skin blistered and sizzled.

“Master Cain!” Javier yelled, “It’s an ambush!”

Cain looked up—too late. A goblin lunged from above, scimitar raised.

Cain inhaled, the sharp scent of coppery blood filling his nostrils. He glared, voice dropping to a growl, “Yo momma’s so fat, when she stepped on a scale, it said ‘I need your weight, not your phone number.’”

The goblin let out a strangled squawk mid-air, clutching its head as it plummeted—dead before it hit the carriage roof.

Javier blinked. “Huh?!”

His awe shattered as another goblin loosed an arrow from the shadows. It hissed through the air—and struck Cain in the side with a dull thump.

Cain gasped, eyes wide, then collapsed like a sack of flour.

“No!” Javier shouted, charging into the bushes, blade gleaming. A single strike cleaved the goblin in two. His hands trembled as he knelt beside Cain, who lay pale and still, blood staining his tunic a deep red.

“Cain—Cain!” Javier’s hands fumbled, slick with sweat and panic. He pressed his lips to his master’s, trying a clumsy form of CPR—until Cain stirred, sputtered—

And slapped him across the face.

“I’m not dead, you dimwit.”

With blood still drying on their clothes and the scent of battle lingering in the air, the two collected themselves in silence. The wheels creaked back into motion, and as the horses trotted forward, the distant outline of Phandalin emerged through the morning haze—quiet, unassuming, and entirely unaware of the chaos heading its way.