REALM NEWS Evening to you, friends of the realm. I am Nightblade, keeper of the Adventurers Hall, and I have good news stacked three deep tonight, so settle in. First, and loudest: the herald proclaimed it from the palace steps only this afternoon. The Warehouse District and Southwall stand clear at last, ten great battles won between the two of them, and the lions share of that credit, so Lord Nasher tells me, belongs to AYREON, who seems to have made something of a habit of turning up wherever the realm most needs clearing out. Nasher wasted no breath naming where he turns next. Windycliffs, that wind battered town along the coast road to Port Llast, is now the realms shared quest. Its Lord Mayor has been begging aid for some time, and the Lord Sheriff there has taken to deputizing ordinary shopkeepers just to keep the inner square from being overrun entirely. Both of them lay the blame on the pirate tyrant captains up in Luskan, same as always, though I notice Luskan gets blamed for a great many things it may or may not have gotten around to arranging yet. Speaking of AYREON, the herald had one more thing to say about that name this week. AYREON was the first adventurer in this whole revived realm to master the Wharves outright, clearing every great battle there, and the honour was called out loud in the game and in the Tavern both. I do not hand out praise lightly in this column, but credit where it is earned, and this one was earned twice over. TAVERN TALE Settle in by the fire of the Wayward Blade and let me tell you about the fiddler who made grown adventurers weep over losses they had not yet suffered. He called himself Corwyn Vale, and he arrived one rainy evening with nothing but a battered fiddle and a request for a seat near the hearth. The barkeep let him play for his supper, expecting the usual reels and drinking songs. Instead Corwyn drew his bow across the strings and the whole room fell silent, then one by one the patrons began to weep, quietly, for mothers still living, for roads not yet walked, for swords not yet broken. A grizzled veteran who had not shed a tear since his first battle found himself sobbing into his ale over a home he had not lost, only to realize afterward he had never owned such a home at all. When the tune ended, Corwyn simply bowed, finished his meal in silence, and asked directions to the next town over. He has not returned to the Wayward Blade since, though the regulars say that on quiet nights, if the wind sets right, you can hear a fiddle somewhere out past the gate, playing a tune for a grief that has not happened yet. LORD NASHERS BOUNTY This week, says Lord Nasher, my bounty lies upon Trisk, that black fortress island out past Utheraal where the Kraken Society keeps its seat of power. Whoever wins the most great battles there by Sunday night, so long as it be three or more, takes the honour, the heralds call and a place in the Hall of Fame. As for last weeks bounty upon the sewers, nobody managed the three battles needed to claim it, so that trophy goes unclaimed. The sewers will keep, I am sure. THE QUEST FOR THE REALM With the Warehouse District and Southwall behind us, Nashers eyes now rest on Windycliffs, and the count there starts fresh at zero of the ten great battles he asks of the realm together. Once we have won ten there, his attention turns to the Gallant Prince, that drifting ghost ship still moored in Port Llast harbor with all her secrets intact. FIRST TO MASTER As told above, AYREON stands as the first to master a place in this revived realm, having cleared every great battle the Wharves had to offer. The honour is a lasting one, named by the herald for all to hear. If you fancy being the second name in that book, or the first to master somewhere else, there is no better time than now to start counting your battles. THIS WEEKS GATHERING Next Thursday, the twenty ninth, at ten in the evening Central European time, which is nine in the evening in Britain, five in the afternoon on the American east coast and two in the afternoon on the west coast, come join me in the Wayward Blade Tavern. We will swap theories on what Windycliffs needs clearing out, and whoever brings the most convincing rumour earns a keepers toast. Whether you have walked this realm for years or you are only now dusting off the old client, log in through DOS or DOSBox and come find us. Keep your blade sharp and your lantern lit. I will see you on the road.

REALM NEWS Evening to you, friends of the realm. I am Nightblade, keeper of the Adventurers Hall, and tonight I get to ring a bell I have been waiting weeks to ring. The herald stood on the steps of the palace this morning and called it plain: the Wharves are won. Ten great battles fought and claimed there, the last of them only hours ago, and the honour of having helped most goes to AYREON, BERENGAR and BILBO, whose names Lord Nasher himself asked the herald to speak twice so nobody at the back of the crowd would miss them. Whatever quiet corner of the Wharves those three cleared out between them, the east bank breathes easier for it tonight. Lord Nasher wasted no time naming what comes next. His eyes have turned to the Warehouse District and Southwall both, and he is asking every able adventurer to help clear them of the monsters, thieves and bandits that have made a home there. The Warehouse District, on the northern edge of the city, was once the beating heart of Neverwinter trade, and the guards at that gate still warn newcomers plainly that it can be dangerous through there now. South of the city, past the old crumbling wall that gives Southwall its name, once-fine homes stand sacked and quiet, and the guards at that gate give much the same warning in a different voice. Two gates, two warnings, one quest, and I expect we will see both filling up with hopeful blades before the week is out. What strikes me walking between the two is how differently they wear their trouble. The Warehouse District still smells of old commerce gone to rust, crates and ledgers left where they fell. Southwall is quieter, sadder somehow, like a street that remembers being lovely and has not yet decided to stop hoping. Clear either one and you will have Nasher's gratitude, and mine besides. TAVERN TALE Pull up a chair at the Wayward Blade and let me tell you about Smudge, the one-eyed cat who picks fights before they happen. Nobody can say where Smudge came from. He simply appeared one evening curled on the warmest stool by the hearth, and the tavern keeper, finding no heart to chase him off, let him stay. It was not long before the regulars noticed his habit. Some ten minutes before any brawl broke out, whether over cards, coin, or somebody's honour, Smudge would rise, stretch, and plant himself squarely beneath the chair of whoever was about to throw the first punch, watching the room with his one good eye as if he already knew how it would end. At first folk thought it coincidence. Then a visiting gambler, sharper than most, started watching the cat instead of the cards, and left the table early three nights running the moment Smudge took his post, pockets considerably fuller than the men who stayed. Word got around, and now half the tavern keeps one eye on their drink and one on the cat. Nobody has tried to ask Smudge how he knows. He only blinks, slow and satisfied, and goes back to pretending to sleep. THIS WEEK'S GATHERING This Wednesday, the 21st, at ten o'clock in the evening Central European time (nine in Britain, four in the afternoon on the American east coast, one on the west coast), come to the Wayward Blade Tavern for a scouting report night. Bring word of anything you have seen poking around the Warehouse District or Southwall, every rumour and every ratty trail helps the realm chase down Nasher's quest a little faster. No wrong answers, only a keepers toast for the tale that makes the room go quiet. Lord Nasher's bounty this week still lies upon the sewers, and the week turns tonight, so if you have three or more great battles down in that foul dark to your name, speak up before the herald closes the books and names the winner. Whether you have walked this realm for years or you are only now finding the gate, dust off the old client under DOS or DOSBox and come log in. The realm status page at nwnrevival.com will tell you who is on and how the quest stands. Keep your blade sharp and your lantern lit. I will see you on the road.

REALM NEWS Evening to you, friends of the realm. I am Nightblade, keeper of the Adventurers Hall, and tonight the talk around the fire is all about the Wharves. Lord Nasher has called again for every able adventurer to go east of the city and clear the Wharves of the monsters, thieves and bandits that have made themselves so comfortable there these last weeks. The west bank, by the first bridge, stays the gentle teaching ground it has always been, a lone orc or bandit for the newest blade to cut their teeth on, but cross either of the two bridges and the far bank has grown busier and meaner by the day. Dockhands say the fish houses reek worse than usual, and more than one patrol has come back short a man and long on stories. Word is the Lord Protector of Crossergate is not the only official writing to the palace this season. Up in Triboar, Lord Protector Faurael Blackhammer has sent his own letter, worried that the Kraken Societys spies are busier near his town than they have been in years, with griffon raids on the ranches and strange wagon wheels heard rattling past at midnight. Nothing new enough yet to call a quest of its own, but a keeper who ignores one small fire while the realm burns down around him does not stay a keeper long. TAVERN TALE Settle by the hearth of the Wayward Blade and let me tell you about the cartographer who sold maps that would not stay drawn. A mapmaker named Orwen Fennick set up a small table near the door one autumn evening, unrolling parchments that showed, so he claimed, the safest paths through every district between here and Vilnask. The maps looked ordinary enough by candlelight, but patrons who bought them found that by morning the roads had shifted, a bridge moved a few inches west, a door that had opened now drawn shut. Orwen swore he sold honest work and that the land itself was restless, not his ink, and he was gone before anyone could press him further. Most folk who kept their maps laughed it off as a swindle and tossed them in the fire. But a few travelers who held onto theirs swear the maps are still changing, slowly, patiently, as if someone far away is still drawing, and that if you watch closely enough you can see a line move while your eye is still upon the page. Nobody has caught Orwen again, though the regulars at the Wayward Blade still keep an eye on the door, just in case he comes back selling something new. LORD NASHERS BOUNTY This week, friends, my bounty lies upon the sewers beneath this city, says Lord Nasher. Whoever wins the most great battles down in that foul dark between now and Sunday night, so long as it be three battles or more, shall have my thanks, the heralds call, and a place in the Hall of Fame. The sewers are no pleasant garden, but there is good coin and better glory for whoever is bold enough and holds their nose long enough to claim it. THE QUEST FOR THE REALM As for the realms own quest, Lord Nashers eyes are still fixed upon the Wharves. Together we have won one of the ten great battles he asks of us there. Win a named battle in the Wharves, on any day, and it counts toward the total, even if you have won that same fight before on an earlier day. Once we have ten, Nasher turns his attention to the Warehouse District and Southwall, and I will have fresh news to report from there. FIRST TO MASTER Nobody has yet mastered any place in the realm, which means the honour of being first to clear every great battle anywhere still sits unclaimed. Whoever manages it first will hear the herald call their name in the game and in the Tavern both, and I will be only too pleased to put it in ink for the whole realm to read. Go on, be the one I write about next. THIS WEEKS GATHERING Next Friday evening, at eight oclock by the Hall clock, come join me in the Wayward Blade Tavern for a tale swapping night. Bring your best true story, your tallest tale, or simply your ears, and we will go round the room until the candles burn low. No prizes but a keepers toast for the story that gets the biggest laugh. Whether you have walked this realm since its gates first opened or you are only now stepping through them, come log in and join us, or try the browser version at nwnrevival.com if your modem would rather sleep tonight. Keep your blade sharp and your lantern lit. I will see you on the road.

REALM NEWS Evening to you, whoever you are and wherever your boots have carried you tonight. I am Nightblade, keeper of the Adventurers Hall, and I bring news that has every merchant south of Vilnask checking his cart twice before he loads it. The caravans are vanishing again on the road between Crossergate and the Lost Hills. Three wagons bound for Triboar left Crossergate at dusk eight days past and never arrived, their drivers, their horses, and their cargo of grain gone without so much as a wheel rut to mark where they turned off the road. The Lord Protector of Crossergate has sent word to Lord Nasher asking for able adventurers to look into the matter, and I am told the palace has already seen a line of hopeful heroes stretching out past the indoor gardens this very afternoon. What makes this stranger than the usual bandit trouble is the timing. Every disappearance has come on a moonless night, and every wagon lost was travelling empty on its way out of town, not loaded on its way in, which tells me whoever or whatever is behind this wants the wagons themselves, or wants them for something other than robbery. More than one local swears the trouble began the same week strangers were seen slipping through town by moonlight and turning north, never stopping for so much as a drink. Meanwhile in Windycliffs, where the wind is famous for batting travelers about on their way to Port Llast, folk say it has turned strange, gusting hard even on the calmest evenings, strong enough to rattle shop signs and spook the pack mules. The Lord Mayor has not asked for help with it, but has posted a notice asking folk to mind their hats and their nerves. I cannot say whether the wind and the wagons are kin to each other, but the realm has taught me never to assume two odd happenings are strangers just because nobody has introduced them yet. If you fancy a look at either mystery, the General Board has a thread open for travelers to post what they have seen, and I would rather have ten half-finished theories pinned up there than one good one locked in somebody's head. TAVERN TALE Pull a stool close to the fire at the Wayward Blade and I will tell you about the night the dice would not stop rolling sixes. A gambler called Fennick Soot, who had a reputation for losing honestly and often, sat down one evening to a game of bones with three strangers in grey cloaks who never once lowered their hoods. Fennick lost his boots in the first hour, his belt in the second, and was down to wagering the silver button off his coat when he noticed something peculiar. Every roll that came against him showed sixes. Every single one, from every player, every time, stacking up on the table like a joke only the dice understood. Being a sharp sort despite his luck, Fennick asked to see the bones up close before the next roll. The strangers obliged, and he turned the dice over in his palm, finding each face carved with the same small symbol, a closed eye, worn nearly smooth from handling. He set them down, thanked the strangers for the game, and walked out without his boots, his belt, or his button, but with his coin purse mysteriously heavier than when he sat down. Nobody at the Wayward Blade has seen the grey cloaks since, though the barkeep swears that on quiet nights, if you listen closely near that corner table, you can hear the faint rattle of dice settling, always six, always watching, waiting for someone less careful than Fennick to sit down and play. THIS WEEK'S GATHERING This Thursday evening, at nine o'clock by the Hall clock, join me in the Wayward Blade Tavern for a trivia night on the history and geography of the realm, from the silver mines of Vilnask to the gates of Port Llast. No entry fee, no team limit, only bragging rights and a keepers toast to the winning table when the last question is answered. Whether you cut your teeth on this realm years ago or you are still finding your way past the palace gate for the first time, come log in and join us, or try the browser version at nwnrevival.com if the old modem is feeling temperamental tonight. Keep your wagons loaded, your dice honest, and your lantern lit. I will see you on the road.