The realms were never meant to touch. Somewhere beneath Phandalin, a magic the world tried to forget is waking up — and something is trying to use it to tear the seams between worlds wide open.
What the table signed up for.
Centuries before the first human kingdoms drew their borders, the wizards of Netheril reached for power beyond mortal reckoning — and the realms paid the price when their floating cities fell from the sky. The empire's deepest secrets were thought buried forever with it: half-myth, half-warning, the kind of magic that even gods are wary of naming aloud.
They were wrong. Something old and patient has spent generations gathering the fragments — relics, bloodlines, half-translated runes — and the trail starts in the unlikeliest of places: a backwater mining town called Phandalin, and the goblin-haunted trail that leads to it. What begins as a simple escort job above the Sword Mountains is the first thread of a conspiracy that reaches toward the deliberate, engineered collision of the realms themselves — and the supreme, undivided rule of whoever survives the landing.
Whether the world falls together or falls apart is, as of Chapter One, still an open question. That's the job.
Phandalin and the journeys around it, as the table has come to know them.
Where rumors are traded for ale, and every regular has a theory about the Redbrands — none of them close to the truth.
Goblin ambushes are the least of what travels this road after dark. The mist doesn't used to move like that.
A town rebuilding itself in the open, while something far beneath it has never stopped digging.
Once a symbol of order, the Red Guard fell to corruption, preying on the very town they were sworn to protect. Through strategy and strength, the team has liberated Phandalin from their iron grip.
A command post now stands within the retaken manor's secretive halls and fortified grounds — plans are made, and forces gathered, for the deep work yet to come.
