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In the City States of Argos, many things are uncertain.

In Furston, a halfling counts his coin, double- and triple-checking the caravan manifest. He needs to know where that shipment of dwarven steel went, and he needs to know if it was lost through incompetence or treachery. More than that, he needs to know if his Cousin knows where it went, and if his Aunt will buy his excuses about delays one more time, or if she’ll finally make good on her threat to take his hands.

On a farm, a man wonders if the sons and daughters who never return ever think of him fondly.

In Dounom, an ex-gladiator bites her tongue. She abhors slavery. If she tore the chains from that merchant’s hands, the monks of the Nameless Hall would have her in irons for disrupting trade and that family would still be sold like cattle. How far does their twisted view of justice reach? One day outside the city? Two? Are the lives of three slaves worth the risk?

In a wet cave, a goblin contemplates the raw, lean shank in front of him. This could be the last meal he remembers. It could be the only thing he remembers. It will need more salt.

In the crumbling bowels of Gilbhak, a dwarf warrior wonders if he’ll ever see his ancestral homeland. He wonders if his gods can even hear his songs, or if too few dwarves are left for their words to reach their ears. Is a life spent in praise to deaf and distant gods truly Worthwhile Work, or could he find joy outside his hold’s mountain walls?

In a distant tower, misty and ephemeral, something beautiful and mad curls its lips like a kitten spying its first mouse.

Under the strange, shifting stars of the Argos sky, in a tavern now called the Drunken Hound, five people have their own stories to tell. Some will be celebrated in drinking halls. Some will be whispered in dark corners. One thing is certain: None will be forgotten.

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