On the Road to Coppertin

Here's a new short, 2-3 part D&D series based on a session friend hosted. Let's begin by introducing my character...

I am Grenville Grenville. No I didn’t stutter, that’s just my father’s cruel sense of humour. Us Grenvilles were a large, loud and proud clan, a pillar of society in Middleton. That was long ago, with the last of the Grand Grenvilles dying out when their croquet club caught fire with everyone inside.

A highborn brought low, my father was a bitter man. He felt as though the world owed him everything and when things didn’t break his way, he was driven to drink. Needless to say, I found it beneficial to stay out of sight. While other children played in the street, I hid in the shadows.

I always wanted to join the thieves guild, it seemed like a nice fit. Membership dues were prohibitive, so other application methods had to be discovered.

To impress them, I stole the family’s ceremonial great axe, wielded by Baron Hendersrick Grenville centuries earlier in the battle of Hargarforingus. Trying to sneak into the guild was a foolish choice, they spotted me before I got halfway up their walls. To make matters worse, they said the axe was a fake, my father had lost the real one in a poker game long ago. 

When word got out I became the laughing stock of town. My uncle was the worst, insisting my father disown me. The joke's on him now though, I made a example of him during initiation for the assassin's guild and got immediately welcomed in.

This job should be easy, provided I can find the damn place... A sheep rustler has been attacking farms in the Kettle Plains and he must have pissed off the wrong farmer. The bounty for this job would see me through to harvest time, if I can track the guy.

I've been traipsing through these woods for days looking for a way through. I’ll bet the questmaster gave me incorrect bearings again.

A figure is walking ahead of me. I sneak up behind him until he's within earshot. He seems to know where he's going and might be my ticket out of here, no sense neutralising him and looting the corpse, yet. I step on a well placed twig.

“Who goes there?” 

"Hello there, I'm a little lost. I've been walking in circles for days now, could you help me out of here?"

He lets go of his axe handle. "Oh good, you're not a threat. My name's Brynjar, what's yours?"

Ha! The day's not over yet. "It's Grenville. I'm headed towards the Kettle Plains, some days east of here. Do you know the way?"

"I'm headed to Chamomile Town, it's about a day's walk north east of there. You're welcome to follow me, I'll be setting up camp soon."

We walk for an hour until the sun starts to go down. The trees have thinned out a little and we spotted some remote farms on the journey. Brynjar pitches a tent and builds a fire, while I climb a nearby tree and settle into the crook of a branch.

Brynjar sleeps uneasily. Second only to killing, this is the best part of being an assassin. Everyone is so scared of you, as if you’re a loaded crossbow, ready to fire at any moment. That sense of unease has got me out of more binds than you could imagine.

The next morning I wash my face in a nearby spring before watching the sunrise. Brynjar saddles up his horse and we set off.

Brynjar dozes in the saddle, the product of last night’s unease. Fortunately the track only broadens as we descend back to civilisation and it’s easy enough for me to lead his horse. 

About mid morning we reach Chamomile Town. The guards are hassling everyone looking to enter the walls and we’re not immune. 

”What’s your business here?” They ask. 

”I’m just picking up provisions on my journey to Coppertin.” 

They seem convinced, but are a little more wary of Brynjar. His large axe blades can be seen over his shoulders, what an amateur. 

”You need to surrender those weapons before entering these gates.  Nobody is allowed weapons in this town,” the second, burlier guard says.


 “Chief’s policy. Keeps the crime down.”

Looking a bit put out as if he won’t see them again, he hands the two axes over. “These had better be here when I leave.” 

“Yes, you can pick them up on your way out of town, they won’t go anywhere,” he says, then turns to me. “And you, your weapons too.”

I feel like putting up a fight, but there’s no point drawing attention to myself. Town guards are selected for muscles, not reason. I pull a rusty, notched dagger from my belt that I use for this sort of situation. “This had better be here when I get back too, I don’t want anything bad to happen to it.”

The guard takes it, looking at me like I’ve just told a bad joke. “Any other weapons?” 


The guards both nod, then stand aside to let us in the gate. Our weapons are carried to a gatehouse where they will be kept until we leave, or until a captain fancies the look of them. My razor sharp rapier and good dagger are bundled up in my pack - this is not the place to brandish weapons unless you’re spoiling for a fight. I could have told Brynjar that, but then again, he drew all the attention and I must have looked like a harmless waif to them.


Stay tuned! Part two will be here next week. Never miss another post by signing up to my email newsletter and get every blog post straight to your email!