New Eberron Setting Story: The Wyrmbreaker’s Dawn

 The Wyrmbreaker’s Dawn

by

Z.D. Caballero

September 23, 2025

© 2025

Regalport’s harbor always sounded like a lie to Jax.

People said the sea calmed a person, that the tide rocked honest men to sleep and told truth to those who listened. Jax had listened, once. He’d heard only hustle: the scrape of hull against pier, the clack of dice in back rooms, the hush of deals greased by coin and fear. Tonight the harbor sang that old song—ropes creaking, gulls quarreling, drunks wheezing their last laugh—while the fog rolled in from the dark like a rumor nobody wanted to repeat.

He leaned on a tar-slick piling and turned one of his faces to the night: weathered sailor, eyes too tired to judge. The guise fit him like a comfortable lie. He watched the Tharashk prospecting barge moored along Dock Six, its lanterns caged in brass and its guards pretending not to be bored. The barge’s crates wore House sigils like medals. Dragonshards. Enough sparkle to make worse men bolder.

“Any moment now,” he murmured, tapping the spine of his little black journal. He’d put it away three times and kept taking it back out; the night itched. His employer, a minor prince who collected secrets like fine wines without bothering to taste them, had demanded proof of a rival’s smuggling ring. Jax had chased shadows for a week and finally netted a concrete whisper: a job on Dock Six. A small fire, a big distraction, and a crate would walk with legs it didn’t have.

He blew warmth into his cupped hands, listened. The sea lied; the dock did not.

Soft steps. Too soft for dockhands. Too careful for drunk sailors.

Jax shifted lenses onto his nose—the thin crystal spectacles he jokingly called his eyes when his real ones were not to be trusted. Through them, the fog drew lines around movement. Three silhouettes, masked, slipped from between rolled nets. Another two slithered from behind a stack of salt-stiffened canvas. Alchemists’ satchels, lightstones shaded, quiet blades. He counted breaths.

“Five,” he said to the night, “and one more at your back.”

A sixth shadow broke from the barge’s own guard line. Not a saboteur, then; an inside hand. Jax’s stomach tightened, not at the treachery but at the guild mark stitched under the man’s sleeve: a lesser crew sworn to the prince who paid Jax’s fee.

If Jax did nothing, the barge would burn, the crates would vanish, and the prince would profit twice—coin for the job, leverage over House Tharashk. If he stopped it, he’d have truth, and the prince would have his head.

The soft click of a cork eased from glass told him what came next. Jax was already moving when the first bottle sailed through the fog.

He didn’t shout “fire.” He ached to, but shouting was announcement, and announcement gave away what you cared to save. He went low and fast, knife in palm, tone in throat. The bottle struck canvas. The flame blossomed like a red mouth.

He cut one saboteur’s hamstring, folded the man before his scream became plan, and caught the second by the wrist, turning the man’s hand just enough to send his burning bottle spitting into the sea.

“Apologies,” Jax said, bland and cheerful as a shopkeep. “Longshoremen’s union. We’re on strike from burning things tonight.”

The man gaped through linen mask. Then he lunged. Jax pivoted, let the man’s momentum do the work, and tumbled him over the dock’s edge. The splash swallowed a curse.

That was when Lash hit the dock like a trebuchet stone.

She didn’t so much arrive as happen. Seven feet of weathered bronze and steel, barnacle scars etched along her shin plates, a ship’s banner torn into a cloak. She’d come at a run from Dock Three when the fire gasped into life, disobeying an order shouted by a man whose voice she would thereafter forget on purpose. The order had been simple—“Let it burn”—the kind that tried to turn a person into a thing.

Lash shouldered through fog and heat as if both were cloth. She reached the nearest flaming canvas and, in defiance of common sense and oil, smothered the flame with her cloak. Fire licked her plating. She turned her face away, one optic burning brighter in irritation more than pain.

“Bucket line!” she bellowed, voice a hull-bell. The dock hands froze, then scrambled, shamed by a golem shaming them into being men. Water began to pass hand to hand.

Across the way, Kauron Carnelian had already gone to war.

He’d been on a smuggler’s ship that afternoon, taking coin and abuse in equal measure, until the captain called him “beast” one too many times and a rope snapped under his grip because a man had cut it slick with tallow and laughter. Kauron had promised himself he’d leave, and then the night fed him a reason. He saw the fire far off and ran, because running into danger was forward while running from names was not.

When he reached Dock Six, he watched for a heartbeat, not out of caution but out of appetite. He wanted to know what shape this fight would be.

Masks, shadows, a barge with House scent, and a woman of living metal throwing herself at flames.

He grinned. His nerves sang.

Kauron’s shifting came on like tide: the taste of iron under his tongue, the prickle along his spine as hair roughened, the ache of bone asking the privilege to be longer. His fingers ended in curved weapons. His canines lengthened enough to catch moonlight. He howled, because it felt good to be exactly what the world said he was at the moment the world deserved it.

He crashed into the saboteurs and tore the plan in half.

Somewhere above the fray, perched on a stack of crates like a cat in a priest’s rafters, Freda Fjords watched with a grin that made men forget fear just long enough to do something foolish. She had been nursing a mug at the Gallowslight tavern, arguing with a chart about whether an island was arrogant or nonexistent, when an urchin shoved his head through the door and yelled, “Tharashk barge!” and Freda’s feet informed the rest of her she was already running.

She saw the House sigil branded on the crate below—her House, though not her home—and felt a heat that had nothing to do with fire. She’d sworn off Tharashk’s work a year ago, sworn off their measuring eyes and their reasonable voices. But the sigil wrenched something at her ribs. Family was the worst knot: hard to cut, harder to keep.

She slid down the stack, tugged a tarp over a crate to keep the sparks off, and nocked an arrow. When a masked man raised a bottle behind Lash’s back, Freda’s arrow snapped the glass mid-throw. Fire sprayed harmlessly onto already wet planks.

“Eyes front, sweetheart!” she yelled to Lash as if they’d drilled together for years.

“Thank you,” Lash said without looking, and drove a harpoon through a man’s satchel. The alchemical fire inside sizzled and died.

Chaos became community faster than anyone honest would admit it could. Water buckets traveled. Sailors who hadn’t planned on heroics found their hands lifting rope and stamping sparks. The masked men realized the night had turned against them, and they began to run. That was when Jax saw the sixth shadow—the inside man—pull back from the barge’s deck, a coin purse heavy as confession at his belt.

He shouldn’t care, said the smart part of his mind. He’d been hired to find proof; here it was. He could name names, point to silhouettes, and be paid for pointing.

“You owe truth,” said another part of him, the one that wrote in the black book.

Jax cut across the dock, slipped past Lash’s wake, and was on the barge in a breath. He caught the inside man by the collar, sliced the purse string, and shook until the coins fell onto the deck in a scatter of tiny suns.

“Don’t,” the man hissed. “You don’t know who—”

“Oh, I do,” Jax said. He peered into the man’s face as if it were a mirror. “And so will everyone else.”

The man hissed a word that wanted to be a threat and wasn’t. He went slack. Later, he’d tell anyone who would listen that the changeling had stolen his face and his future both.

When the last flame died, when the last masked saboteur slithered into fog or sea, the four of them stood in a ragged rhombus on wet boards. None of them had meant to stand there together. None of them meant to keep standing.

Jax, the shape of a dockhand sloughing off him like mist, looked at the others and tried on a smile.

“Pleasure working with you,” he said, and meant it. “Shall we all admit this was an accident?”

“Accidents do not have such satisfying outcomes,” Lash said. She looked down at the trinkets sewn into her banner and then at the new dent mashed into her plating. She decided the dent qualified as a memory.

Kauron wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, licking salt and ash and the copper of a split knuckle. He watched the half-orc with the bow, the way she stood—solid, amused, unafraid. “You shoot as if the arrow wants what you want.”

“It does,” Freda said. “We had a talk about it long ago.”

They might have told each other their names then. They did not get the chance. Authority arrived, which is to say a cluster of men in coats too clean for docks, with lanyards that proved they’d never hauled a thing, with expressions people grew when they’d practiced them at home in the mirror. One pointed at the four like he had discovered the cause of weather.

“There,” he pronounced. “Those four.”

“On what basis?” Jax asked, polite as poison, already calculating alleys, bribes, disguises, burnable identities.

“On the basis that someone must be blamed,” said the man in the clean coat, “and you are inconveniently available.”

Lash stepped forward. It is possible for a breathing man to step forward and accidentally hide behind an object that had once been a siege engine. The clean coat man did so. “Warforged,” he began. “You will accompany—”

“No,” Lash said. The word was as gentle as an oar pushed through water.

Kauron’s claws had retreated, but his eyes hadn’t. He met the gaze of a dock guard who thought himself brave because night makes fools of cowards. It is harder to arrest a storm than a man.

Freda lowered her bow but did not unstring it. The lanyard man saw the scar across her forearm where a dragonmark had once raised the skin like a language. He smiled, the way a man smiles when he believes he has found a lever.

“House Tharashk will be very interested their property was—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Freda said.

More men arrived, more lanyards, more instructions. The four of them were corralled by bureaucracy, which is a kind of net. They were not arrested, not precisely; they were asked to step over here, and then again, and then into a room with no windows, and then Kauron found his hands bound with a rope that burned when he pulled it. Freda’s bow was confiscated with apologies. Jax’s journal was taken with delight.

Lash did not fit in the chair they offered her. She stood, quietly, and broke the chair with a careless twist as if to soothe it into a new truth: it had never been a chair at all.

The man who finally entered the room wore no lanyard. He did not have to. The room deferred to him. A prince’s man, Jax thought, but not his prince. The man sat without invitation and placed Jax’s black book on the table, two fingers tapping its cover like a drumbeat.

“A lot of clever in this,” he said. “Too much clever for dock work.”

“I’m between clever positions,” Jax said.

“Mm.” The man turned to Lash. “You disobeyed your captain. Nobody’s property in this room follows orders well.”

Lash watched him with that steady, unblinking attention that makes men examine their own thoughts for errors. “I am not property.”

The man smiled as if she had said the wittiest thing he’d heard all week and then went cold as a knife. “You are now accused,” he continued, “of interfering with an investigation, of striking officers of the law—”

“No,” Kauron said. His voice was low steel. “We struck cowards in masks. You arrived later.”

“—and of theft.”

“I retrieved,” Freda said.

“Names,” the prince’s man said, opening Jax’s book.

Jax tilted his head. “You’ll have mine when I decide which one you deserve.”

The man sighed the sigh of an administrator who wanted to be a poet. “You’re fortunate,” he said. “Your fortunes, however, end here. The Principality survives on stories. Tonight’s will be thus: masked traitors used the chaos created by four vagrants to attempt a theft. The Tharashk barge was saved by hard-working officials. The vagrants will be punished and forgettable.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Jax said.

“No,” the man said, rising. “I am making a story. Mistakes do not endure. Stories do.”

They were separated after that, and for a span that could have been hours or the length of a single stubborn minute, each sat with the knowledge that one honest act can be punished more inventively than a dozen crimes. Then something small that mattered happened: in the hallway, a young guard dropped his keys.

Jax had been walking between two older guards who believed him to be a man named Gray Tom because he had chosen to be Gray Tom for their benefit. He bent, quick as a question, and the keys were gone and his wrists were loose and the older guards were still explaining to each other why men like him always ended up here.

By the time the alarm was shouted wrong and late, Kauron was already pulling his rope apart from the inside, and Freda was slipping out of her bindings the way competent people make simple miracles look like muscle memory. Lash, when asked to sit in a cell that had housed too many of her cousins, decided she would not. She took hold of the bars and applied purpose. The metal remembered it was ore and parted.

They met each other in a hallway that smelled of ink and fear. There was no time for introductions, only utility. Jax pointed left. “Wrong way,” he said. “Right is worse. This way’s the way they don’t expect prisoners to know.”

“The tunnel,” Freda said, the word exhaling from memory of maps folded and unfolded in dim light. “Under Dock Six. Ancient smuggler’s run.”

Jax raised an eyebrow. “You read my book?”

“No,” she said, grinning in a way that might make a man want to draw a map and go wherever she pointed. “I read this city.”

They ran. Running made names unnecessary. Laughter came up behind them—someone enjoying the chase—and was cut off when Lash decided a wall did not belong where a corridor needed to be. She made a door. The tunnel smelled like wet rock and old ambition. It let them out near the shipyards where gulls had been sleeping and now cursed the morning for arriving early.

Ships slept there too: hulks with their ribs showing, proud hulls with wounds bandaged in tar, and one sloop with her name still wet on her stern: Wyrmbreaker. The name was too big for her, which is the correct size for a name.

“Can she float?” Kauron asked, already halfway aboard.

“She can try,” Freda said.

“Try hard,” Jax said, listening for pursuit. “We’re about to be loved.”

Lash cast off the stern line with a motion so smooth it seemed practice. She had never served on this ship, yet her hands knew ships like a blacksmith knows a hammer: by balance, by weight, by the way it wants to be used.

The sloop shuddered, offended at being woken. Freda sprang to the mast and shook sleep from the rigging. Kauron hauled on ropes as if the sea owed him a personal apology. Jax took the helm because someone had to, because turning a wheel is like flipping a page, because he could feel the fog thinning like a lie told too often.

“Hold on,” he said, and nobody answered because it was obvious.

The Wyrmbreaker slid into the channel. Behind them, a horn, the sound like a bull reading a decree. Lanyards clustered on the pier. A skiff shoved off, men rowing hard because righteousness likes to sprint.

Wind remembered that it was a thing that could be caught. The sail bellied. Freda cried something that was probably not a prayer and tightened a line with her teeth. Kauron laughed because the skiff could not possibly win a race against joy. Lash planted her feet and became the keel’s best argument.

They cleared the last god-damned post of harbor law and met the open water like an old fight rekindled. Jax turned the Wyrmbreaker’s nose where the black thinning of fog showed a lighter black. He didn’t have a star; he had a hunch.

The storm found them.

Not an accidental storm—the kind that arrives from far off with cultured manners. This storm reared from the water like something born angry. The first drop hit Jax’s cheek like an accusation. The second drop hit like relief.

“Storm coming!” he shouted. It was a declaration equal parts warning and welcome.

“Good,” Kauron said, voice thrilled and sincere.

Freda’s grin went feral. She climbed higher, a dark shape against sky’s bruise. Lightning scratched at clouds, not yet writing anything legible. The wind yanked the boom like a drunk friend. Lash took the rope in both hands and held the ship together by refusing to let it come apart.

The rain thickened into ropes. The Wyrmbreaker pitched and rolled, a little ship in a big lesson. Jax tasted salt that was not his, leaned into the wheel, and talked to the sea with the tone he used to talk a liar into confession. “I know,” he told it. “I know.”

A wave thought about being their end and decided instead to test their humor. It crested and crashed. Kauron braced and laughed into it; the sound came back carved with thunder.

Freda swung down, hit the deck, and slid; her hand found a cleat and made friends with it. She grabbed a loose line and made it behave. Rain plastered her hair to her face; she bared her teeth at the sky. “Is that it?” she asked it. “You’re late.”

Lash moved like a fixed star. Water ran off her plating in streams that beaded on the new dent. The storm tried to shake the ship out of her grip and failed. For Lash, this felt like purpose, and purpose felt like breathing.

The skiff was gone; perhaps it had never existed, perhaps it had given up, perhaps it had been swallowed. The storm did not care. The Wyrmbreaker survived because four people decided she would.

Then, as storms prefer to do, it ended as if embarrassed by the fuss. The rain slackened to a soft apology. The wind remembered it had errands elsewhere. The sea went from snarl to sullen.

Dawn found them in the tenderness after violence. The fog lifted its skirt and fled. Light spilled across water and turned the bruises on the Wyrmbreaker into medals. Regalport was a line of soot on the horizon. The sky was an enormous, open, indifferent eye.

They stood quiet for a while, letting their breathing catch up with their bodies. Jax took the lenses off his nose and wiped them on his sleeve, realized the sleeve belonged to a man he would not be again, and smiled without meaning to. He looked at the others and saw not accidents but geometry: angles that pointed toward the same thing.

“Names,” Freda said, leaning against the mast with a cup of rainwater she pretended was tea. “Seems like we ought to do that.”

“Kauron Carnelian,” said the shifter, chest proud with a name he’d kept through more insults than a man deserves. “Of nowhere and nobody and the sea from now on.”

“Lash,” the warforged said, as if that were all and more than enough.

“Freda Fjords,” she said herself, and added, because she didn’t flinch from truth when it mattered, “Tharashk by blood, by choice not.”

They looked at Jax. He considered the wheel, the horizon, the little black book he had not reclaimed. He considered the prince who would wake to find his secret plan half-bared and the four people who had been convenient villains gone.

“Jax,” he said. No family, no House, no surname he trusted. Just the sharp syllable that could be tossed like a coin.

“Where do we take this ship, Jax?” Freda asked, and if the question carried authority it also carried invitation.

He thought of Dock Six, of lanyards and lies that wanted to become the official version. He thought of the barge not burning. He thought of the inside man’s purse and the coins scattering on wood like proof that truth sometimes makes a sound.

“Anywhere that isn’t under someone else’s banner,” he said. “This ship’s name is too big for her. We should see if she grows into it.”

Kauron thumped the deck with his fist, affection turned into percussion. “We need a captain,” he said, as if the idea had just occurred to the universe and he was passing it along.

“We need a crew before that,” Lash said. “And a purpose beyond running from lanyards.”

Freda tipped her head. “We could sell our story—the one we just lived—to a prince and earn a pardon and a berth we hate. Or we could make our own story. Which one lets us sleep?”

“Stories endure,” Jax murmured, thinking of the prince’s man. “Mistakes do not.”

“Then we don’t make mistakes,” Kauron said, and laughed at his own joke.

“We make better stories,” Freda corrected.

“Purpose,” Lash said softly, almost to herself. “Action.”

Jax let the wheel speak to his hands. He could see a line ahead that wasn’t a line on any map yet. “There’s a cove I know on the north side of Greentarn,” he said. “Ships hide there when they need to decide what they are. We can careen the hull, beg a carpenter who owes me a favor, and avoid questions until we have answers. After that—”

“—we find work that suits,” Freda said. “Treasure that doesn’t belong to princes. Trouble that belongs to us.”

“We hunt men who hunt warforged,” Lash said, voice going hard. “There are whispers.”

“We pick a prince and rob him fair,” Kauron said. “Or five. We steal back the pieces of ourselves we gave away.”

Jax nodded to all of it as if he’d suggested it himself. “We take jobs that let us choose how the story is told. We don’t murder for myth or profit because that’s old work. We take contracts no one else can hold. We pull men like those from Dock Six into daylight. We are inconvenient to the right people.”

“Privateers?” Freda asked, one eyebrow climbing her forehead like a small, determined animal.

“Something like that,” Jax said. “Pirates with a conscience is bad branding.”

“Explorers with sharp teeth,” Kauron offered.

“Troubleshooters,” Lash said, liking the taste of the word without fully knowing why. “We can break trouble.”

Freda laughed, an honest sound that could chart a course. “Troubleshooters of the Eastern Seas,” she said, tasting the title. “Too long. We’ll find something better.”

They did not need a ceremony. They were not a navy. But Kauron took a knife and cut his palm and pressed it to the deck where the name Wyrmbreaker curled in new paint. Freda lay her hand there too, uncut—blood was not always the right currency—and the lines of her faded dragonmark warmed the wood a shade. Lash placed her great hand atop theirs and left a clean, square print like a seal. Jax hesitated, then pressed his fingers lightly; when he lifted them, the print looked like a signature.

“Who captains?” Freda asked after the moment belonged to memory.

“None,” Lash said, unexpectedly. “Not yet. We learn each other first.”

Kauron nodded. “We pick the job by who wants it most. If two want it most, we fight. Not to death,” he added, as if he regretted that part.

“We’ll keep a ledger,” Jax said, because he would have anyway. “Coin splits equal. Decisions unequally—weighted by competence in the moment.”

“Spoken like a future captain,” Freda said, but without bite.

“Spoken like a man who hates committees,” Jax said.

The Wyrmbreaker rocked gently, pleased to be considered. Jax turned her toward the invisible cove with a subtlety that would not alarm a skittish ship. The sun climbed, finding all the places the storm had missed. Birds remembered they had voices and used them liberally.

They passed a fisherman in a canoe who squinted at them and then at the sky and then decided they were an omen he could neither afford nor ignore. Once, far off, they saw the slim silver hawk of a House Lyrandar airship cut across the blue, its elemental ring humming like a song only rich men hear. Freda watched it without envy.

“You’ll get us a ship like that?” Kauron said, teasing.

“I’ll get us a map to a ruin where men once believed they did not need the sky,” she said. “We’ll take what they forgot.”

“We’ll take who they forgot,” Lash murmured, and her optic glowed brighter for a moment. Jax filed the note. There would be a story there too.

Toward midday they reached the mouth of Greentarn’s hidden cove. Rocks pretended to be teeth. The water sucked at the hull, curious. Jax threaded the needle with the care of a man tying his life to a single knot. The cove opened like a secret kept well.

They grounded the Wyrmbreaker on a slant of sand and shingle where the tide would do the work of showing them her wounds. Freda hopped down and waded, rolling her trousers, laughing when cold water tried to convince her of a different plan. Kauron rolled the ship with the tide’s help until her belly showed. Lash inspected the seams and hummed a sound like metal remembering how it was forged.

Jax, standing in shallow water that had opinions about his boots, said, “We’ll need pitch, planks, nails, a man who can be trusted and a man who can be scared.”

“I know that man,” Freda said, pointing toward a shack tucked in the cove’s greenery. “Maybe both men. He owes me. I returned his daughter once. It was complicated.”

“Complicated returns are the best kind,” Jax said. “We’ll pay him in coin and in not mentioning the important thing we know about him yet.”

“What do we know?” Kauron asked.

Jax smiled. “We don’t. But we will.”

The afternoon became work. Work made strangers less so. Kauron learned the rhythm of Lash’s quiet and when not to interrupt it. Freda learned that Jax liked to look at a thing from two angles before choosing the third. Lash learned that Kauron’s laughter smelled like the spaces between a dog’s ribs when the dog was happy for no reason. Jax learned that Freda’s recklessness was not the absence of fear but the absence of permission.

Toward evening, with the hull smeared in new pitch and the Wyrmbreaker already prouder, the man from the shack arrived, hat in hand, gratitude in mouth, suspiciousness in pocket. He had two boys with him who stared at Lash with the awe of children who have not yet learned how to be afraid of miracles.

“You’re making her seaworthy,” he said. “She’ll go where you ask her to now.”

“We’ll ask her wisely,” Freda said. “Sometimes.”

He nodded, decided he would not ask questions about Regalport, decided he would like to be alive and unbothered, took his coin, and left with the look of a man who would tell a story tonight that would earn him drinks.

As orange stained the edge of the world and made water look like hammered copper, the four of them sat along the Wyrmbreaker’s warmed flank and let quiet choose them. The air smelled like pitch and salt and the beginning of something you cannot name without wounding it.

“To the first job,” Kauron said finally, raising an imaginary cup.

“To the first truth,” Jax said.

“To the first friend we save,” Lash said.

Freda leaned her head back and watched a gull decide against landing on a rock because the rock had opinions. “To the first map we draw that everyone says is wrong until we put our boot on the place where the ink says we should be.”

They touched their knuckles to the hull, each in their own way. The wood took it in.

Night came. The cove gathered the stars into its pockets so the rest of the sea wouldn’t steal them. Jax took first watch because he trusted himself to see shapes move in dark and not imagine more than was there. Lash stood anyway, still as a story carved into temple wall. Kauron slept on deck under open sky because ceilings made his bones itch. Freda slept near the bow with a map under her cheek like a child with a favorite toy.

At some broken hour, when the night has forgotten its numbers and the living admire the dead for their consistency, Jax heard a soft splash beyond the cove mouth. He lifted his lenses to his eyes, watched. A small boat, low in the water, no light. He did not wake the others yet. The boat paused as if it had lost a thought and then slid on.

Jax smiled. Work would come to them. It always did, once you named yourself properly and the sea heard you.

He put away the lenses, put his back against the Wyrmbreaker, and let the sound of her creaking planks tell him something simple: he’d chosen, and the choosing held.

Out there, beyond Greentarn and Regalport and the men who wore their lanyards like stories trained to sit, the Lhazaar Principalities sprawled—pirate isles, smuggling coves, courts run on wit and blade, saints nobody prayed to anymore, relics of Khyber whispering under whitecaps, and weather that did what it wanted without asking.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered to the ship. “We write something ridiculous.”

The sea, which lies about some things and tells the truth about others, said yes in the language of small waves licking a new hull.

 

 

 The Eberron Campaign Setting is a role playing world made for the famous Dungeons and Dragons role playing game when it launched its 3.5 Edition back in the early 2000's. Both products are the intellectual property of Wizards of the Coast. My story is simply set in that world, with its flavor. The characters are all my invention, although their races and "classes" are taken from the game. My thanks to the creators of this world for the richness and authenticity it brings.

— Z.D. Caballero