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It’s raining in Minrathous. It’s always raining in Minrathous. At least it’s a warm rain, you think, checking the scrap of paper in your hand again. Tarquin was in a rush when he wrote down the pawn shop’s address for you last night and his handwriting is chicken scratch at the best of times, but even so, you’re pretty sure you’re in the right place.

You take a deep breath, then push open the doors. There’s a person to either side and you can feel eyes on you—not stopping you, but watchful, waiting to see if you’re friend or foe. Or perhaps just someone who stumbled on the shop while walking past and, for some inexplicable reason, wants to buy cracked clay pots and yellowing lace doilies from the elven woman just inside the doors.

She gestures you toward the back, evidently expecting you—but you're not expecting the pandemonium you find when you enter the inner sanctum of the Shadow Dragons’ headquarters.

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