Barrels and Baiting

We stayed at Waukeen's Rest as the flames devoured the last of the main inn. Smoke curled high into the afternoon sky, leaving behind the stench of scorched timber and goblin blood. The remaining guards were busy salvaging what little was left, while we had our own mission. I told the gang to fan out—search every corpse, overturned cart, broken goblin, and fallen soldier. With some persistence, we scraped together a tidy sum. Jewelry, silver trinkets, discarded swords, and dented armor—all worthless in isolation, but the value stacked quickly. You could call it the adventurer’s retirement plan: loot enough garbage, and it shines like treasure.

Still, this wasn’t the prize I had in mind.

Behind the ruins of the inn was an old wooden shed. Below that shed lay a secret trapdoor—a hidden passage leading to a smugglers hideout. If we wanted to gear up, this was our best shot.

There was only one problem.

As soon as we stepped inside the shed, there would be a scout posted—an inside man with a fire charge and strict orders. No passcode? Boom. Alerting the entire illicit operation downstairs, and taking us out in the process. And that passcode? It was on the other side of the gnoll boss fight back in the hills.

We weren’t going back for that. And I couldn’t remember the exact words for the life of me.

"Hey girls," I said with theatrical cheer, "we coould definitely do with explosives to help with the goblins—and maybe even a few bottles for the celebration afterward. There has to be a storehouse nearby."

Karlach lit up. “YES!”

Shadowheart smirked. “Wouldn’t hurt with a glass of wine after some hard work.”

Lae'zel folded her arms with a nod. “As expected of our tactician.”

We wandered behind the inn, checking crates and boxes along the way. Karlach uncovered a small chest tucked into a hay bale containing a golden ring and some scattered gold coins. Our goldpile grew slow, but steadily.

As we reached the shed, I acted with cautious surprise. “This might be an ambush.” I pressed my ear to the door, frowning. “There’s someone in there. Just one. Bootsteps—too heavy for a goblin. Likely male. We need a distraction. Any takers?”

Lae’zel shot me a glare so sharp it could cleave stone. “You think I would stoop to 'acting'?”

Shadowheart tilted her head, wearing a wicked half-smile. “If there’s only one, why not just kill him?”

Karlach's expression soured at the idea—still not the type for killing without cause.

“It’s too dangerous,” I explained. “This place is likely filled with strong booze. One stray firebolt and we’re toast. Literally.”

Karlach stepped forward, cracking her knuckles with a grin. “Oh, I got this. Lure a lonely scout out for a little fun? I’m down.”

She was almost too enthusiastic, but I nodded. “Alright. You’re up. Shadowheart, Lae’zel—stay alert in case it goes sideways.”

I ducked low behind a stack of crates while Karlach sauntered through the door, hips swaying and voice sweet as honey.

Inside, a muffled voice called, “What’s the passcode?”

“Hey, handsome. Lonely out here?” she purred.

A chair scraped. The tension in the air spiked.

She giggled. “Wanna go for a ride in the hay?”

I felt the nervous flutter in my chest. She was too good at this. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

The scout stepped into view, clearly enchanted by her charm. The moment he cleared the threshold—bam-bam—two blasts hitting him square in the chest. He collapsed with a shocked scream that teetered between pain and something else.

I took a closer look at his tunic and spotted the crest of the Zhentarim. "He's with the Zhentarim black market,"

Lae'zel narrowed her eyes, "What is this... Zhentarim?"

Shadowheart gave her a look, somewhere between amused and annoyed. "They're a black market network. Smugglers, mercenaries, peddlers of everything forbidden."

Lae'zel snorted, arms crossed. "So... cowards who hide behind coin instead of fighting in glory. Pathetic."

"There has to be something valuable in that storehouse if the Zhentarim is invovled." I said.

We tied him up with rope from the yard and stashed him deep in the haystack. I He’d be out for hours. I dusted off my hands and stepped inside.

The shed was packed wall to wall with potent spirits. Aged wyvern whiskey, barrels of Amberfire liquor, it almost seemed like a waste to blow them up.

Shadowheart was mumbling to herself as she searched for the right vintages "...St. Magdalene 77... Pittyvaich 82... Brora 72..."

Lae’zel sniffed a bottle with disdain. “None of this is necessary for survival.”

“Maybe not,” Karlach grinned and hauled a full barrel with one hand, tossing it effortlessly into her bag. “But it sure as hell makes survival more fun.”

We stuffed what we could, Karlach able to carry absurd quantities—Barrels, bottles, boxes—game logic. Don’t question it.

Then Shadowheart, still poking around the back wall looking for rare bottlings, suddenly called out. “Look what we have here.”

She knelt and pulled aside an overturned wine rack. Beneath it was a trapdoor, clearly not meant for casual discovery.

“This might lead to the really good stuff,” she said with glee, completely unaware of how right she was.