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You are part of the king's elite guard, selected from among the finest warriors of the noble houses.
Your liege lord, on the advice of Grand Vizier Jafpalpar, sent you at the head of a small troop of soldiers to eliminate the draconic threat and, above all, to recover its treasure. What was so interesting about dragons was that they amassed all the riches of a land, which could then be legally seized after slaying the beast.
So, you set off, vowing not to return until the dragon threat was eliminated.
The journey between your city and the last outpost before leaving Dwarven territory was swift, as you took advantage of the postal goats for transportation.
While your companions feasted, enjoying one last time the benefit of a civilization that knows how to brew a truly good beer, you left them and went outside to contemplate the night sky. Your stomach is in knots with the weight of your responsibilities, and you can't swallow a single bite of food.
Hunting a dragon was no easy feat, especially one large enough to terrorize an entire kingdom. Failure could unleash the beast's fury upon your people, while success could spark a war with the humans for control of the spoils.
Suddenly, groans of pain rise from inside the inn. Axe in hand, you rush in to find your men writhing in agony. The few travelers passing by are in the same state. You grab the innkeeper by the collar, demanding an explanation.
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The poor man is utterly distraught.
“I dunno what’s happenin’! Mercy, I swear I ain’t done nothin’! They musta giv’n me bad meat: can’t see no other way!”
Convinced of the man’s honesty, you release him and go to your men’s bedside. There are no doctors nearby, but the innkeeper’s wife knows a thing or two about medicine and examines the sick ones.
“For sure,” she says, “It’s what they ate that’s sittin’ wrong. I’d say the meat weren’t good. Don’t fret: their lives ain’t in danger. I can brew up a few remedies t’ease ’em, till we send fer a physician. But I reckon they won’t be fit fer much ’fore a good few weeks…”
One of your men vomits as his body begins to be covered in white spots. The woman revises her earlier assessment:
“Hmm… nah, this here’s straight-up poison. Morvablan, most like. Might be the beast’s been eatin’ them berries. Ain’t too dangerous, long as I’m not mistaken, but they got a good month o’ recoverin’ ahead o’ ’em.”
You curse this setback. On the one hand, you're relieved to learn that your soldiers probably won't die from this food poisoning. On the other, you can't wait a month for them to recover.
It's impossible to retrace your steps to gather more warriors since you promised not to return as long as the dragon poses a threat. It's also possible that some occult forces are at work, determined to thwart your mission, and time is therefore running out. Sending a request for reinforcements would be a sign of weakness…
Well, all that's left for you is to slay the beast in the style of heroes of old: alone or with companions gathered along the way.
You set off, a lone warrior, to the 19.