Fuck. Dimdoor back to the mansion, before he gets transported who-knows-where.

Teleportation magic and the Mists do not tend to mix well. 

After a lurching sensation, he finds himself outside a different mist-shrouded settlement, not the one he was aiming for. 

This one has high walls, many tents that have sprung up outside them from a temporary population boom, and construction work ongoing to install more ballistae atop the walls.

... Dimdoor again? He tries to target the manor once more, but his magic tells him that it's not a valid target, as it's too far.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He looks at the ballistæ and decides against flying in. Besides, his shoulder Qhor is telling him that he should be saving his spell slots until he's better oriented.

He approaches the gates of the city, hoping they won't ask for some kind of pass or local money.

The gates have two guards posted at them, both armed with spear and shield. They take a look at his outfit in a brief but cautious inspection. 

"You're here for the offensive, right?" One of them asks. "Head to the keep, it's through the second set of walls on the rise, Sir Isteval is inside."

So, on the one hand he doesn't like to lie, on the other hand he really doesn't want to try and explain the whole situation to a random city guard, and on the Mage Hand he can just reply "Thank you" which is technically not lying and head for the keep.

If this Sir Isteval is heading "the offensive" then he must be an officer or something, and probably has maps that can help with getting oriented.

The keep is easy to find, three stories tall and surrounded by a two-story stone wall, both older than the town wall with some more recently build guard towers. The gate is open, and from inside comes the regular clang of hammers in the smithy. The guards of the keep have a similar reaction to him, and he is shortly shown inside to a comfortable sitting-room to wait for a few minutes.

Sir Isteval receives him in a dining room with a soot-blackened ceiling. He is an older man, wearing gleaming armor and a rich purple cloak with the emblem of a blazing sun as a brooch. He stands up with a wince and limps over to Reed with the aid of a bone walking stick. The chamber has an ominous feeling to it, a sense of vague pressure reminiscent of the darker parts of Ravenloft, but it is alleviated by the man's reassuring presence as he gets closer. 

"I am Sir Isteval. The servants said you were here to see me?"

(It is a convenient fact that the trade tongue derived from Chondathan is mutually intelligible with the Ravenloft equivalent.)

Also in the room are a serious man in strange armor that has some kind of cloak joining the arms and sides, and a stern older noblewoman wearing a circlet. The two of them are conversing quietly over a table with a map spread over it, dotted with small tokens. 

"I heard you're leading the organization of the offensive." Still technically the truth.

Wait, no, he should be actually honest with this person. He could Bluff, and it would be fun, but he has no reason to.

"I don't know if I'll join it. Mostly because I know nothing about you, or this place. I was with my party until an hour or so ago, but then the Mists brought me here."

"I was in Souragne, esteemed - if not voluntary - guest of the local Power That Be. Which domain are we in now? I didn't recognize it from what little I saw."

Isteval opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. 

"The mists? Souragne? I'm afraid I know of neither of those. This is the duchy of Daggerford, ruled by Duchess Morwen here." He gives a respectful nod towards the noblewoman at the map.

"As for myself, I am a retired paladin of Lathander, formerly of Amaunator, and have had a long career of service to the kingdom of Cormyr to the south." His lips quirk up in faint amusement at having to describe himself to someone, apparently a rare experience for him. 

"It's good that you have questions about what's going on. In this case, it is by my judgment a just war: The Cult of the Dragon has been raiding settlements from the Greenfields to the High Forest, gathering a hoard in honor of their new patron goddess Tiamat." He slips into a short speech, polished by repetition. "If you find a quiet moment, you may be able to hear for yourself the distant blare of the magical horn they are using to herald Her coming and call the chromatic dragons of the continent to gather under their banner. The factions of the Sword Coast have united to stop them. Most of the forces are already underway, but the flying knights of the Feathergale Society under Sir Merosska here are mustering to be our duchy's contribution to the cause, and we welcome all the aid anyone like yourself can offer as well."